The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  “I’ll help. Maybe we can divide it. I’ll sort out what looks important,” she said.

  “I’ll appreciate the help. There’s no way I can read the whole thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I brought you something else to read, but I’ll help you with that too. We stopped at the discount bookstore at Anthem after you told me about the young man at Cataract Creek. I bought a stack of books on Islam, especially about the Sunni & Shiite differences. I’ll look through them and highlighted some passages for you,” she said.

  When we got home, Margaret and Teresa presented the presents that they’d bought us on their shopping trip. My gifts were two shirts and two slacks that I’d only wear because they’d been a gift from the woman I loved. Pete’s new outfit looked like something appropriate for the host of a children’s TV show. Margaret made decaf coffee and served something special she’d purchased at A J’s Fine Foods on Central Avenue and Camelback, a three-layer double-chocolate raspberry butter-cream cake. I consider chocolate better than Viagra for my libido, and that was proven true again later that night.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was 5:00 on Tuesday morning, and Margaret and I were sitting at the breakfast room table looking over the file on the Saturday Night Arsonist while her breakfast casserole cooked. Pete and Teresa were not up yet to enjoy the sunrise, which in Sedona comes very early in the summer because Arizona doesn’t use daylight savings time. There was a strange tint to the dawn caused by the smoke from the Happy Jack fire. It made Wilson Mountain look like a Chinese ink drawing and dyed the sunrise neon pink.

  “There’s really not much to go on in this huge stack of paper,” Margaret said.

  I handed her the profiler’s report on the arsonist. “This page is interesting,” I said. “It claims that the arsonist is a single white male in his early twenties who has been starting fires since he was an early teenager. He’s obsessed with fire and thinks about it dozens of times a day. He’s in love with the power arson gives him, and probably masturbates as he watches the fire from a distance. It also says the fires will get bigger and bigger; this type of arsonist will never quit until he’s caught. It’s like a sexual perversion; he’ll be an arsonist for life.”

  “Do you believe that?” she asked in a tone that indicated that she certainly thought it was a crock.

  “Who knows? Profilers are right about half the time,” I said.

  “I thought there would be more on their search for the ATV he’s used in recent fires,” she said, annoyed that the file indicated that the taskforce had little to go on even after more than a year of fires.

  “They’re difficult to trace,’ I said. “The taskforce had been checking on people who’ve purchased new ones, but they get resold all the time without leaving a clear record of who owns them. They’re much more difficult to trace than a car, which needs to be registered. Maybe the combination of a GMC truck owner and an ATV owner will help narrow the list.”

  “Speaking of trucks, what happened to the one that Zayd owned?” she asked. I was reluctant to admit that I hadn’t given searching for it a priority.

  “I’ll need to look for a record of it as soon as I get to the office. If he bought a new truck last year when school started, he must have registered it. If we can find someone with his truck, that guy would jump to the top of my suspect list. There was no vehicle left anywhere near the Cataract Creek murder site.” I said.

  “Why do you think he only sets fires early Sunday morning?” Margaret asked changing the subject back to the arsonist.

  “The prevailing theory is that he works during the week in Phoenix or Tucson and comes to the mountains for the weekend like tens of thousands of other people who come to cool off.”

  “Everyone I know leaves Phoenix Friday night so they can have two full cool days. Why doesn’t he set Friday night fires too?’ she asked.

  “Maybe he has something to do every Friday and can’t leave. Maybe he works for a bank that stays open late on Friday or something.” I was kidding a little about his being a banker. Margaret is a teller at the Chase branch in Sedona, and she often works later than normal on Fridays.

  “At least he can’t camp this summer because of the fire restriction. He must rent a room for the night. I know there must be a thousand motels and cabins he could stay in, but maybe there’s a pattern of a man who only comes to the mountains on Saturday nights when it’s windy,” she said.

  “I’m sure Major Ross must be looking for that link. I know they alerted the motel operators in the White Mountains to look for suspicious patterns, and the arsonist has gotten more publicity than any crime in state history. Half of this file is follow-ups on tips from suspicious Arizonans. It wouldn’t be difficult to drive to the mountains on Saturday, set the fire, and drive straight back to Phoenix or somewhere. He doesn’t need a place to stay.”

  “He’s not going to drive straight back to Phoenix if your profiler is correct. He’d want to watch the fire,” she said.

  “But you don’t believe the profiler,” I said in frustration. Margaret had dismissed the profiler but was now using her to support her argument. However, there was something about his Saturday night pattern that might help us locate him; I just didn’t know what it was yet.

  Margaret said with certainty, “This arsonist has a specific agenda. It’s not a perverted compulsion; it’s too well thought-out. This is a well-organized person who is into continuously improving his technique. I don’t agree with this profiler, but I do think the man (it’s almost certainly a man) wants to see the damage he does. Look for someone with a grudge against firefighters, the forest service, or even against all of society like one of the crazy militia groups. He’s not a traditional city-based pyromaniac.” In thirty years of marriage, Margaret has seldom been wrong about people or about my cases. She has an uncanny ability of pulling diverse information into a coherent pattern. “A lot of this file concerns finding someone with a history of starting fires rather than someone with a reason to start them.”

  “I’ll begin looking for someone with a grudge,” I said.

  “The Happy Jack fire was the first time the arsonist specifically targeted people, and those people were rangers, federal government employees. Before that, his fires were in remote areas where no one got hurt. Maybe he had a reason to kill one of those rangers,” she said. “They would have known that ATV’s are prohibited in the forest this summer and also that the arsonist used an ATV in a previous fire. If they saw the truck that Mr. McPhee described, wouldn’t they stop it?”

  “Of course they would. I wonder if there’s any record of their actions the day before the fire,” I said. “I’ll look into that possibility too.”

  Pete came wandering into the kitchen for coffee at 6:30. He said Teresa would be up in half an hour, perfect timing for Margaret’s breakfast casserole.

  Margaret had taken the whole week off from work because of our guests, and she suggested that Pete and Teresa might enjoy a hike today while I was at work.

  “Teresa was so invigorated by the spa visit, that she wants some strenuous exercise today. Is there something we can climb that’s not on fire?” Pete asked.

  “We’re looking at it,” Margaret said, pointing out the breakfast room window at the massive bulk of Wilson Mountain, one of the most strenuous climbs in Sedona. “We’ll need to get an early start to get to the top before it’s too hot. I can fix a picnic lunch to enjoy at the Oak Creek Canyon Overlook.”

  It was settled. They would do the twelve-mile hike, which has 2,400 feet of elevation gain in a very steep first two and a half miles. I loved that hike, but the temperature in Sedona would be in the 90’s by this afternoon. Of course, on top of the mountain it would probably be in the seventies

  “You’re in for a strenuous hike old buddy. Margaret is in great shape. I always have a difficult time keeping up with her,” I said.

  “Teresa doesn’t have any trouble running me into the ground too. Women are certainly the stronger sex. It’s a
good thing we’re smarter,” Pete said.

  I set the table on the deck, while Margaret finished the breakfast preparations. It was a cool sixty degrees when we began breakfast. The extremely low humidity allowed the difference between the low and high temperatures to be more than thirty degrees.

  Margaret and Teresa were busy working on lunch preparations when I left for work at 7:30. They would be taking enough to feed a large Boy Scout troop.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I reached the office, the night duty officer, Steven Bradley, was the only person present. “Morning, Mike. Sorry your vacation got cut short. You’ve already had some important calls: Cabot L. Cameron at the State Department in Washington, a man named Ali Jabran who was calling from an airplane and said he would have to call back, Sheriff Taylor who called from home, and four different reporters.”

  I grabbed a cup of stale coffee and went to my cubicle to call Sheriff Taylor. After greeting me, my boss said, “We’ve jumped into the middle of another high profile case in this young man who died at Cataract Creek. The governor called me this morning. She had an early morning call from Vice President Biden. Apparently, he’s a personal friend of Mr. Ali Jabran, the boy’s father. I know you’ll do an excellent job no matter who the victim is, but I wanted you to understand that this will be a lot higher profile than we expected. Good luck; keep me informed.” I was grateful he warned me. I’d handled other high profile cases, but I didn’t want to be blindsided.

  Next, I returned the call from Cabot Cameron at the State Department. After I identified myself, Mr. Cameron said, “There are serious international relationship aspects to the murder of Zayd Jabran. The State Department has asked me to keep informed about every detail of the case. It’s of great interest to the Vice President as well as Secretary Kerry. Please fax me a report on your progress every evening, so that I can have it available for the Secretary’s morning news summary.” He had the annoying habit of stressing words so that I would be certain how important he was.

  “Investigations of this kind can take months, Mr. Cameron, but I will send you a daily report for the next two weeks. After that, let’s talk about weekly reports if we find there isn’t much news on a daily basis.” Writing a report every evening was time consuming, and cases never move in a smooth linear fashion. I would be reporting on a lot of dead ends and false leads, but I didn’t see any way out of it.

  Mr. Cameron agreed to consider weekly reports after the first two weeks, but he stressed the importance of the case. “Ali Jabran had been a good friend of the United States. He’s the only Saudi Shiite to have achieved such a senior position with ARAMCO, and therefore a very high profile man. To have one of his sons murdered here may have significant geopolitical repercussions. Please do whatever you can to make Mr. Jabran’s trip to recover his son’s body go well. I’ve faxed all of the necessary paperwork to transport the body to Dr. Kay Sumter. Please apologize to her for me. I forgot that you don’t use daylight savings time, and I think I woke her at 6:00. She was quite put out with me. We don’t want to do anything to add to Mr. Jabran’s sorrow.”

  Kay was well known in Coconino County for her sharp temper. I could imagine that she blasted the Washington bureaucrat for not knowing what time it was, but I was pleased to hear that the paperwork for the medical examiner was taken care of. I also wanted to make the father’s difficult journey to recover the body of his son as obstacle free as possible.

  “If there’s anything we at the State Department can do to assist your investigation, you can count on us. I’ve checked with the FBI. My contact reported that they know you. They have confidence in your skills, but if you need help, they’re certainly willing.”

  I thanked Mr. Cameron, got his e-mail address for my daily report and gave him my cell phone number in case he needed to contact me regarding any of the reports I’d be sending.

  “What can you tell me about Zayd’s death? I was told he died of thirst in the wilderness out there. The Secretary will certainly ask for an update this morning,” he said.

  “It was a vicious crime. Zayd was chained by the neck to a cottonwood tree about ten miles from the nearest dirt road. He was left with two gallons of water. The key to his chains was left hanging from the tree a few feet out of reach. The medical examiner thinks it took several weeks to die.”

  “My God, who would do that sort of thing?” he said. “We hadn’t heard how he died, just that it was suspected to be a homicide, and that he died of thirst. Does his dad know the details?” I could tell that he didn’t relish telling those details to the Secretary of State and the Vice President.

  “I told most of it to Mr. ibn-Saud at the Saudi embassy. I don’t know how much was passed on to Mr. Jabran. I didn’t mention the key or the two gallons of water.”

  “Any suspects yet?” he asked, although his tone indicated that he figured that was impossible this quickly.

  “No, but we’re looking for Zayd’s truck, and we’ll continue contacting his friends. The last known contact was during his final week of classes. He was at a Chemistry exam and said that he planned to drive to Oregon for a summer job the following week. There’s a good chance he was taken to that remote location the weekend after finals. His summer job was at a remote campsite on the Rogue River where he would have been out of contact with his family until it was time for the fall term. I think he was killed by someone who knew he wouldn’t be missed for months, probably someone with a grudge against him.” I described the inaccessible location and the lack of physical evidence explaining how the murderer and victim got to that dry creek.

  After talking to Mr. Cameron, I began to return the calls from the press starting with Meg Hull of the local Sedona Red Rock News. “Mike, what’s the connection between the young Saudi who died south of Tusayan and the three rangers at Happy Jack?” she asked after a brief greeting.

  I had no idea where she got the idea that there was a connection. It had never occurred to me. “The only connection that I can think of is that both cases are assigned to me, Meg. Where did you get the idea that there was a connection?”

  “Oh, I just assumed so. Can you spell the Saudi guy’s name for me? What’s this case all about?” Meg had assumed a connection, and I had assumed that there was none. Both of us were making judgments without evidence.

  I spelled Zayd’s name and described how we’d found the young man. I didn’t mention details of the scene, except that he had been chained to a tree and left to die. Meg asked a series of questions about the murder of the Saudi. She followed up with questions about the Saturday Night Arsonist, most of which I referred to Major Ross.

  While I was dialing another reporter’s number, Chad came to my office. “I know you’ve been busy. What can I do to help with the Cataract Creek case?”

  I gave him the list of e-mail addresses of all of the officers of the NAU Muslim Student Association and asked him to try and contact them. We needed to learn more about Zayd’s friends and enemies. I wanted to confirm that he was last seen in Flagstaff the week of final exams. I also gave Chad the list of friends and the names of the three Saudi students that Muhammad al-Mukhtar had furnished. I wanted Chad to find which of them were in Arizona for the summer so we could talk with them. I also asked Chad to have Rose try and find the details of a truck registered to Zayd Jabran.

  I returned the only out-of-state reporter’s call next. I recognized her name from Sunday morning Washington talk shows. Kaitlyn Holester was an aggressive sharp-witted woman in her early thirties who regularly made mincemeat of her talk show adversaries.

  She got right to the point. “Detective, I’m doing research on an article for the Washington Post about the persecution and harassment of Muslim foreign students at American universities. There’s been a dramatic drop in foreign students from Islamic countries in the past three years, and I’m investigating the causes, including the increasing number of charismatic Christian organizations that are hostile to training Muslim students in technological fiel
ds. I understand that a Saudi student was murdered in your county recently. What can you tell me about the homicide?”

  I told her the same information that I’d provided to other members of the press, leaving out details like the jugs of water and key hanging out of reach. She asked a number of very pointed and direct questions, but she seemed to accept that the case had only been investigated for one day and there wasn’t anything to tie it to hostility from Christian students yet.

  After my conversation with Ms. Holester, I sat back and thought about her questions. I’d focused mostly on the possibility that another foreign student had lured the young Saudi to that remote location to kill him. I’d assumed that it was someone he trusted. However, I’d been told that Zayd skied with a Christian high school girl named Ashley. I needed to talk with her. Maybe his death was not a matter of religious hostility between Muslim groups. Perhaps it was a result of growing religious intolerance of another kind.

  CHAPTER 13

  While I was talking to a well-known liberal columnist from the Arizona Republic, my cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated that it was an international call, and I put the columnist on hold while I answered. It was Ali Jabran.

  “Mr. Jabran, I’m very sorry about the death of your son,” I said. “His case is our highest priority.”

  “Detective, I’d like to talk in person about my son,” he said with only a trace of an accent. I assumed that he must have attended college in the US and that he used English everyday in his business dealings. He suggested that we discuss the case on the airplane that his company had sent to retrieve his son’s body. He expected to land about 3:00 at Pulliam Airport in Flagstaff, and I agreed that Chad and I would meet him at 3:30 on his plane. He wanted to start back to Saudi Arabia this evening, and I promised to arrange for his son to be delivered to the airplane. I’d seen the remains of Zayd Jabran, and I hoped that his father wouldn’t look on the pitiful sight before his son’s burial. However, I said nothing about the condition of the body. If I’d lost my son, nothing could have kept me from seeing him one last time.