One Careless Moment (6 page)

After the burnover, Brashaw's crew was pulled from the fireline and told to muster at the main staging area along the road. There's nothing more dangerous than a distracted firefighter. Most of the mobile equipment has been moved to this new clearing and the firefighters sit in the shade of their crew bus. When they arrived, they were broad-shouldered warriors, ready for battle. Now their shoulders are slumped; they're listless and tense. Beaten. The squad bosses are the only ones who bother to stand when Aslund and I approach. We pull the three of them aside, away from the rest of the men.

“I need to ask you guys a few questions,” Aslund tells them.

They nod, solemn and weary. All three are young, in their mid-twenties, stubbled and stocky. They could be brothers. Aslund gets right to the point.

“Did you fellows see any pink ribbon out there?”

They shake their heads. One of the men introduces himself as Brad Cooper, senior squad boss, meaning he's second in command. “I heard you call BB,” he says, his voice filled with a southern twang. “After you told him about that origin, we kept our eyes out for it, but we didn't see any pink ribbon. Just orange.”

“Were you aware of the location of the origin?” says Aslund.

“Yeah.” Cooper has a crooked nose; an old barroom wound by the look of it. “I copied your call when you hung the ribbon,” he says, looking at me, his expression indignant. “None of our guys would have disturbed it.”

“Which squad did you have in the area?”

Cooper frowns, turns to his co-worker. “You were workin' that spot, weren't you Phil?”

Phil nods. He's wearing a bear-claw necklace. “Didn't see no pink ribbon.”

“When did you get in there, Phil?” I ask.“How long after I called BB?”

Phil gives this some thought. “Half-hour maybe.”

“Did you see anyone else in the area?”

“I didn't,” Phil says, squinting. “But I could ask the boys.”

Phil is about to head back to the bus to question his men when Aslund stops him, tells him not to worry about it. They'll do that later, at the debriefing. I'd prefer an answer now, but it's not my investigation, so I bite my tongue.

“You worked that area with the hose?” says Aslund.

“Yeah,” says Phil. “Wasn't much else we could do.”

“And you're sure there was no ribbon?”

Phil's expression tells us he's pretty sure.

“What about stuff on the ground?” I ask. “You see any white residue?”

“Why?” he says, looking concerned. “Should I have?”

“There may have been some fusee slag,” says Aslund, his glance flickering in my direction. “You see any little white tubes or splotches or anything like that?”

Phil shakes his head, frowning. Once again, he could ask the boys.

“You sayin' we screwed up the origin?” asks Cooper.

“Someone worked it over,” I say. Aslund looks annoyed.

“Damn,” says Cooper. “You sure?”

I nod.

“We're not sure of anything right now,” says Aslund.

Cooper's brow furrows. “Well, if I fucked up, I'd sure like to know.”

“Believe me,” I tell him, “when you fuck up, you'll know.”

Aslund gives me a strange look. I'm not sure if it's because of what I said or how I said it. Cooper, fortunately, hasn't seemed to notice. “Anyway,” I tell him, “if you didn't see any ribbon, you have nothing to worry about.”

“No ribbon,” he says, shaking his head.

“What about your guys? Could they have taken down the ribbon?”

Cooper stares at us. “You mean, like, accidentally?”

Both Aslund and I don't say anything and Cooper's eyes narrow.

“Maybe they thought it marked a hotspot or something like that,” I offer.

Cooper crosses his arms. “No way. We briefed them. They knew it marked the origin.”

“So you wouldn't mind if we had them check their pockets, would you?”

Cooper's eyes narrow even further and Aslund gives me a startled look. “One minute,” he says, raising his index finger like a referee. He tows me away, behind a dozer on a lowboy, his face pinched and frowning. “Listen Cassel, I know you're an investigator, but at this moment your continued participation in this event is strictly as a witness. If you have something of value to contribute, then I'm all ears. But when it comes to conducting an interview, you're just an observer. I'm allowing you to observe as a professional courtesy. Perhaps you could extend the same courtesy to me, and allow me to do my job.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “My apologies.”

Aslund takes a deep breath, seems to relax.

“So, are you going to check their pockets?”

“No, I'm not going to check their pockets.”

“Why not?”

Aslund scowls, looks away for a minute. More vehicles arrive, churning up dust. Fresh firefighters troop out of buses. Another green Forest Service engine lumbers to a stop along the road. A uniformed Deputy stands next to his angled vehicle, controlling access. Aslundlooks at me again, trying hard to be patient.

“Where are you going with this Cassel?”

“Nowhere yet. But we need to find that ribbon.”

Behind us the dozer fires up, belching and roaring, puffing diesel fumes. A skinner looks down at us, waiting, and we move away. Cooper, Phil, and the other brother stand together, watching us. “Those firefighters have just lost their crew boss,” says Aslund, shouting to be heard over the rumble of heavy equipment. “They're pissed off and confused. Thinking we don't trust them won't help matters.”

“But what if they have the ribbon?”

“What would it prove? They couldn't have started the fire.”

“What if they found the ribbon somewhere else?”

“So what?” says Aslund, raising his hands, clearly exasperated. I'm trying to get through to him, without telling him how to do his job, that you don't overlook anything at a crime scene. Trivial details can become key later. Once the participants have dispersed and the scene is released, you've lost your chance.

“It could have fingerprints on it,” I say. “And this is now a homicide.”

Aslund considers, glancing toward the Deputy along the road.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “But I'll handle this.”

Cooper is not impressed and does little to hide the fact. Never, in all his years of firefighting, has he been humiliated like this. Aslund is a little tense as well. The three squads form a loose line by the crew bus. Cooper, being senior, breaks the news to them.

“The pink ribbon at the origin is missing,” he says, standing with his arms crossed. He sticks out his chin, straightens a crick in his neck. “Since we were working in the area, there's a possibility someone pulled down the pink ribbon, accidentally, maybe stuffed it into their pocket.”

“Doubt it,” says Phil. “They'd have to be colour-blind.”

“Anyone colour-blind?” Cooper bellows.

Amused looks. No one is colour-blind.

“Good,” says Cooper. “Cause no one here would pull down that ribbon on purpose, right?”

Vigorous nods of assent.

“I know that,” says Cooper. “But not everyone knows you guys like I do. So, these two gentlemen here would like y'all to empty your pockets.”

There's a stunned silence. For a moment, none of the firefighters move, waiting perhaps to see if we're serious. Finally, one of them pulls out a rumpled handful of orange ribbon.

“This is bullshit, man,” he mumbles.

Amid furtive glances in our direction, the rest of the firefighters commence rummaging in their packs and the pockets of their green fire pants. Granola bars, sticks of gum, and tins of chewing tobacco are produced. And lots of orange ribbon, but no pink. It's a little hard to tell with everyone doing this at once, and I suggest, in a tone only Aslund can hear, that maybe they should do this one at a time. Aslund grinds his teeth and ignores me.

I see a flash of pink. “Over there,” I say, pointing. “What was that?”

Heads turn and everyone stops what they're doing, hands half-full. One of the firefighters is staring at me, looking stricken. “What have you got there?” I ask, trying to sound calm and unaccusing.

“Nothing,” he says. He's young, maybe nineteen, and looks terribly guilty.

“I saw something,” I say. “Come on, empty your pockets.”

He looks at Cooper. “I'd rather not, sir.”

There's a tense moment, then Cooper waves him off. “Do it.”

Slowly, with great trepidation, the eyes of his co-workers on him, the young firefighter reaches into his pocket and, blushing deeply, pulls out a wad of pink. He holds it up reluctantly. It's a rumpled pair of lacy pink panties. There's a ripple of laughter and he crams them quickly back into his pocket.

“What the hell you got them for?” asks one of his buddies.

“I hope those aren't yours, Bickenham,” says another.

Blushing even harder, Bickenham says, “They're for luck.”

“What kind of luck might that be?” someone hollers over the chuckling.

Bickenham's lip quivers and he stares furiously at the ground. Aslund finally reins them in.

“Okay guys, sorry for the inconvenience. Put everything back in your pockets.”

Teary-eyed and still chuckling, the firefighters pocket their goods, punching each other on the shoulder, slapping Bickenham on the back. If nothing else, they're in a better mood.

“Hey,” says one firefighter. “What about those guys?”

The three members of the local volunteer fire department stand by one of their red pumpers, looking at the crowd of rowdy, jostling firefighters. Aslund shakes his head.

“Oh, come on,” says Cooper. “You made us do it.”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “Who knows what they might have in their pockets.”

More laughter. Aslund hesitates and, grimacing, waves them over.

Hutton and his two workers smile cautiously, like men who aren't sure if they're going to be let in on a joke, or if they are the joke. “What can I do for you?” asks Hutton.

“Well, umm ...” Aslund stammers.

“Empty your pockets,” hollers one of the firefighters.

Hutton frowns. “What?”

It's Aslund's turn to blush. “We're conducting a check. To see what's in your pockets.”

Hutton squints at him. “This is a joke, right?”

Something in Hutton's voice makes it not so funny anymore. The laughter dies down.

“You know you need a search warrant to do that,” says Hutton.

There's a silence — as quiet as it gets at an active staging area anyway. Hutton stares at Aslund and me, looks over at the firefighters. He looks disgusted, disdainful. “You let them do this?”

“What's the matter?” says Cooper. “You got something to hide?”

Hutton reaches into his pockets, pulls out the lining. They're empty. His two men do the same.

“Have a nice day,” he says, and stalks away.

“You happy?” says Aslund, under his breath.

“There you are, Cassel.”

Herb Grey strides along the road, his belt radio slapping against his stubby legs. Aslund and I have parted ways and I'm sitting in the shade of a service truck, watching the staging area. The new crews are out on the line, working with the dozers and engines. The air is filled with the whine of pumps, the crash of trees, the buzz of chainsaws. Everyone is busy except me — I have nothing to do but wait and think, neither of which I'm keen on at the moment. Hard physical work is what I need right now to blot out the memories.

“Aslund all done with you?” says Grey, puffing as he nears the service truck.

“For the time being.”

“Good. We're headed out of here.”

I'm suddenly aware that I'll never be back. I've squandered valuable time.

“Do you mind waiting a few minutes? There's something I want to check.”

“Negative.” Grey shakes his head, still catching his breath. “We've got to get rolling.”

I look into the burn, where I think the fire crossed the line. “I'll be quick.”

Grey gives me an intent look. “What's so goddamn important all of a sudden?”

“I just want to look at where the fire jumped the line.”

“What the hell for?”

“I'm not sure. I just need to see it.”

Grey's stern, commanding expression softens just a bit.“Don't blame yourself.”

“It was my fire,” I say quietly. “I was responsible for Brashaw and his men.”

“Shit happens, Cassel. Fires are not entirely predictable.”

Despite Grey's reassurance, we both know there'll be plenty of scrutiny later and we share a moment of silence. I'd like to have a look at where the runaway fire started. Maybe I just need to know it was inevitable. Maybe I'm just a sucker for punishment. Grey frowns, his patience at an end.

“Come on,” he says. “You're out of here and I'm your ride.”

Still, I hesitate. Grey sighs heavily, uses a sooty hand to massage his forehead.

“We've got to get going, Cassel. I have to break the news to Brashaw's family.”

Brashaw's family — I have a sudden anxious clench in my gut, thinking about BB's children. They'd be grown by now, with children of their own. I'd never thought of BB as a grandfather, and somehow this makes it worse. I take a deep, unsteady breath. Let it out slowly.

“You all right, Cassel?”

“Fine,” I say numbly. “I was the lucky one.”

Grey shakes his head. “No one was lucky today.”

4
•

WE DRIVE BACK in a green minivan, Grey at the wheel. Considering how rutted and steep the trail is, I'm not sure how they got the damn thing up here. Grey hugs the side of the trail, riding the ridges. He hits a cross-rut and the minivan thumps down hard, its suspension scraping. At the bottom of the hill, Grey unsnaps his belt radio, calls the new incident commander who flew in. “It's Grey again,” he barks into the radio. “You might want to send one of those dozers down the road, smooth things out before someone breaks an axle and cuts off your ground access.”

We ride in silence the rest of the way down the narrow trail to the Blood Creek Road, Grey no doubt wondering how he'll break the news to Brashaw's family.

“Were there any other injuries?” I ask Grey.

He shakes his head. “What about you? Any burns?”

“Nothing serious.”

“You did get burned?”

He looks concerned but my burns are minor. “I'm fine.”

“You sure? I could drop you at the hospital.”

“No, thanks.”

There's an awkward silence. Any injuries, even minor ones, are to be reported and given appropriate first aid, but the last thing I need is a nurse fussing over me while Brashaw lies dead on the ridge. I ignore Grey's searching look, stare out a side window, watch trees and ranchland slide past. We're on the highway now and the minivan is quiet, like riding in a vacuum tube. My thoughts seem loud, self-evident. The first commandment of firefighting is to fight fire aggressively but provide for safety first. I could have waited until the next day for an aerial view of the fire, but by then it would have been lost. The ridge appeared safe, so I took what I thought was a minor risk for a strategic advantage. Somewhere though, I missed a clue, and now Brashaw is dead. Grey's belt radio crackles to life, catching a clear line of transmission from the fire, and we both flinch. He reaches down and shuts it off. Carson Lake comes into view, long and narrow below the highway. Grey shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

“Cassel, I want you to know how sorry I am you had to go through this. God knows this is a hard enough business as it is. No one should have to lose their life fighting a fire. No one should have to go through what you went through.”

He's looking at me with the sad, tired eyes of a disappointed father and I suddenly feel weak.

“What happens next?”

“Well, there's going to be an entrapment investigation. The investigators will look at every aspect of the fire, try to learn exactly what happened. They'll look at weather records, dispatch logs, talk to those who were on the fire when it blew up. They'll examine personal protective equipment — which reminds me, I'll need yours. Then, after a lot of meetings and discussion, they'll make some recommendations so this won't happen again.”

He's tactfully avoided any reference to my role, my possible mistakes.

“What about the arson?”

Grey smoothes his moustache, frowning thoughtfully. “That's a bit more complicated. Arson in a national forest is usually a Forest Service matter, but this fire had a fatality, which makes the arson a crime against a person. You see, when someone lights a fire intentionally, they can be held accountable for anything that occurs as a result of the fire. So, at a minimum, it'll be involuntary manslaughter. Most of the investigation will be handled by the Sheriff 's Department.”

“Will the Forest Service still have a role?”

“I'm sure we'll have some of our people on it.”

“Aslund?”

Grey gives me a wry smile. “No, he's just local. Something this big, they'll bring in the boys from Washington.” He shifts in his seat again, frowns slightly. “Used to be, we did our own investigating, but that's handled by a separate branch within the Forest Service now. Strictly law enforcement people. Supposed to get around local politics.”

We pull into the Carson Lake Ranger Station, a sprawling shake-roofed wooden building overlooking the lake, and Grey tells me to grab my overnight bag. While he vanishes inside, I walk around back to where several wall tents have been erected on a grassy slope. I grab my pack and bedroll from one of the tents, spend a few minutes watching boats roar back and forth on the lake, pulling kids on tire tubes. Grey sticks his head out the back door, hollers at me. He's changed into his dress uniform. You know something serious has happened when a forest ranger wears a suit.