The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  I looked through the phone slips. Most of the calls came in yesterday; that’s unusual for a Sunday. Apparently, the sheriff’s department in Flagstaff had provided my name as the detective responsible for the investigation of the murders of the three rangers, and that was currently the biggest story in the state. I had not even read the file on the arsonist case, and I was certainly not going to mention the technique used to start the huge blaze. I didn’t want to do anything that might encourage imitators. I asked Rose to call each reporter and tell them I was going to be in Flagstaff working on the case most of the day, but I could call them back after 4:00. That would give me a chance to review the file and to visit with Sheriff Taylor about how much he wanted me to disclose to the press.

  At 8:30, Chad, Pete, and I headed toward Flagstaff in my Explorer. As we drove through scenic Oak Creek Canyon, I filled Chad in on all we’d learned of the arson deaths and the little that we knew of the body at Cataract Creek. Traffic on the usually busy Highway 89A was light because of fire restrictions. Slide Rock State park was closed, and all camping was prohibited anywhere in the canyon until the fire danger was down.

  It was likely that restriction would now be increased to the level of the 2002 fire season when only local traffic was permitted through Oak Creek Canyon and even hiking anywhere in the area was prohibited. That was the tragic summer in which the state lost 630,000 acres of prime forest and 467 homes, most of it to the arson caused Rodeo-Chediski fire.

  I could not think of a place that would be more dangerous during a major fire than this scenic route through Oak Creek Canyon. Pink and tan cliffs rose a thousand feet high on either side of the narrow road. The canyon walls would funnel wind and therefore the fire along the streambed. This highway was the only way in or out of the heavily wooded canyon.

  The spring-fed mountain stream still flowed through the dense hardwood and pine forest. Oak Creek gave the idyllic place a sense of serenity, and luxuriant vegetation surrounded us in spite of the drought. Unfortunately, the creek would provide no real protection if a great fire got started. Hundreds of creek-side residents would be forced to flee along the winding two-lane road. Steep switchbacks formed a bottleneck at the Flagstaff end, and even in normal times the speed limit was 15 MPH as you drove up out of the canyon. As the residents tried to escape, firefighters and other emergency vehicles would be trying to reach the fire. If a big fire ever started, it was not likely that all of the residents could make it in time.

  CHAPTER 7

  We reached Kay Sumter’s office at 9:15. She invited us into her cluttered work area for a few minutes before her 9:30 examination of the body from Cataract Creek.

  “Mike, I know you may be pissed because you always like to attend the autopsies of your cases. I finished the exams of the three arson victims yesterday afternoon,” Kay said.

  “I’m surprised you did it the same afternoon they came in.” It was normal to at least let the investigating officer know when the examination would occur. Kay was usually a stickler for protocol.

  “Shortly after the bodies arrived, seven people sent by Governor Garman showed up. The group was led by the chief medical examiner of Maricopa County. They didn’t give me a chance to even give you a call before we began the examinations,” Kay said in a very uncharacteristic defensive manner. Maricopa County is the home to the sprawling Phoenix metropolitan area. It’s the fourth most populace county in the US with 3.2 million residents. Kay had been clearly outranked.

  “What did you and your big city associates find?” I asked.

  “The simple answer is that they died of asphyxiation from smoke inhalation. Two of them showed post mortem crushing injuries from falling debris and all three had post mortem burns. Mike, they died in the fire, but from the smoke and not from burns. There was no indication of other causes. I’ll send you the full report. Shall we start on your Cataract Creek victim now?”

  The autopsy took more than two hours and confirmed what we’d already guessed. The victim, a man of about 20, died of severe dehydration and exposure sometime in late May or early June. There was a lot of evidence of soft tissue neck trauma as the man struggled to be free of the chain that had bound him. The only surprise was Kay’s guess that the victim was of Middle Eastern origin.

  Next we went by Sheriff Taylor’s office to update him on the arson cases. While we were discussing them, Jimmy Hendrix stuck his head into the sheriff’s office and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I have some news on the fingerprints from the water jugs we took from Cataract Creek.”

  “Did you find something in the registration files of Middle Eastern foreign students?” I asked. Foreign nationals from certain countries had been required to register after the World Trade Center attack, and those records included fingerprints.

  “A smart and telepathic detective is a double threat,” Jimmy said with a grin. “Our victim was an NAU student, Zayd Jabran from Saudi Arabia.”

  “Take care of contacting the family through the Saudi embassy,” the sheriff said to me. “This case is a high priority. You’ll have dozens of people to help on the arson cases, but you and Chad will be on your own on the death of this student. You found him, now find his killer.”

  I nodded and asked, “I have a dozen calls from reporters regarding the arson. Should I even return those calls?”

  “Maybe it would be best to touch base with the reporters. If you snub them completely, they’ll just make up something unflattering to the department. Refer most questions to Major Ross. The governor wants him to control what gets out. You can tell them we’re treating it as a multiple homicide. So far, no more bodies have been found. We’ll be lucky if it’s only the three rangers.”

  The meeting with Sheriff Taylor went on for another half hour, but no progress came from sitting in his office discussing things. After the meeting, I called Rose to check for additional messages and to ask her to find the number for the Saudi embassy. I needed their help to contact the student’s family. Rose told me the file about the Saturday Night Arsonist had just been delivered. We drove over to the administration building on the NAU campus to check on Zayd’s records.

  Chad was acquainted with an attractive young woman who worked in the Bursar’s office in the Gammage Building #1. She was helpful and provided Zayd’s transcript as well as his enrollment information, which listed his father as Ali Abdullah Jabran and gave an address in Qatif, Saudi Arabia. The file provided no home phone number. Zayd was a straight “A” student who’d completed his sophomore year and been accepted to the NAU School of Forestry for his final two years of study.

  “This Saudi kid is majoring in forestry,” Chad said after glancing over the file. “That’s really weird; I didn’t think there was a tree in the whole damn country. He probably never expected to move back to Saudi Arabia.”

  “A lot of kids from the desert of southern Arizona come up here to school to enjoy the change from their heat and cactus,” I said. “Maybe this young man wanted a complete change of pace from his homeland.”

  “It must be terrible for a father to find that his son has died on the other side of the world,” Pete said.

  I checked in with Rose again, and she found the name and phone extension of an officer at the Saudi Embassy in Washington who handled these compassionate aid situations. She said Mr. ibn-Saud would be expecting my call. I contacted the embassy and provided the name and address of Zayd’s father to the liaison officer.

  “I recognize the name,” he said. “Ali Jabran is an officer of Saudi Aramco, our state oil company. What can you tell me about his son’s death?”

  “We are investigating his death as a homicide,” I replied. “I would be happy to speak with Mr. Jabran about our investigation, but we’re just starting. The medical examiner only ruled it was a homicide this morning.”

  I was reluctant to say how Zayd had died to someone who was not a member of the boy’s family, but the embassy officer pressed me on the actual cause. I explained that the body had been foun
d in a remote area of the county. The young man had died of thirst and exposure after being chained by the neck to a tree ten miles from the nearest Jeep road. There was a long pause on the line, and I wasn’t certain that I’d made myself understood.

  “I will contact Ali Jabran and your State Department regarding the death. Saudi citizens have been the targets of much hostility and abuse since the World Trade Center tragedy,” he said in a tone that did not sound diplomatic. “I believe that Ali Jabran will come to Arizona to retrieve his son’s remains, and I’ll arrange the necessary permits. Please do not allow the body to be embalmed or mutilated any more than is required for your criminal investigation.” I had not described the condition of the body in detail.

  I gave the embassy liaison my cell phone number and assured him that I would be happy to provide the family and the embassy with regular updates on the progress of the investigation. I wondered how important Mr. Jabran might be as a senior officer of their oil company. I might have more than family members interested in this case.

  Next, I called the office of the professor who was listed as Zayd’s advisor. Professor Strunk was in his office and available. As we walked across the normally scenic campus, I noticed that smoke from the fire south of town had obscured the view of the San Francisco Peaks to the north. After introducing ourselves and explaining our investigation, I asked Professor Strunk what he could tell us about Zayd.

  “He was a quiet and studious young man,” he said. “Good English skills and excellent grades. Your visit explains something that had been bothering me about Zayd. I’d helped him with a summer job, and I received a letter a few weeks ago saying he didn’t show up.”

  “What sort of job,” I asked.

  “It was a volunteer campground supervisor in Oregon. He was to have spent the summer in the Rogue River Gorge assisting rafters and hikers. The job didn’t pay anything, but Zayd had been very anxious to get it. He didn’t need a paid summer job, and he wanted the experience living in the northwestern forest. When the fall term began, I’d planned to scold him about not showing up.”

  “Are there any other Saudi students in the Forestry School?” Chad asked.

  “I’m the advisor for all of the students from the Gulf States, and Zayd was the first one who enrolled for a BS in International Forestry. Most international students in the Forestry School come from Latin America and Canada.”

  “How well did you know Zayd? Do you know his friends?” I suspected that Zayd’s killer was someone he knew well, probably someone he trusted enough to go with to that spot on Cataract Creek.

  “I only saw Zayd once each semester before he enrolled, and twice regarding the summer job. While I don’t know who his friends were, they were probably other Arabic speakers in the Muslim Student Association. It’s difficult for a quiet young man like Zayd to make close American friends. His English was excellent, but the cultural gap is huge. He probably would not have gone to any event where liquor was served, and it’s unlikely that he would have dated like American kids. I’m sorry to say, it’ll be difficult to track down information about his friends during the summer. The Muslim Student and the International Student Associations won’t have any meetings until the start of the fall term.”

  Professor Strunk looked up the officers of the Muslim Student Association and provided their e-mail addresses. “Student e-mail accounts are often set to forward to the student’s personal account during the summer. Administration could give you home information about these students. There’s a good chance they would have known Zayd and could tell you about his friends. Some of them might have stayed in Flagstaff over the summer.”

  We thanked the professor and went by the administration building again to get home addresses for the officers of the Muslim Student Association. Last year’s president listed a Flagstaff home address rather than a dorm. It was after 2:00, and we decided to stop at a Tibetan restaurant on Milton near the NAU campus before trying to find other students who knew Zayd. While we were eating, Pete made a suggestion. “I’ve been thinking about the couple we found at Stoneman Lake. Do we have time to go by and see how they’re doing?”

  Chad and I agreed that we had plenty of time to visit the McPhees as soon as we finished our huge platters of food.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mr. and Mrs. McPhee were sharing a hospital room. Mr. McPhee was using an oxygen mask and his wife was hooked to a respirator that hummed as it filled her injured lungs at ten-second intervals. Mrs. McPhee’s eyes were alert, but she could not talk because of the equipment. When she understood that Pete and I were the men who’d found them, she squeezed our hands in thanks. Mr. McPhee’s color was good and he seemed in good spirits. We said the normal hospital visit things, and he thanked us for our help and asked if we knew how the fire got started.

  “We think it was the same arsonist that’s been active in the White Mountains for the past two summers,” I said.

  “I assumed so because it started on Saturday night,” he said after removing his oxygen mask so he could speak more clearly. “I’ve been thinking about anything strange that I saw the evening before the fire. Nadine and I sat in the glider on the front porch after dinner to enjoy the sunset. There were not many people in the Stoneman Lake area because of all the restrictions. Most of the houses and cabins in the area being empty was a very lucky break or there’d be a lot more deaths. I think it was the lack of other traffic that caused me to notice the truck.”

  “This may be very significant Mr. McPhee. Tell me everything you remember about this truck.” I knew that a pickup had been spotted at one of the arson fires in the White Mountains.

  “About sunset on Saturday, I saw a fairly new GMC Sierra extended-cab pickup on the Stoneman Lake road headed for the Lake Mary Road intersection. I think it was dark green.”

  “Was there something unusual that caused you to notice this truck?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t really the truck that caught my attention. It could be most anyone driving by. It was the ATV in the bed that I noticed. I could see the handles sticking up. Riding ATV’s in the woods has been forbidden this summer because of fire restrictions. I considered calling the forest service, but I didn’t see the driver actually drive the thing off road, and I hadn’t heard it in the area. They usually make a commotion when they race those damn things through the backcountry scaring the elk and such.”

  I sat forward in my chair. There would be hundreds of similar trucks in Arizona, but at least knowing the type and color was an excellent start. “Mr. McPhee, we have reason to believe that the arsonist used an ATV. I’d like to get a tape recorder from my vehicle so that we can have a record of every detail you remember.”

  Mr. McPhee was anxious to help find the man who’d destroyed their dream vacations home, turned the forest he loved to blacken ash, and killed three rangers. We took a twenty-minute statement from Mr. McPhee. He had no idea of the license plate number, but he was certain of the make of the truck because he’d test driven one last year before deciding on a Ford F 250. Because it was near dusk when the truck had passed, he was not as confident of the color.

  After taking Mr. McPhee’s statement, we drove to the Flagstaff Law Enforcement Administration Facility where the arson taskforce had set up its northern Arizona command center. Major Ross wasn’t present, but I left the tape with Captain Horn, who had represented the county on the taskforce. He was very interested in the possible sighting and said they would begin the search for the vehicle immediately.

  Next we drove to a home near the NAU campus that was rented by the head of the Muslim Student Association, Ahmed Faiz Khan of Kabul, Afghanistan. An attractive dark-eyed woman in a black headscarf answered the door. Ahmed was asleep because he worked nights at a warehouse, but it was time for him to get up, the young woman explained. She invited us to sit in the living room of the small home while she made us some tea, and Ahmed got dressed. The room had non-descript American furniture, but it included touches of the East, a brass-topped co
ffee table and some Middle Eastern knickknacks. We could smell something wonderfully exotic coming from the kitchen.

  A few minutes later Mrs. Khan returned with candy-sweet tea and tiny sesame cookies, followed a few minutes later by her husband. Ahmed Khan was a slender young man with a short black beard and very intense eyes that made me think he’d seen a lot of suffering for his age. I explained that a student from Saudi Arabia had been found murdered and that we were trying to find people who were acquainted with him. Ahmed nodded without comment.

  “The young man would have been a junior in the Forestry School next year. His name was Zayd Jabran,” I said.

  Ahmed said something to his wife in a language that I didn’t recognize, and she left the room to return to whatever she was preparing in the kitchen. Turning back to me, he said, “I was slightly acquainted with Zayd, but he was not a regular at meetings of the Muslim Student Association, the MSA. I’m not sure about his friends. There are several students from Iraq or Bahrain he might have known and some American Muslim Students.”

  “I assumed he would know the other young people from Saudi Arabia. Can I have a list of your students by country?” I asked.

  “Zayd was from Qatif. He probably wasn’t friends with other Saudis that go to school here,” Ahmed said in a tone that assumed that I must be a fool not to understand that.

  “Ahmed, I’ve never been to the Middle East, and I’m pretty ignorant. Why would someone from Qatif not be a friend with other people from the same country? Is it a tribal difference or something like that?”

  By his expression, I could tell that I’d ventured into a taboo area of some kind that Ahmed was not comfortable in discussing. After a pause while Ahmed decided how to answer a question to someone so ignorant, he said, “Qatif is a Shiite town. Most Saudis are from a very conservative part of the Sunni faith, Wahhabism. They would never socialize with a Shiite. In Afghanistan, these religious differences contributed to years of warfare. It’s an uncomfortable subject for me.”