John Orr's investigation, and in the middle of the chaparral he found the remnants of a cigarette-and-matchbook delay device. They never found the arsonist, but John got an attaboy for finding the evidence.
In April he bagged his first serial arsonist. A cluster of small nuisance fires had been set around the grounds of a convalescent facility, and it didn't take a Miss Marple to deduce that the fire setter was probably one of the codgers who lived there. John Orr spotted the arsonist right away.
He noticed that the first two fire scenes could easily be seen from a certain cottage, and a biddy was peeking at him from behind her curtains. He knocked on her door and used the phantom witness gag. And she bought it, confessing to setting the fires, whereupon the loony lady was transported to a more secure mental facility and she became the first of many serial arsonists John would catch in his career. The others, he hoped, would bring a bit more glory.
The next one came in the same week, when he did some follow-up work on a VW bus that had been stolen and torched. The ignition had been popped and hotwired, and a witness had seen a guy with a shoulder-length shag and a hand wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. John was only supposed to collect arson evidence, but that would be like asking a bear to only take a sniff of that old honey tree. He cruised through the streets of Glendale scoping out every longhair he saw. All the dudes with hands in their pockets got the hawkish stare from the fireman in the ugly yellow truck.
He did a lot of paper shuffling and snooping through police reports until he found a report of a longhair living in a vacant apartment house who had accidentally started a fire while attempting to keep warm. John sped over there and found the guy, who, sure enough, had a bandaged hand. But the hand carried a brick in it. The wacko was hammered or stoned or both, and threatened to bash the fireman's fucking head in. But after his recent experiences, John didn't draw the gun he was forbidden to carry. Instead, he keyed his mike and called for real cops while he tried to persuade the guy that he was a friend, and didn't everybody like firemen?
Cops arrived and the ding was charged with auto theft, burglary, and two counts of arson; ergo, John could say that he was the only employee of Glendale, cop or fireman, who had ever busted two serial arsonists in one week. The fire marshal told him that there would soon be a selection process for the newly created job of arson investigator, and that he had the edge. By then, seven firefighters had applied for the job, two of them former cops.
But the other firefighters said, well, maybe the fire marshal bought into all the super sleuthing, but what had John Orr caught? A poor old loony tune from a rest home and a certifiable head case who was probably just trying to roast some wienies he'd boosted from a 7-Eleven store.
When you came right down to it, it was something like shooting skunks.
Meanwhile, he was still busy womanizing, having given up on his second marriage. He'd been dating a divorcee from Sears who had three kids. He won her heart while on a camping trip to a cabin that she owned in the Angeles National Forest. But in July, his professional life took a dive when he tried to issue a citation to a property owner who'd neglected to clear his property even after several visits by an engine company.
The property was in an upmarket neighborhood, and though the grounds could have used a flatbed full of stoop laborers, the house was big, beautiful, and impressive. When the lady of the house answered the knock she may as well have been gawking at Bigfoot. "I know who you are!" she cried. "I know what you did to the real-estate broker!"
When he tried to get her to calm down and accept a citation, she refused, saying, "I'm calling my husband right now!"
"You can't refuse," he told her. "Your name's on the tax roll with his."
With that, she slammed the door in his
In April he bagged his first serial arsonist. A cluster of small nuisance fires had been set around the grounds of a convalescent facility, and it didn't take a Miss Marple to deduce that the fire setter was probably one of the codgers who lived there. John Orr spotted the arsonist right away.
He noticed that the first two fire scenes could easily be seen from a certain cottage, and a biddy was peeking at him from behind her curtains. He knocked on her door and used the phantom witness gag. And she bought it, confessing to setting the fires, whereupon the loony lady was transported to a more secure mental facility and she became the first of many serial arsonists John would catch in his career. The others, he hoped, would bring a bit more glory.
The next one came in the same week, when he did some follow-up work on a VW bus that had been stolen and torched. The ignition had been popped and hotwired, and a witness had seen a guy with a shoulder-length shag and a hand wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. John was only supposed to collect arson evidence, but that would be like asking a bear to only take a sniff of that old honey tree. He cruised through the streets of Glendale scoping out every longhair he saw. All the dudes with hands in their pockets got the hawkish stare from the fireman in the ugly yellow truck.
He did a lot of paper shuffling and snooping through police reports until he found a report of a longhair living in a vacant apartment house who had accidentally started a fire while attempting to keep warm. John sped over there and found the guy, who, sure enough, had a bandaged hand. But the hand carried a brick in it. The wacko was hammered or stoned or both, and threatened to bash the fireman's fucking head in. But after his recent experiences, John didn't draw the gun he was forbidden to carry. Instead, he keyed his mike and called for real cops while he tried to persuade the guy that he was a friend, and didn't everybody like firemen?
Cops arrived and the ding was charged with auto theft, burglary, and two counts of arson; ergo, John could say that he was the only employee of Glendale, cop or fireman, who had ever busted two serial arsonists in one week. The fire marshal told him that there would soon be a selection process for the newly created job of arson investigator, and that he had the edge. By then, seven firefighters had applied for the job, two of them former cops.
But the other firefighters said, well, maybe the fire marshal bought into all the super sleuthing, but what had John Orr caught? A poor old loony tune from a rest home and a certifiable head case who was probably just trying to roast some wienies he'd boosted from a 7-Eleven store.
When you came right down to it, it was something like shooting skunks.
Meanwhile, he was still busy womanizing, having given up on his second marriage. He'd been dating a divorcee from Sears who had three kids. He won her heart while on a camping trip to a cabin that she owned in the Angeles National Forest. But in July, his professional life took a dive when he tried to issue a citation to a property owner who'd neglected to clear his property even after several visits by an engine company.
The property was in an upmarket neighborhood, and though the grounds could have used a flatbed full of stoop laborers, the house was big, beautiful, and impressive. When the lady of the house answered the knock she may as well have been gawking at Bigfoot. "I know who you are!" she cried. "I know what you did to the real-estate broker!"
When he tried to get her to calm down and accept a citation, she refused, saying, "I'm calling my husband right now!"
"You can't refuse," he told her. "Your name's on the tax roll with his."
With that, she slammed the door in his
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