The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  Chad grinned. He was one of the few people in the office who knew how much Margaret contributed to my success. “What about the Muslim foreign students?”

  “I’m going to ask the sheriff’s help in staking out all of them this weekend. There are only twelve who’re spending the summer in the area, and the Sheriff’s Department should be able to cover them without help from the taskforce. I’m feeling pretty good about our prospects of catching him this time,” I said. “Chad, there’s something confidential I want to share with you. Sheriff Taylor asked me to prepare suggested cuts of 25% and 50% in the Sedona office. Here are my suggestions.”

  Chad didn’t seem surprised that I was working on job eliminations, but he registered surprise when he saw the first name on the list. After a few minutes of reviewing the proposals, he said, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but there is no possible way the sheriff will cut you and keep me. You’ve got ten times the experience and cost very little more. Really Mike, it’s kind of you to cut yourself rather than some of the rest of us, but it’s not in the department’s interest.”

  “I wasn’t planning to give the sheriff a choice. I’ve been restless for about a year and thinking of doing criminal investigation consulting work. It would give Margaret and me a lot of flexibility.”

  “It’s the suspension last year, isn’t it?” he said. “I knew you’d never trust Sheriff Taylor again after that politically motivated decision.”

  “I admit that the suspension period was when I began to think of going out on my own. I don’t know if I can make any money as a consultant, but my LAPD retirement income is more than enough to live on. We paid cash for our house from the proceeds of our overpriced California one.”

  “Maybe the sheriff won’t need to make the cuts, or if the Sedona office solves the Saturday Night Arsonist case, he might not be willing to cut people here.” Chad would need some time to digest the prospect. Solving a case wouldn’t deal with the financial situation.

  “I’m showing you these lists because I’m assuming that you’ll be promoted to manager when I leave. I want your feedback in case I’ve cut in some of the wrong places. Take your time, look these over, and tell me what you think tomorrow.”

  Steven delivered a report on stolen trucks and vans and interrupted further discussion of the job cuts. “I have what you wanted on current stolen vehicles. Rose is going to help me find the recoveries from May and June. Recovered vehicles are not as easy.”

  “Good work Steven,” I said. Chad looked at me uncomfortably as Steven left. He knew that Steven was on the cut list, and this was Chad’s first experience at the most unpleasant part of being a manager.

  “One white panel van was taken from the Harkins Theater in Flagstaff, one red 1998 Ford F350 pickup was stolen in Tuba City, and a 2013 green Toyota Tundra pickup truck was taken from the train station in Williams. There are a dozen stolen trucks from Phoenix and Tucson in the past week,” I said. Southern Arizona has one of the worst stolen vehicle rates in the country because of its proximity to the Mexican border. It’s so easy to dispose of stolen vehicles that almost none are recovered.

  “Tuba City is close to where Zayd’s truck was found on the reservation,” Chad commented, “but a movie theater and train station would both be good places to steal a truck if you wanted some time for a getaway.”

  “If I were going to risk a long jail term to steal a truck, I don’t think I’d choose a ’98 Ford. Please, check on all three of these while I call Major Ross about trace evidence found on Zayd’s truck. He should have a report this morning. Let’s get back together for lunch and then drive to Flagstaff and talk to some of our foreign students. I’d also like another conversation with Ashley Campbell.”

  Major Ross was happy to tell me about the evidence report from Zayd’s truck. The truck had been poorly repainted by using ordinary green spray enamel. The kind of paint you could buy at any hardware store. The amateur paint job would have looked strange if the truck was seen up close, but it would have worked well enough to cover the appearance at a distance.

  There was no tag on the truck when it was dumped on the reservation. Since the authorities had no idea that the truck was stolen until Zayd’s body was found, there would not have been an APB out for the vehicle until this week. The arsonist could have just driven the truck using Zayd’s tag until he abandoned the vehicle. The inside of the truck had been very carefully cleaned. Two sets of prints were found on the gas cap. One set was from Zayd and the other set was unidentified.

  “Have they run the unidentified prints against those of foreign students in the Homeland Security data base?” I asked.

  “Are you still on that track? They didn’t match anyone in the FBI database, which includes your foreign students. It could just be a gas station attendant at some full service station. Even if it’s from the arsonist, we’ll need to catch him in order to see if he matches.”

  “Now that he’s abandoned that truck, he’ll need another one to get his ATV and gasoline sprayer to the next fire,” I said.

  “Good point,” he said.

  “Chad and I are checking on the recent truck thefts in this area. You may want to make a special effort in the cities. Perhaps, you’ll also want to stop every truck with an ATV in the back on Interstate 17 and any forest roads this Friday and Saturday.”

  “We’ll do that, but it’s a damn big forest. He might start the next fire a hundred miles away,” he said.

  “Why was the Rodeo-Chediski fire of 2002 the worst in state history?” I asked.

  “It was two separate arson caused fires that joined up to form one unstoppable monster of a fire,” he said. After a pause to digest that he continued, “I see your point. Each fire has been refined and improved. Maybe his next step will be to start a fire that can join the current one.”

  “We should at least anticipate the worst case scenario. Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll take a week off.” I didn’t really believe that. I thought these fires were well thought out and deliberately started to maximize the disruption to the state.

  “Our worst case scenario is already getting close. We’ll begin to evacuate the southern most Flagstaff neighborhoods this afternoon. If the fire’s not under control tomorrow, the Country Club area will be evacuated. Our projections currently take this fire to Interstate 40 slightly east of the Continental Country Club. That might save the neighborhood, but it will be too close to call. We think we’ll need to shut down traffic on Interstate 40 by Friday. Probably the train tracks as well.”

  Interstate 40 had been shut down for less than a day because of the Lizard Fire and trucks and cars were lined up along the highway for dozens of miles. A longer closure would be an economic disaster. There was no easy alternative route across the northern part of Arizona. The secondary roads were narrow Navajo Reservation routes without shoulders and unable to take heavy truck traffic for long without deteriorating to rubble. Interstate 40 follows the old Route 66 through Arizona. It’s the major connection between Chicago and LA. Closing the rail line might be an even bigger problem. It was the principal route for the produce of Southern California and for the imports passing through the ports of Long Beach and San Diego to reach the Midwest and East.

  “That is truly a scary development, Major, but I don’t think it’s our worse case scenario,” I said. “What if a crown fire started on the west side of Interstate 17?”

  Interstate 17 forms a “T” intersection with I-40. It brings traffic from Phoenix to Flagstaff. The current fire was confined to the east side of I-17 and south side of I-40.

  “Jesus man, if we had a major fire on both sides of I-17, we’d lose Flagstaff,” he said. Lose a town of over sixty-nine thousand in a firestorm of burning ponderosa; that was a scenario that only a maniac or a terrorist would contemplate.

  CHAPTER 23

  After my disconcerting conversation with Major Ross, I called Ashley Campbell. She suggested that we come by her house in about an hour, but she mentioned
that her father wanted to be present if she were questioned again. He claimed she was still a minor and should only be interrogated with him present. Ashley complained that it was only two months till her eighteenth birthday, but she was still daddy’s little girl.

  As we drove to Flagstaff on 89A, I said to Chad, “There are sure a lot of dead trees on that slope.”

  “All those trees died from the combination of bark beetle and drought. It’s really bad on the steep west-facing slopes here in Oak Creek Canyon,” Chad replied.

  “A fire down here would climb to the plateau amazingly fast,” I said.

  We were in the perfect place to start a fire that could quickly grow to become the major crown fire west of I-17 that I’d mentioned to Major Ross. The sheer walls of the thousand foot deep canyon held enough dead trees to make it easy for the fire to climb to the wilderness of ponderosa above the canyon.

  “Those trees would almost explode,” Chad said with serious concern. “I’d guess it would be up to the Rim in minutes.”

  “We shut down 89A except for local traffic in the worst part of the drought of 2002. Maybe that would be a good idea for this weekend,” I said.

  “The local businessmen will hate it, but you may be right,” he said. “The area near the creek is very green, but that hides the real danger on those dry slopes.”

  “I think I’ll suggest it to Major Ross for this weekend. It took the Aspen fire on Mount Lemmon only an hour to wipe out over two hundred and fifty homes. It’s not reasonable to take a chance when the forest is this dry.”

  We reached the Country Club neighborhood at the agreed upon time. Sheriff Taylor’s house was on the south edge of the addition and backed on forest land. It would be among the first to go if the fire reached the area. The Gundersons, whose son had become Muhammad al-Mukhtar when he converted to Islam, also owned a house that backed on the forest. The firefighters would not attempt to save those homes. In major wildfires, they only tried to protect houses with a defensible space around them, and in the Continental Country Club neighborhood, that was mostly houses on the golf course.

  The smoke was an ominous black cloud behind Ashley Campbell’s house. A small Ryder rental truck was parked in the driveway, and a middle-aged man and woman were loading boxes onto it. The open garage door revealed a Ford Explorer packed to the top with boxes and clothing, and a small trailer holding three ATV’s which also held boxes tied on in every possible surface.

  The lean gray-bearded man introduced himself as Morgan Campbell. His wife was Deidre. Mrs. Campbell said, “We’re not waiting for the order to evacuate. We’re putting the family photos and heirlooms on the truck for a quick getaway.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. We just need a few minutes with Ashley,” I said.

  “It’s a good time for a break. There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Mr. Campbell said. “I’ll get Ashley. She’s in her room packing some personal things.”

  While Mrs. Campbell served us excellent dark-roast coffee in the kitchen, I could hear some sort of dispute going on upstairs. Mr. Campbell was yelling, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.

  “She probably wants to take everything she owns,” Mrs. Campbell said referring to the voices from upstairs. “There’s just not going to be room for everything.”

  I was seated with a view through the kitchen window of some lilac bushes behind the house. I saw a large black piece of cloth float from an upstairs window and land in a heap on the bush. A minute later, Mr. Campbell and Ashley joined us. Without referring to whatever their argument was about, Mr. Gunderson said, “Ashley will be happy to help in any way she can. Just ask whatever you want.”

  “Ashley, since we last spoke, Zayd’s truck has been recovered near Tuba City. It had been painted green. Is there any chance that Zayd might have painted it? Is it possible that he loaned it to someone?” I asked.

  “The last time I was in it, it was white. That was the Sunday before he was leaving, so it must have been someone else who painted it. I know he expected to drive the truck to Oregon, so he wouldn’t have let someone borrow it; he’d already loaded it with his stuff.”

  “We found several sets of fingerprints. One set belonged to Zayd the other is unidentified. Your prints might be present because you were regularly in the truck. Would you be willing to voluntarily give us a set of your own prints so we can exclude them from the analysis?” I asked.

  She looked at her father before answering. He nodded and she agreed. We took her prints. Afterwards, I asked, “There’s some evidence that Zayd’s truck might have been used by the arsonist who set the Happy Jack fire. Do you have any idea of who might have set the fire? Did Zayd ever say anything to indicate that he knew something about the Saturday Night Arsonist?”

  “It was those Satan-manipulated Arabs,” Mr. Campbell said. “They killed Zayd, and now they’re trying to burn us out of our home. Muhammad was a direct incarnation of Beelzebub, and the most evil creature in the history of mankind. He destroyed much of the work of Jesus’ apostles in the lands of North Africa, Babylon, Syria, Egypt, and Byzantium. A billion souls have been condemned to eternal damnation because of his pernicious influence. I just hope that Zayd had a chance to repent of that satanic doctrine before he passed on.”

  I was at a loss as to what to say to that comment. I just looked at Ashley for her response to my original questions.

  “Zayd never said anything about the arsonist other than that he hated forest fires. If there’s any connection, it might be that the arsonist took his truck. Zayd loved the forest, and it’s impossible that he would have anything to do with these fires. If he’d known who was involved, I'm certain that he would have gone to the authorities.”

  “For forty days in the wilderness, Jesus wrestled with Satan, but the Evil One captured Muhammad in that same wilderness and used him to set back the inevitable march of Christianity. Muhammad was a blood-thirsty barbarian whose tribes broke from the squalor of their desert and destroyed much of Christian civilization. I just hope that Zayd had a chance to repent during his own forty days in the wilderness, praise be the Lord.”

  I asked a few more questions, but we were interrupted by Mr. Campbell’s sermon against the evils of Islam so often that I decided to try and talk to Ashley some other time.

  I asked one final question. “Ashley, do you know Muhammad al-Mukhtar?’

  “Now you’re going to embarrass her,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Ashley had a crush on Tommy Gunderson for years. He was one year ahead of her in grade school, and she followed him around the neighborhood like a puppy when she was little. He’s an extremely handsome young man.”

  “She has had no contact with him since he changed to that heathen name Muhammad al-Mukhtar,” Mr. Campbell said. “I feel sorry for Carl and Mabel Gunderson. It must be humiliating to be his parents.”

  Ashley let her father answer for her. The fact she didn’t contradict him, left me wondering what she might have said if I’d talked to her alone.

  When Chad and I were back in the car and were headed for the Law Enforcement Building, I said, “I’ve only mentioned the jugs of water to Zayd’s father. They weren’t reported in the press.”

  “I haven’t mentioned them to anyone. Why do you bring it up?” Chad said.

  “Oh it’s really nothing; just the forty-day thing that Mr. Campbell mentioned.

  CHAPTER 24

  We stopped at the Arson Taskforce headquarters in the same building as the sheriff’s office to find the latest information on the Happy Jack fire. The weather forecast for tonight was awful. A front was moving in from the south. Sustained winds of forty miles an hour were expected most of the night. Lightning was possible, but rain was very unlikely. Hot Shot crews were being withdrawn from the fire front so that they would not be overrun. Evacuations would be announced for several neighborhoods at noon, and only air tankers and helicopters would carry on the fight until the wind became too strong for them to fly. Major Ross commented that with these winds, t
he air drops would be like pissing into a volcano.

  I persuaded Major Ross to ask the steering committee to close 89A through Oak Creek Canyon and all forest roads south and west of the intersection of Interstates 17 and 40. Only local traffic would be permitted for the coming weekend. Closing 89A through Oak Creek Canyon would be unpopular with local tourist businesses, but already there’d been a dramatic drop in visitors throughout northern Arizona.

  “Any more information from the State Crime Lab about Zayd Jabran’s truck?” I asked.

  “It was painted with inexpensive green enamel paint.” Major Ross said. “It’s a brand that every hardware store sells in spray cans. The tech said it was a very amateur job. There is evidence that a four-wheeled ATV and something else with two wheels were carried in the truck. The CSI people are convinced that it fits all the known information about the arsonist’s vehicle.”

  “Have we started looking for who sold the paint?” I asked.

  “The truck was probably painted two months ago. I’m not optimistic that will lead anywhere because this paint is so common. I guess it’s worth a try,” he said in a tone that indicated that I was wasting a busy man’s time and this suggestion would burn a lot of overtime hours for nothing.

  I decided to test his patience a little more. If the paint was purchased in a small town like Flagstaff, there was a chance of someone remembering something. Of course, if you believed that the arsonist was one of the three and a half million people down in Maricopa County, it was really a long shot. “Did they estimate how many containers of spray paint it took to cover the truck?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea, but here’s the name of the fellow from the State Crime Lab who’s investigating the truck.” He shook his head as he handed me a sticky note with the name Alexander Peeps and a Phoenix phone number.

  Major Ross planned to distribute a list of stolen trucks to everyone in the forest service and in law enforcement, but when Phoenix thefts were included, more than thirty vehicles fit the profile. All of the major roads to the high country around Flagstaff and the White Mountains would be watched, and any vehicle carrying an ATV would be stopped and checked to see if it also carried a tank for spreading the gasoline. I left his office confident that we could stop the arsonist if he tried to set another fire this weekend.