Day Into Night, page 22
“I’m here for the Red Flag meeting.”
The commissionaire frowns at my bruised face. “Are you a member?”
He has a tattoo of an anchor on his forearms, looks like an aged version of Captain High Liner. Behind him is a bank of television screens showing surveillance views of the parking lot and doors; I didn’t notice any cameras. He’s conducting his own surveillance, waiting for my answer.
“No. I was hoping for a complimentary first visit.”
“They usually are,” he says. “Who do you need to see?”
“Try Don Kirby.”
The commissionaire hands me a clip-on visitor tag and log book to sign in. He calls Kirby, tells me to take a seat. I watch uniformed members pass back and forth, their handguns at eye level. Kirby appears, passes me through a security door, leads me down silent, tiled hallways. At the boardroom, I’m the last to arrive. Malostic and Berton are here, but Star is absent. So is the florid Director of Forest Protection. Dipple is seated beside Frank, who’s dressed in a beaded buckskin jacket. The two constables from up north — Purseman and Trimble — sit together like starched bookends. It looks like a meeting of The Village People. Except for me; I’m Night of The Living Dead. I take a seat next to Berton, who does a double take when I remove my sunglasses, display my shiner.
“You look terrible,” he whispers.
“You should see the other guy’s knuckles.”
There’s a counter with a coffee urn and an unopened box of doughnuts I’m guessing won’t last long in this place. Other than the chairs and table, there’s not much for furniture — this is a war room. On a wall is tacked the game board — a large provincial map with the Red Flag fires indicated by bright stick-on dots. Kirby clears his throat, wastes no time on preliminaries. “I’m sure all of you have met the corporal from Ident. As his services are very much in demand, I’ll have him go first.”
At the head of the table, Dipple sets up a small easel with two enlarged black-and-white photos. He looks very trim and capable this morning, his movements and speech efficient and practised — the manner of someone familiar with courtroom presentation.
“Good morning.” He rubs his hands together as if warming them over a fire. “I’ve met all of you except the gentleman in the buckskin coat. First, a few comments on the general scene. Contamination was a problem due to the level of activity in and near the point of origin. I understand some of this was necessary, but this should be better controlled in the future.”
Kirby glances at me, one eyebrow raised like a judicious father.
“The point of origin,” continues Dipple, “was located 147 metres directly west of the road. Physical evidence seized at the origin included a metal pan ten-inches square and two-inches deep. Within the pan were found several specific identifiable compounds. There was a quantity of wood ash as well as an ash plug approximately an inch and a half in length. Microscopic analysis of this plug revealed a leafy, dendritic structure, pointing to a substance of plant origin. This was further substantiated by the presence of calcium oxalate.”
“So what are we talking about here?” asks Kirby. “Some kind of cigar?”
“Possibly,” says Dipple. “Although my observations are consistent with many materials of plant origin and do not apply exclusively to tobacco. The size and shape of the plug does suggest a cigar but vehicle vibration as a result of transport deteriorated the plug’s morphology.”
Kirby is making an impatient cranking motion with his hand.
“If I had to guess,” says Dipple, “I’d say it was a cigar.”
“Thank you.”
“Wouldn’t a cigar be too damp?” asks Berton.
“Apparently not,” says Kirby.
“I did a little experiment,” I volunteer. “I built a device using a cigar which had been perforated and dried out. The cigar was inserted into a cut-off pop bottle filled with black powder and then set in a pan full of diesel.”
“Really?” Kirby looks impressed. “And you set this thing off?”
“In a brush pile. It worked like a damn.”
Malostic is staring at me, probably wishing he’d thought of this first.
“That what happened to your face?” asks Purseman.
“No, that was a different kind of explosion.”
“This cigar,” Kirby says. “Did you record the time it took to burn down?”
“Seven and a half-hours, give or take a few minutes.”
“Seven hours?” Kirby can’t believe it. “What kind of cigar did you use?”
“That’s the interesting part.” I take the Emperador box from an inside jacket pocket where it’s been concealed like a sawed-off shotgun, set it on the table. “I figured if the arsonist is using a fuse, he’d use the longest one he could find. So I looked around a little. According to what it says on the box, this is the longest marketed cigar in the world.”
The empty box is passed around. Frank sniffs the wood like a good smoke.
“I doubt this is what was used,” says Malostic. “Too traceable.”
“We’re going to have to widen the search area,” says Purseman.
“Yeah,” mumbles Frank. “To half the province.”
Kirby studies the imprint. “Who sells these?”
“I got this one here in town, at a little shop in Old Strathcona. It’s special order, from some wholesaler in Ontario, but you can get them over the Internet.”
Kirby sights down the box like he’s checking a pool cue. “You can get anything over the Internet, but it’s a place to start. I’ll have someone trace the distribution of these things. You say you used gunpowder?”
“Black powder. Single F in a cut-off pop bottle —”
Dipple clears his throat.“I’ve got a burglary to do this morning.”
“Right,” says Kirby. “What else did you find?”
“In addition to the organic ash there was a small mass of polyethylene impregnated with traces of potassium carbonate and potassium sulphate —”
“There’s the gunpowder,” Malostic says happily. “Just like I predicted.”
Dipple glowers at Malostic. “May I finish?”
“My apologies Mr. Nipple. Please proceed.”
“It’s Dipple,” he says frostily. “Not Nipple.”
Malostic colours, gives me an injured look.
“As I was saying,” Dipple continues, “potassium carbonate and sulphate compounds. There were also traces of a hydrocarbon, most likely diesel.” He pauses, refers to notes then gestures toward the photo enlargements on the easel. “As for transfer evidence, we found a single bootprint in the area between the road and origin. Relatively good as far as bootprints go.” Using a pencil as a pointer, Dipple indicates a lug on the heel of the boot. “As you can see, there are numerous accidental characteristics, such as this prominent gouge, that will aid identification.”
“Like a fingerprint,” says Berton.
“Yes. Boot types are fairly diluted but wear patterns and damage tend to be unique.”
“What if we just find the boots?” asks Malostic.
“If the boots have been worn for more than a few weeks — and I’d hazard to guess these have — it’s possible to compare interior wear patterns to a person’s foot.”
“And if they wore someone else’s boots?”
“Then we’d be out of luck.”
“What about the tire marks?” asks Kirby. “You come up with anything?”
Dipple’s pencil swings toward the other photo. “The surface of the road was too dry and coarse to leave a tread impression, but the track and surface width indicate a light half-ton, two-wheeldrive pickup, likely a Chevrolet.”
“A Chevy,” mumbles Frank. “That narrows it down.”
Kirby is eyeing the virgin doughnuts. “Anything else?”
“I took soil and flora samples in case you need a comparison.”
“Good point,” says Kirby, looking around at us. “Anyone think they may have a suspect, let us know right away. If there are bits of organic matter on their clothes, pine needles or moss or stuff like that, we may be able to do a dna match and tie the sucker to the site.”
Malostic is taking notes. “How reliable is that?”
“Just another piece of the puzzle,” says Dipple. “Any more questions?”
There are no further questions for Dipple and he gathers his photos, heads to his burglary. Berton and Frank use the lull to go for a quick coffee. Kirby moves in on the doughnuts, spears two with his index finger. He licks frosting off his fingertips, continues the meeting from beside the coffee urn. “We’re going to have to widen the search radius, look for traffic tickets, credit card gas receipts,” he says, waving a doughnut at us. “Anything that might place a person within the vicinity of these fires. We’ll develop a suspect list, reference this against registered vehicle types. It’s a wide net, but it’s a place to start. Frank, you find anything in the native communities?”
Frank sits on the edge of the conference table, stirs his coffee. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kirby frowns. “People must be talking.”
“Yeah, but it’s just talk. There’s been plenty of work to go around.”
“What about a pattern? Can we predict where the next hit will be?”
I look at the provincial map. Somehow, the distribution looks familiar.
“Anywhere it’s hot and dry,” says Berton. “Which is everywhere.”
“Can we narrow that down a bit?”
“Maybe,” says Berton. “We could use drought codes ...”
Suddenly, I make a connection. The map reminds me of a similar map I developed in the duty room of the Curtain River Ranger Station. The fire map has fewer sites but the distribution isn’t that much different. It could be a coincidence — there’s only so much forested area in the province and any two maps with dots on it could be seen to have similarities — but it strikes me that what the Lorax has been trying to do is remarkably similar to what the arsons are actually accomplishing — disruption of the timber harvest. The Lorax temporarily interrupts work but the fires remove the timber supply. It’s a leap I can’t help making.
“Maybe it’s the Lorax,” I say. “Maybe he’s the arsonist.”
Berton stops talking. Kirby lowers his doughnut. “What?”
“The Lorax might be the one lighting these fires.”
Kirby looks sceptical. “The bomber?”
“Think about it. Some guy blows up the odd piece of logging equipment and what happens? He generates a few headlines but the equipment is replaced the next day. So what has he accomplished, other than raising insurance rates?”
Kirby shrugs. “Brings attention to his cause.”
“Sure, but if his aim is to shut down logging, he’s fighting a losing battle. And I think he knows that. There’s a better way, one far less risky and guaranteed to have a significant impact. Light a fire that’ll get big and you’ll really throw a monkey wrench into things.”
Malostic shakes his head. “The Lorax is supposed to protect the trees.”
“That depends on what you mean by protect,” I say. “In the story, the Lorax tries to stop the loggers from cutting down the trees. He’s trying to protect the trees so it seems ridiculous to think of him starting fires. But if you consider fire in its natural context, it makes perfect sense. In this climate, fire is part of the ecosystem. I don’t know about Truffula Trees but our forests are fire-dependant communities — they need fire to reproduce. People don’t see that for the same reason they think clear-cutting is terrible. In reality, they’re both just different versions of the same thing; they’re both replacement events but only one is natural.”
Kirby is still frowning. I don’t blame him. The idea seems ludicrous if you don’t have an appreciation of ecological cycles. Which leads me to believe the Lorax must be educated or well read. A self-made biologist maybe. Kirby is rubbing his forehead, having difficulty with this.
“You’re saying the arsonist has an ecological motive?”
“I think he’s trying to re-establish the natural cycle.”
Malostic looks puzzled. “But they can salvage trees after a fire can’t they?”
I nod. “Some of them yes, but a mill can’t run like that — everything at once and then nothing for the next century. They need a steady, reliable supply of timber. And if the fires are too large the mills won’t have the capacity to handle the enormous amount of salvage. After a few years, the burned wood is useless.”
There’s a thoughtful silence. Kirby goes to the map, contemplates the dots. We drift over like kids drawn to a tv on Saturday morning. The fire locations are represented by red dots; I use my pen, add crosses where the Lorax has struck. It looks like we’re playing a random version of tic-tac-toe. So far, the other team is winning.
“Seems unlikely,” Kirby says. “Changing his mo like that.”
“If fire is more effective,” says Malostic, “why is he still blowing things up?”
Kirby looks at me. “How does that fit in with your theory?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve got a feeling there’s some connection. What about the device?”
“Those bombs are a lot more potent than some cigar,” says Frank.
“They both could have used gunpowder. Is there some way of checking?”
“We can check with the other task force,” says Kirby. “Compare notes.”
I picture Rachet’s face when he hears it was my idea. “Anyway more convenient?”
Kirby gives me an odd look. “I think we have to examine the possibility right away,” I add quickly. “The fire hazard in most of the province is extreme. If we can establish a link, we might be able to predict where he’ll hit next, move resources to that vicinity.”
Berton looks sceptical, then reads my expression. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”
Kirby scratches his chin. “Well, we could check with the CBDC — the Canadian Bomb Data Centre. It’s a national police service out of Ottawa that coordinates information on bombings, theft of explosives, that sort of thing. They could tell us what was used in the bombings. Of course, it would be just as easy to check with the other task force.”
“Why bother them until we have some supporting information?”
That look again, of concern over my impatience. “Well ... Why don’t you guys grab another coffee while I run to my office, look up the CBDC on my computer.”
There’s a movement toward the counter; the doughnuts are getting scarce. I intercept Kirby, ask if he minds company. He shrugs, leads me through more tiled hallways. Despite the quiet, my pulse is racing. In his office, I take a chair opposite his desk.
He pecks at his keyboard. “You seem pretty eager.”
“I don’t want any more big fires.”
A few minutes of silence as Kirby navigates cyberspace. His office is small, cramped by desk, chairs and filing cabinets. Pictures of his kids hang on the wall next to wanted posters. I’m sitting across from him and can’t see the face of the monitor.
“What have we got here?” he says, frowning. “Nope, the Lorax used dynamite, not a pipe bomb. Of course, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection.” He taps a few more keys. “Let’s see what we’ve got on pirs, the old Police Information Retrieval System. They’ve got everything there.”
Kirby hums an ambiguous tune deep in his throat. I stare at the back of the monitor as though the information might somehow seep out. The humming stops and he shifts in his chair. “Hmm, that’s interesting.” He leans forward, a concerned look on his face.
“What? What is it?”
“You,” he says. “They’ve got you on observation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that any member who comes in contact with you is supposed to file the particulars here. What you were doing. Who you were with. Where you were going. It’s the sort of thing they usually tag a suspect with.” He peers past his computer. “Anything you want to tell me?”
I think of Rachet’s interrogation, get a sick feeling in my gut. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
I explain; he’s not satisfied with the Reader’s Digest version. He sits back, hands knitted together over his belly, his face neutral. My face feels a little warm. After I’m done, he chews his lip for a minute or two. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“So now what?”
“For you, nothing. I’ve got to talk to the other task force before we discuss this Lorax theory any further. Until then, it’s business as usual. You keep doing your job, protect that point of origin.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I swear under my breath. Foiled again, thanks to Rachet.
16
I STEW FOR A WHILE on the way south. The initial rush brought on by my revelation the Lorax might be lighting the fires has worn off and now I’m not so sure. Maybe I want to catch the Lorax so bad I’m seeing him everywhere and I poke at the theory, worry it like a dog with a toy, see if it holds together. I have a thinking problem — I’m overly analytical and will analyze an interesting thought to death, suck out all the juice until it’s lost its flavour. This latest theory is no different and after an hour of rolling possibilities in my mind like clothes in a dryer, I decide to give it a rest. I use the satellite phone to call Telson’s cell phone. She picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello,” I say, changing my voice. “It’s your secret admirer.”
A pause. “Who is this?”
“General Chong. Calling from Taiwan.”
“General Chong, huh? You sound more like a skinny guy with a black eye.”
“Close enough.” I drop the cheesy accent. “You want to go out
tonight?” “To Taiwan?” “Sure,” I say. “Weather’s here, wish you were beautiful.” A really long pause. I’ve pushed it too far, trying to be funny.
“You were a real jackass Saturday night, Porter.”
