Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  I consider how to start. Simon Cardinal has done a nice job of setting me up to look ineffective, which will be difficult to overcome as there really isn’t much to offer. I clear my throat, address the Chief, focusing on a button on his shirt. In Native culture, it is considered disrespectful to look an older man in the eye while speaking. “We’ve had four fires in the past two weeks. All four fires used the same incendiary device — a bottle of gasoline and diesel with a rag stuffed into the throat. Timing has been consistently three or four days apart. All the fires were started very early in the morning a short distance from the road.”

  “So they tossed the bottles from a car,” says Simon.

  “That appears the most likely scenario, although the origin of the first fire was substantially farther from the road, over a hundred yards.”

  “What do you think that means?” says the Chief.

  “The perpetrator might be getting nervous and is exiting the scene more rapidly.”

  “Not nervous enough to stop,” says Simon Cardinal.

  “We’ve started early morning aerial patrols,” says Middel.

  “Have you found tire tracks?” says the Chief.

  “The road surface has been too dry and hard for impressions.”

  Simon Cardinal rolls his eyes as if he expected to be disappointed. He looks about to say something and I hasten to sum up the investigation. “In fact, we’ve found no physical evidence, at origin or in transfer, other than the bottles.”

  The Chief frowns. “So you have no idea who started these fires?”

  “At this point,” I admit, “we haven’t developed any leads.”

  Middel gives me an unsettled look, as though he expected I’d have more.

  “What about the bottles?” says the Chief. “Any thoughts on that?”

  “Nothing really. They’re just common liquor bottles.”

  “I’ve heard they have some sort of code on them.”

  I hesitate. We purposefully hadn’t released this information. In any investigation, there are clues or evidence that are not released by the investigators — called hold back — that only the investigator or the perpetrator would know. Hold back is used to screen genuine suspects from the inevitable crazies that want to claim responsibility, and to trip up the perpetrator. It disturbs me that the Chief knows about the inscription on the bottles. I keep my voice carefully neutral.

  “Can I ask how you came into possession of this information?”

  The Chief looks over at Simon Cardinal.

  “Everyone knows,” says Simon. “Firefighters talk.”

  Although I was careful not to show anyone the bottle fragments with the inscription, and to keep my room locked where I have the reconstructed bottles, there were firefighters roaming the fires when we were looking for the origin. In fact, on two of the fires, it was one of the local ia members who first spotted the fragments. I hadn’t stressed to them the need to keep this quiet because the inscriptions were hard enough to spot that I didn’t think a casual observer would have noticed. Apparently, I underestimated their powers of observation and now the only hold back I have, on a fire with very little to go on, is common knowledge.

  “What do you think it means?” asks the Chief.

  “At this point, I’m not prepared to speculate.”

  “Could the letters be someone’s initials?” asks Buddy Cardinal, the External Affairs Coordinator. Buddy is thin, hollow-cheeked, with a large nose. His hair is short and he’s wearing a bright red plaid shirt which commands attention.

  “It’s possible, but not likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too obvious — unless the firebug wants to get caught.”

  There’s a thoughtful silence around the table. The Chief is frowning.

  “Could the inscription on the bottles be related to the fires being on our land?”

  “We have no evidence to support such a connection.”

  “You don’t have any evidence — period,” says Simon Cardinal.

  “What about motive?” asks the Chief. “Do you have any theories?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  The Chief furrows his brow. I wish I had more to offer him.

  “So,” says Simon Cardinal, “after four fires, you’ve got no clues, no motive, and no suspect.” His tone is challenging, bordering on insolence. Perhaps he’s trying to impress the Chief. Or he’s a cop wannabe. Either way, he’s testing my patience. I take a deep breath, determined to remain professional. “Yes, that about sums it up.”

  “Some nutcase is attacking us and you don’t know anything.”

  “Trees are the only thing being attacked.”

  Simon Cardinal glares at me. He’s younger than I am, so I glare back. The Chief raises a placating hand. “Gentlemen, please, we’re all on the same side. It does seem to me, though, that whoever is starting these fires is specifically targeting the Cree Band.” Beside him, the lesser Cardinal snorts, which the Chief ignores. “So far, they have done little except burn a few trees but I am concerned these targeted attacks could take another path. The Band has many assets, other than the trees on our land. There’s the store in town. The bulk fuel company. The barge and the airline. What if this fire starter becomes more aggressive? Can you imagine what might happen? What assurances do we have that all that can be done is being done and that our interests are protected?”

  Middel sits up, alarmed. “There has been no specific threat.”

  The Chief looks at me. “What do you think, Mr. Cassel?”

  “Other than the location of the fires, there’s no evidence to indicate the Cree Band is being targeted. The area affected is undeveloped and basically identical to any other area around here, so it’s possible the arsonist doesn’t know he’s active on your land. Given there are very few rural roads here, the location of the fires could simply be a matter of convenience.”

  “But there is the possibility that we are being targeted.”

  “Yes,” I admit, “it is possible. If so, you probably have a better idea than anyone what might motivate the arsonist. Is there anyone that might benefit financially by threatening the Cree Band? Anyone with a grudge?”

  The men at the other side of the table exchange looks. Anything that passes between them is far too subtle for my interpretation, but I get an impression of discomfort. “Nothing comes to mind,” says the Chief. “If we think of anything, we’ll certainly let you know.”

  Buddy Cardinal clears his throat.“Any connection with the Hallendry fire?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” Middel says quickly.

  “What caused that fire?”

  “Looks like an accident,” says Middel.

  “At this point,” I say. “We don’t know. The investigation is still preliminary.”

  Beside me, Middel shifts in his chair. “The fires are unrelated.”

  It disturbs me that Middel is broadcasting his theories in such a pre-emptive manner. Perhaps there’s some local politic of which I’m unaware. Or he’s feeling enough heat over the bottle fires that he doesn’t want to add to the pressure. Either way, it’s misleading and, quite frankly, unprofessional. “Well, technically, at this point, we don’t really know.”

  Simon Cardinal’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Well, are they connected, or not?”

  Middel turns, gives me a stern look, then faces the Chief. “We’re still working on it.”

  The Chief thinks about this. “Who is in charge of the Hallendry fire?”

  “The RCMP” I tell him. “Anytime there’s a fatality, it’s the Mounties.”

  “Good,” says Simon Cardinal.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  “Do you have anything further to add?” asks the Chief.

  Middel gives me a wary glance. I shake my head. The Chief rises, thanks us for our time. Simon Cardinal lingers as the others rise. “Just one more thing,” he says, looking at me. “Based on the frequency of these fires, when do you anticipate another one?
”

  “We’re overdue.”

  4

  •

  WE DRIVE OUT to the fire together. Middel is rigid, gripping the steering wheel. “Don’t ever do that again,” he says. “Do not contradict me in front of the locals.”

  “You were jumping to conclusions, Mark.”

  “Dammit, Porter, there’s politics involved. The Cree Band thinks it’s a conspiracy.”

  “All the more reason to stick to what we know.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  I revert to my proven strategy of not engaging and remain silent. Middel doesn’t like the silence, grumbles a bit more about my not wearing the uniform to the meeting, and about fighting with the regional dispatcher for more resources, but mostly he grumbles about the lack of progress on the bottle fire investigation, which I could take personally, but don’t — I’m just too tired. Last night was rough. Middel’s grumbling recedes to a distant drone as I gaze blankly at passing Jack pine.

  The trees look odd, with wild erratic clumps of branches. They are heavily infested with dwarf mistletoe. They need a fire to clean out the parasite so a healthy new forest can start over.

  Ironic because we’re busy putting out all the fires. My eyes flutter shut and I’m transported.

  Fire crackles. Firefighters around me have oddly green faces.

  “Porter?”

  I blink, lift my head. It takes a second to realize where I am. Middel gives me a worried look as he drives. I had dozed off. I push myself up in my seat.

  “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “Yeah.” I rub sleep out of my eyes. “Just a little tired.”

  We turn off the gravel road onto the narrow trail that meanders to the Whiskey Creek fire. Trees at the trailhead are festooned with multi-coloured plastic ribbon — orange and blue from the Forest Service; yellow crime scene ribbon from the Mounties. Very festive. A cardboard sign stapled to a tree warns those with no business at the fire to stay away. We bump over roots, which jolt and thump the truck. No chance of falling asleep here.

  “You find anything along the trail?” says Middel.

  “Nothing.”

  He nods, as if expecting as much. Twenty minutes later we’re driving among blackened trees. Firefighters are splashes of colour in bright orange and yellow coveralls. A pump whines at the creek. We park next to the sacred yellow ribbon marking Dugan’s primary scene. Dugan and Verdon squat together inside the rectangular frame of what was the cabin. I stop at the yellow ribbon, wait for permission to enter their domain. Middel ducks under the ribbon, strides over to the cabin, glancing at the burned truck as he passes. Dugan stands, holding out a hand like a cop at an intersection.

  “I’ll need you to stop right there, sir.”

  Middel stops, glares back at me, irritated I didn’t point out the obvious.

  “I’m Mark Middel, the Chief Ranger.”

  “Dugan and Verdon. Stay right there. We’ll come to you.”

  I join Middel a few steps back from the remains of the cabin. The ident specialists have made tremendous progress since I was last here. The pile of debris over the site has been completely removed, stacked neatly out of the way, exposing the irregular remains of the deeply charred cabin floor. The body, thankfully, is gone and the floor has been swept bare. White string staked above the ground divides the area into a grid. Among the grid, significant features have been replaced, presumably in the location they were found while excavating the site. The stove dominates the scene. Several bottles lie in a scattered group. The bottles are warped and broken, the glass crazed by the heat. Metal chair frames and table legs are laid out, black and skeletal. Several feet away a drinking glass, a crystal tumbler of sorts, lies on its side. The scene reminds me of reconstructions done after a plane crash. The two specialists step carefully over the grid strings, extend gloved hands as introductions ensue. Dugan and Verdon’s bunny suits aren’t white anymore.

  “What do you figure?” says Middel.

  Dugan smiles politely. “I figure we’re getting close.”

  “To figuring out what happened?” Middel says hopefully.

  “To completion of scene processing. We should have it concluded by nightfall.”

  Middel thinks about this as Verdon and I gaze at the remnants of the cabin.

  “What do you think happened here?” Middel says, trying again.

  “It is not something I’m at liberty to discuss,” says Dugan.

  Middel frowns. “Even with the Forest Service?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Any slack Dugan and Verdon have given me as a fellow investigator seems to have vanished, perhaps because Middel is with me. A possible homicide is the exclusive domain of the RCMP. Once the case is resolved, we’ll find out what happened, but first an autopsy will be performed and cause of death determined. If there are no suspicious indicators, it will likely be written off as accidental. I can’t help wondering if Dugan and Verdon have already written it off. I’ve been around enough dead bodies to know that any suspicious death brings in plenty of manpower but haven’t seen anyone from their Major Crimes unit, or even the General Investigation Section. A medical examiner needs to clear the body for removal and would do this in person if the death was suspicious, but the only manpower are the two ident specialists. Maybe it was just an accident, but I have an uneasy feeling and nothing to support it.

  Dugan asks Middel if he knew Hallendry. “We’ve been hunting,” says Middel.

  “Was your hunting buddy a regular drinker?”

  “Pretty much everyone up here is.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Not for a while.” Middel points to the cabin floor. “Is that where the body was?”

  Dugan nods. Hallendry’s body partially shielded the floor, leaving a reverse shadow. I wonder if anything was found under the body. Evidence in a fire is often preserved under a body — blood, traces of accelerant, footprints — but if anything suspicious in nature was found the cops will be tight-lipped. Dugan touches my elbow to catch my attention. “What do you think about that stove, Cassel? I’ve looked at the door and the locking mechanism appears quite reliable. Are you familiar with this type of woodstove?”

  I step cautiously closer for a better view.

  “Enter the scene, if you’d like,” says Dugan. “Stay in the first two grid squares.”

  I step into the grid as directed. One of the squares overlays the void from the body and a tingle runs up the base of my neck. I crouch by the stove, peer inside the firebox, note there are no holes rusted or burned through. The ash contents have been removed, no doubt for screening by Dugan and Verdon, and I wonder if they found anything. I focus on the stove door, which creaks as I swing it shut, drop the locking mechanism into its slot. It seems solid.

  “It looks to me like the stove was open before the fire.”

  Dugan nods. I stand, knees popping, and am hit by a wave of nausea, need to lean on the stove for a moment, pretend I’m examining something until the nausea passes, then step over the grid strings and exit the scene. Dugan watches me, eyes registering concern.

  “Do you mind if I take a few pictures?” I ask quickly.

  Dugan nods and I head to Middel’s truck for my pack, take out my camera. When I return to the cabin, Dugan and Verdon are squatted by their extensive collection of cases and equipment. I walk around the remnants of the cabin, click a few pictures, feeling conspicuously out-gunned in the photo department. My cheap camera is better than nothing as I doubt I’ll ever see Dugan’s images. As I’m finishing up, Carter Spence, the Forest Officer assigned command of the fire, wanders over.

  “If you guys want a break,” he says, “lunch is ready.”

  HALFWAY BACK TO camp, we run into a delegation heading the other direction. It’s the cook, Margaret, a stout middle-aged Native lady with a bosom that would impress a battleship, her helper, young, slender and attractive, and Leonard, the Crew Boss of the Native firefighters
. Leonard, small, grey-haired and wiry, is carrying a cast iron frying pan held in front of him in which a lump of something smoulders. We stop as he walks past, mumbling something in Cree, waving a free hand over the smoke.

  “Someone burn lunch?” says Verdon.

  “I think he’s doing a ceremony of some sort.”

  Firefighters heading toward camp turn and follow the delegation, who stop at the yellow crime scene ribbon. Margaret whispers something to Dugan who nods, escorts Leonard past the ribbon where they do a circuit around the cabin, Leonard wafting the smoke from the frying pan and muttering. The rest of us, local firefighters and HAC, stand along the yellow ribbon, watching. Having completed his circuit, Leonard lifts the frying pan, first east, then west, north and south, calling out in Cree at each direction. Beside me, the young cook’s helper sighs heavily and stares at the ground.

  “What is he doing?” I whisper to her.

  “Offering to the grandmothers,” she says quietly.

  “What’s in the frying pan?”

  “Sage. He’s asking that no more bad happen at this place.”

  Leonard finishes with a song that tapers to a series of soft chants and for a few minutes we stand with our heads bowed. When the sage has burned out, Leonard picks up the pan and walks slowly back to camp, followed by the congregation.

  “Unusual,” says Hendrigan, beside me.

  “Why’s that, Aldous?”

  “Cross-cultural. He was white guy, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t think that matters. Dead is dead.”

  LUNCH INVOLVES SPAM, KLIK and other equally inedible lunch meats, served with soup on a crude table, built the day before out of logs, ripped lengthwise with a chainsaw. Firefighters spoon soup and make sandwiches from platters of sliced meat. They eat quietly. Even Bobo, the crew clown and attention junkie, is reserved. When the cook’s helper arrives with more SPAM, I pick up a slice, hold it up.

  “Did you hear the one about the priest and the hunter?”

  She shakes her head. The firefighters wait, expressions suspended.

  “A hunter stops by the church one day while the priest is having lunch. The priest invites the hunter to have a bite with him and offers him some sausage.