post-incident analysis.
“Got a few cigarette butts in the lot,” Jack told him. “Not surprising given that it’s a convenience store. There’s other material there, and what looks like it might have been a bucket of rags. Point of origin was there. The contents of the Dumpster went up like timber, catching the siding on the building.”
“The vagrant?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “But he says he didn’t start a fire. But he also swore that he saw Santa Claus smoking crack on the roof before the fire ignited.” Jack shook his head. “Something about this whole setup seems too neat and smart.”
“And the vagrant isn’t either of those things,” Ronald said and sighed. “Hell.”
“This fire was set on purpose,” Jack said.
“Hell,” Ronald said again.
Back at the station, everyone was on decon duty, decontaminating their masks and regulators and refilling the air tanks. Most of them also used the opportunity to wash their gear, though some guys like Tim liked to leave it dirty to show how tough they were.
Tim was prowling the living room. “That fucking dog!”
The dog in question was sitting on the couch like he owned it, the tatters of a leather wallet scattered around him. There was a good reason he hadn’t made it as a station dog the first time around. He didn’t listen, he was the Destroyer of All Things Expensive, and he was smarter than all of them put together.
Tim snatched up the biggest piece of leather and thrust it under his nose. “You ate the cash and left the leather? You’re killing me.”
“Aw,” Cindy said. “Don’t yell at him.”
“Did he eat your money?” Tim demanded.
“I don’t have any,” Cindy said. “Chill, dude.”
“If you keep yelling at him,” Jack said, “he’s going to shit in your shoes later.”
“He already did that!” Tim glared at Kevin. “Bad dog!”
Kevin’s ears lowered, and he blinked as slow as an owl, looking a little confused.
Jack patted him on the head. “He has some separation anxiety that we’re working on. We left him behind.”
“Because it was a day call and too hot to keep him in the truck.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “But he doesn’t understand that.”
“Then he should have eaten your wallet.” Tim blew out a breath, calming down. “He has an eating disorder. He eats everything.”
“It’s called being a Great Dane.”
Tim threw his hands in the air and plopped on the couch. “Just do something about him.”
Jack turned to Kevin, who straightened hopefully, like maybe there was another wallet in his near future.
“Hear that, Kev?” Jack asked him. “I need to do something about you.”
Sensing he wasn’t going to be getting a doggie biscuit anytime soon, Kevin sighed, strode to his bed—right next to the couch—where he turned around three times and plopped down with a heavy “oomph.”
Tim pointed at his own eyes and then at the dog. “Watching you,” he said.
Kevin closed his eyes, set his head on his paws, and farted.
Jack went into his office. Writing up his report on the convenience store fire, he came upon something interesting. The building was in escrow. This always changed things. It was shocking how often a property owner became an arsonist, and he made a note for Ronald and their investigation.
Before bed, he checked his phone. Not a word from his pretend girlfriend. He fell asleep wondering if that was a good or bad thing.
The next day, the entire platoon once again ran ragged from start to finish. The first call came early. A drunk twenty-year-old idiot had set a fire at his parents’ home, lighting a cigarette on the kitchen stovetop and leaving the flame on before falling asleep. The house had been built in the 1930s and had a balloon-frame construction, in which there was a gap between the inside and outside wall. They tried using a thermal imaging camera to find the hot spots, but that proved ineffective, forcing them to use a hook to pull out whole chunks of heavy
“Got a few cigarette butts in the lot,” Jack told him. “Not surprising given that it’s a convenience store. There’s other material there, and what looks like it might have been a bucket of rags. Point of origin was there. The contents of the Dumpster went up like timber, catching the siding on the building.”
“The vagrant?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “But he says he didn’t start a fire. But he also swore that he saw Santa Claus smoking crack on the roof before the fire ignited.” Jack shook his head. “Something about this whole setup seems too neat and smart.”
“And the vagrant isn’t either of those things,” Ronald said and sighed. “Hell.”
“This fire was set on purpose,” Jack said.
“Hell,” Ronald said again.
Back at the station, everyone was on decon duty, decontaminating their masks and regulators and refilling the air tanks. Most of them also used the opportunity to wash their gear, though some guys like Tim liked to leave it dirty to show how tough they were.
Tim was prowling the living room. “That fucking dog!”
The dog in question was sitting on the couch like he owned it, the tatters of a leather wallet scattered around him. There was a good reason he hadn’t made it as a station dog the first time around. He didn’t listen, he was the Destroyer of All Things Expensive, and he was smarter than all of them put together.
Tim snatched up the biggest piece of leather and thrust it under his nose. “You ate the cash and left the leather? You’re killing me.”
“Aw,” Cindy said. “Don’t yell at him.”
“Did he eat your money?” Tim demanded.
“I don’t have any,” Cindy said. “Chill, dude.”
“If you keep yelling at him,” Jack said, “he’s going to shit in your shoes later.”
“He already did that!” Tim glared at Kevin. “Bad dog!”
Kevin’s ears lowered, and he blinked as slow as an owl, looking a little confused.
Jack patted him on the head. “He has some separation anxiety that we’re working on. We left him behind.”
“Because it was a day call and too hot to keep him in the truck.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “But he doesn’t understand that.”
“Then he should have eaten your wallet.” Tim blew out a breath, calming down. “He has an eating disorder. He eats everything.”
“It’s called being a Great Dane.”
Tim threw his hands in the air and plopped on the couch. “Just do something about him.”
Jack turned to Kevin, who straightened hopefully, like maybe there was another wallet in his near future.
“Hear that, Kev?” Jack asked him. “I need to do something about you.”
Sensing he wasn’t going to be getting a doggie biscuit anytime soon, Kevin sighed, strode to his bed—right next to the couch—where he turned around three times and plopped down with a heavy “oomph.”
Tim pointed at his own eyes and then at the dog. “Watching you,” he said.
Kevin closed his eyes, set his head on his paws, and farted.
Jack went into his office. Writing up his report on the convenience store fire, he came upon something interesting. The building was in escrow. This always changed things. It was shocking how often a property owner became an arsonist, and he made a note for Ronald and their investigation.
Before bed, he checked his phone. Not a word from his pretend girlfriend. He fell asleep wondering if that was a good or bad thing.
The next day, the entire platoon once again ran ragged from start to finish. The first call came early. A drunk twenty-year-old idiot had set a fire at his parents’ home, lighting a cigarette on the kitchen stovetop and leaving the flame on before falling asleep. The house had been built in the 1930s and had a balloon-frame construction, in which there was a gap between the inside and outside wall. They tried using a thermal imaging camera to find the hot spots, but that proved ineffective, forcing them to use a hook to pull out whole chunks of heavy
Similar Books
