Day Into Night (11 page)

“I see,” says Kirby. “Obviously, our guy likes the drier weather.” There’s a pause as he flips through a file folder. Star looks longingly toward the doughnut box, stranded at another table in the corner of the room. Malostic is consulting his own slimmer sheaf of papers. The Director looks like he’s falling asleep. Frank is using a pocket knife to clean under his fingernails. Kirby looks up. “How far back did you go when questioning possible witnesses?”

“Five miles,” says Star. “But maybe that should be expanded.”

“Good point,” says Kirby. “What about the last one?”

Malostic is still shuffling papers.

“Malostic?”

“What?” He looks up, startled.

“How far back from the fire did you question witnesses?” says Kirby.

“Aagh, just at base camp.”

“Base camp?”says Star, his disgust apparent. “Why at base camp? You think maybe the firefighters started it? Did you canvass the area around the fire? Take a flight to look for hunters and campers?”

Malostic is frozen. “We were in the middle of nowhere,” he says faintly. “I never thought —”

I can’t help feeling a little sorry for Malostic. It’s tough, your first time in the fire game. My first fire was right after my initial year of college. I’d never been in a helicopter, never seen a wildfire, never used the equipment. We were dropped at the edge of a roaring fire, with nothing more than a shovel, an axe and a piss pack — a water bag with shoulder straps and a hand pump. Someone had to show me how to fill the damn thing, using my hardhat as a bucket. Today, it’s Malostic who’s being told how to do his job. “It was getting dark and the fire was seven thousand acres by the time we arrived,” I say. “I doubt he would have found anything.”

Malostic looks at me, then glances away.

Kirby clears his throat. “Let’s talk about that fire. What about physical evidence?”

“Started in a brushpile at the side of a logging road,” I say. “No bootprints or tire tracks evident. There was the cake pan you see here on the table. And some residue — a small, brittle, black disc — but I inadvertently disturbed the pan and contaminated the fines. A grid search revealed nothing more.”

“You searched for metallics?”

“We used a magnet.”

“What about ash and soil samples?”

I shake my head. Kirby makes a note. So do I — take more samples.

“What did you do with this black disk?”

“Darvon sent it in for analysis.”

Malostic examines a sheet of paper, looks relieved to have something positive to add. “The collected residue was polyethylene, impregnated with traces of potassium carbonate and potassium sulphate. Some minor traces of potassium carbonatesulphate.”

“We’ll get our boys at the lab to have a look,” says Kirby.

“It was probably black powder,” says Malostic.

Kirby looks at him.

“I minored in inorganic chemistry.”

Kirby looks vaguely impressed. “Well, black powder makes sense,” he says. “Diesel is difficult to ignite without direct heat. If the explosion from the gunpowder scattered the diesel as well as igniting it, this would make quite an effective device.”

There’s a murmur of appreciation around the table.

“What about a fuse?” asks Star. “We’ve always thought it might be a candle.”

Malostic is about to interject his comment about paraffin being a heavy fraction of crude oil but Kirby cuts him off, shaking his head. “Indoors, I’d consider it. Outside, it’d probably blow out. There are lots of commercially available fuses, but they leave a detectable residue.”

I think of the Forest Service legend of the pyromaniacal pilot and suggest it could have been a cigar or cigarette. Kirby nods. “There was a guy down in California, back in the early nineties I think it was, who used a cigarette wrapped with matches to burn clothing stores. He’d light the thing, stuff it deep into the fabric of a clothes rack where it would smoulder. Fire wouldn’t start until he was long gone. Caused a lot of damage and a few fatalities, as I recall.”

“He was a fire investigator, wasn’t he?” says Patton.

“Yeah, he was. Difficult case. They caught him though, gave him a few life sentences.”

“Would a cigarette leave a detectable residue?” asks Berton.

“I’d have to check with the lab but it would be an organic ash,” Kirby says. “I suspect it would be difficult to detect as it would be much like the ash from the brush burned in the fire.”

“How quickly does a cigarette burn?” Malostic asks.

“Let’s see,” says Star, pulling out a pack.

“About seven minutes to an inch,” Kirby says.

Star looks disappointed, puts away his cigarettes.

“So we’re looking at a possible half-hour delay,” says Kirby.

“Or more,” says Patton. “If it was a cigar.”

“I thought you quit,” I whisper to Star.

“I did,” he whispers back. “Gets easier every time.”

“We’ll widen our search area,” says Kirby. “Check back on the other fires for credit card receipts at area gas station, things like that. If our guy felt comfortable enough to use a card, we might be able to place him in the vicinity.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” says Patton.

“Needles and haystacks,” mutters Star.

“What about a profile?” asks Kirby. “We have any idea what makes this guy tick?”

There’s a brief silence. “Employment?” says Patton. “It’s happened before.”

Kirby nods, gestures toward Frank. “Possibly. From what I’ve been told, your firefighters are primarily natives who depend on firefighting for their summer employment. We’ve got some intelligence from our sources in the communities, but not much. Frank here is going to circulate through the native communities within the vicinity of the fires, get a read on the mood.”

Malostic turns in his seat, looks over at Frank. “What’s your background, Frank?”

“Cree,” says Frank.

“The guy who’s lighting these fires knows what he’s doing,” I say. “He knows weather and fire behaviour and he knows where to put his ignition source to do the most damage.”

“Like a firefighter,” says Malostic.

“Could it be luck?” asks Kirby. “Anyone can tell when it’s dry out.”

Malostic’s lab report, which has been passed around the table, reaches me. I scan the details — traces of this or that chemical equation — and it occurs to me that this lab in Vancouver is where I should send the piece of metal I borrowed from the Lorax bombing. Then it occurs to me that they probably have the rest of the pieces and it might look a little odd. “Sure, it could be luck,” I say. “But if it was, there’s probably a lot of cake pans out there that didn’t do what they’re supposed to. Lighting a small fire is easy, but lighting one that is guaranteed to get really large requires an understanding of fuels, wind, that sort of thing.”

“And where our resources are deployed,” says Berton. “That’d help.”

Patton looks worried. “Anybody with a computer can access our weather data on the Internet. We’ve got fire hazard maps of the whole province there. Thank God we’re not putting the location of our suppression resources on-line as well.”

“Don’t have to,” says Berton. “They’ll be where the hazard is.”

“You might want to take that off for the time being,” says Kirby.

“Done,” says Patton.

“Anything else not in the files?” asks Kirby.

Silence. Heads shake. “Okay then,” says Kirby. “Just one more thing. If you get a fire you think is suspect, or have an inkling of the next place that might get hit, we have a surveillance team available. They’re called Special O and they can work with Air Services, run our Cessna Caravan with the West Cam. It’s got night vision so if there’s a chance the arsonist is hiding in the bush near the fire, we’ll be able to see him. If they’re not on a more serious crime somewhere, they should be available.”

“Good to know,” says Berton. Malostic scribbles this down.

“Any questions about protocol?” asks Kirby.

The metal fragment from the bombing is in my jacket pocket and I’m wondering if there’s another avenue available to get it analyzed. “What about administration?” I ask. “What if I need to spend some money to maybe hire a helicopter or get something analyzed?”

“Our lab will analyze anything you need,” says Kirby. “Just send it to me.”

I must look nervous because Malostic looks concerned.

“Do you have something else to analyze?” he says.

Everyone is looking at me now. Kirby and Patton frown in synchrony.

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”

Patton has his secretary give me a charge code, which is a little like a Forest Service credit card but considerably more bureaucratic. Now, I can hire a helicopter. I think of isolated trout lakes up north and quell a sudden urge to go fishing. Instead, I have a beer with Berton and Star.

“This place oughta have a steak sandwich,” says Star. “Steak is English right?”

“I’m not sure a steak has a nationality,” says Berton.

We’re in a mock English pub, on the ground floor of an office building. It’s gloomy inside, the walls panelled in oak. Snooker finals are playing on TV. The bartender is wearing a little apron and has a handlebar moustache. Not my first choice, but the meeting went through lunch and this place is within hobbling distance. This late in the afternoon the pub is deserted, except for an old guy at the rail nursing a Caesar. He looks like he’s been here long enough to need dusting. We take a table beside an American jukebox made in China and I prop my sore ankle on a spare chair. A waiter appears almost instantly.

“What can I get you lads?” he asks a little too jovially. “Coupla dark swipes?”

“What?” asks Berton, peering up through his glasses.

“A fist full of hearty stouts? A jug of ale?” The waiter is young, red-haired and so pale he looks as if they keep him in the dungeon.

“You got any steak sandwiches?” asks Star.

“I’m sorry but lunch is over.” By now, the waiter has exhausted all of his colourful English phrases. “The kitchen is closed, but I could get you a beer.”

Star sighs deeply. “I sure could use a steak sandwich.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Go to Raunchy Ronnie’s.”

The waiter glances nervously around the empty bar. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, squatting next to the table and whispering as if he’s trying to sell us plutonium. “I’ll see what I can rustle up in kitchen. There’s gotta be something left from lunch. Maybe a ham on rye?”

Star considers. “Yeah, okay.”

The waiter rushes off. “Nice kid,” says Berton.

“Sure,” says Star. “Gonna make somebody a good wife one day.” He looks over at me as he digs a pack of smokes out of a coat pocket, lights one up. “So, you helped with the evidence search?”

“Yeah. It was a mess.”

“I hear it was a hell of a bomb,” he says, snapping shut his lighter.

“It was. Took off the top of the buncher. You hear what was used?”

Bill shakes his head. “They won’t let that out. Too early anyway.”

“They won’t let out anything,” I say morosely.

Bill uses his patient tone. “That’s the nature of the business, Porter.”

“It would be nice to know if they’re making any progress.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” he says, leaning forward, causing Berton and me to do the same. “They’ve spent about two million bucks on the case so far and from what I’ve heard, they don’t have any suspects. After three years, it’s a bit of an embarrassment. In fact, they were considering shelving the case until this new bombing came along. That’s why they’re hitting this one so hard, bringing in lots of help. They’re hoping this’ll be their break.”

“No suspects,” I mumble. “I knew it.”

“But this could be the lucky one,” Berton says.

Not for Ronald Hess, I’m thinking. Now I’m really frustrated that Rachet didn’t catch the man in camo. “You know,”I say quietly, “I think I might have run into the guy who did it.”

Star gives me a sceptical look.

“At the bombing site the next day. I’m going for a walk and I come across this guy out in the bush, on this sort of a ledge. He’s dressed like a commando and he’s laying there, prone, watching the cops through a rifle scope. Like a sharp shooter.”

“What did you do?” says Berton.

“Not much I could do,” I say. “He had a gun.”

I’m not sure why I’m telling them this. Maybe I just want to tell someone who’ll believe me. Maybe Star will have a different perspective. But he looks dubious. “You told the cops?”

“Of course. They didn’t appear particularly concerned.”

Berton gives me a binocular look through his thick glasses, eyes disproportionately large. Star is thinking. I shouldn’t have said anything — he knows there’s more to the story.

“The next day,” he says thoughtfully. “And you were there in what capacity?”

I shift my propped leg, try to get comfortable. Not gonna happen with Star looking at me like that. “It’s kind of a long story,” I say. “I was in the area and wanted to watch the bomb squad, see how they worked — out of professional interest of course — but I didn’t want to disturb them, so I went looking for a spot to watch unobtrusively when I came across this guy. It seems he had the same idea.”

“You were sneaking around.”

“Well, not at first —”

Bill impatiently waves off my explanation. “You said he had a gun?”

“A rifle, with a scope.”

He frowns thoughtfully. “Did you get a good look at him?”

I shake my head. “He was too far away and his face was painted.”

The waiter arrives with a tray. “Well lads, I’m heartened to say —”

“Just put it down,” says Star, cutting him off. The waiter plunks down three frosted mugs filled with creosote-coloured beer, followed by ham and cheese croissants on small plates.

“You guys need anything else?” He’s abandoned the phoney English accent.

“We’re good,” says Star. Then to me, “Isn’t it still hunting season down there?”

I think of Rachet’s interrogation. “Apparently.”

Star grabs a croissant, tears off a bite, talks around his food. “Well, it was probably just a curious hunter.” He takes a long draught of beer. “But it is interesting. First bombing in three years. This guy in camo. You, sneaking around like that —”

“I wasn’t sneaking —”

“That’s where you twisted your ankle, isn’t it?” says Star, pointing what’s left of his croissant at me and shaking his head. “You gotta let this thing go, Porter. It’ll drive you nuts. You gotta let the boys in blue do their thing. Trust in the system.”

Star is ex-RCMP. “That still the party line?”

“In your case, definitely.”

I don’t agree, but don’t want to argue, not here anyway. We continue the discussion in Star’s Mustang as he drives me to Cindy’s. “I can’t believe it’s been three years,” I say. “And the cops still have no idea who’s responsible.”

“In a case like this Porter, three years isn’t really that long.” Star drives with his thumb on the bottom of the steering wheel, his other arm flopped over the back of the seat, a bag of potato chips on his lap. “It took 17 years to catch Kazinsky. And that guy who raped the nurse back in the sixties — they’re still trying to figure out who really did it. It takes time to build a case.”

“Only if they don’t shelve the case first.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” Star says. “Shelve is probably a bad term. Cases go cold after a certain period of time. Law enforcement is a finite resource you know. It doesn’t mean the case is totally abandoned.”

“But some of them are never solved.”

“That’s true,” says Bill. “It’s not a perfect world.”

“Maybe they would be,” I say. “If they had a little extra help.”

Star looks at me like a father at a deluded child.

“From someone really motivated,” I add.

He sighs — a really deep sigh. “Porter, I was a cop for 20 years and I’ve been a private dick for another ten. They’re depressing jobs, both of them, because in the end, it doesn’t matter how motivated you are. You only catch the stupid ones, the rush jobs and amateurs. Every once in a while you might get a professional, then he gets a good lawyer and he’s out before you’re retired and you gotta try to catch him again. This guy, this Lorax, is a professional. He’s not a raving nutcase who leaves a lot of clues. He’s careful and I’m willing to bet he works alone. Those kind are the hardest to catch.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes. Star eats potato chips, the crumbs precipitating onto his belly. I can feel the weight of the metal fragment in my pocket and take it out, look at it through the opaque sandwich bag. Evidence preservation by Zip Lock.

Star looks over, raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“I just want to get it analyzed —”

“Jesus Christ, Porter.” Star shakes his head, stares at the road, his jaw clenched. For a few minutes he doesn’t say anything, which is probably for the best. “That’s obstruction,” he says finally. “Theft. Tampering with evidence. Criminal Code. Not to mention that you’ve destroyed the chain of custody in case that hunk of metal has any unique evidentiary value.”

“I know, but they won’t tell me anything. I want to know what killed Nina.”

Star starts to say something then changes his mind.

“I can’t send it through the RCMP,” I say. “I was hoping you could help.”

Star is silent for several blocks. At a stoplight, he slams the transmission into park, turns in his seat and looks at me. “Porter, do you really think this is going to make a difference?”

“It would to me.”

“You think you’re going to solve this thing?”

“I just want to be involved. Before, with Nina, I couldn’t. Then nothing happened so there was nothing for me to do but sit and wait. Well, I’m tired of waiting. Solve this thing — I doubt it, but at least I’ll be informed. There’s nothing worse than being in the dark.”

The light changes and someone honks. Star slaps the car into drive and hits the gas. We surge through the intersection, rock as we take a corner. He’s obviously furious with me and, worse yet, he’s silent. For the rest of the trip I’m not sure if he’ll help me or turn me in. He pulls to the curb in front of Cindy’s townhouse, turns to face me, his heavy forearm resting on the steering wheel. For a minute he just stares, then he sighs.

“Give it to me.”

“You’ll send it in?”

“I’ll hang onto it, think about it.”

Grateful, I hand him the little package. “Thanks.”

I fumble out my crutches. Star watches, shaking his head. “Porter —”

I’m on the sidewalk, balanced on the crutches. “Yeah?”

He points a thick finger at me. “You be careful.”