One Careless Moment by Dave Hugelschaffer

fire that way.
    â€œI needed an aerial view of the fire. Given the fire behaviour, this location appeared acceptable.”
    Both Compton and Aslund make notes in their flip pads. They don’t press further on my use of the ridge. That’ll come later, in a task force investigation. Compton asks the next question without looking up.
    â€œWhen did you discover the fire was an arson?”
    I tell them about finding the fusee cap on the side of the road, searching for and finding the origin. They’re both watching me but I talk to Aslund. If conditions were different, it would be me in his boots, investigating the arson. I conclude with a brief description of the way the fusee appeared to have been set, based on the residue; how I marked the spot with ribbon.
    â€œYou didn’t post a guard?” says Compton.
    â€œNo, but I communicated a warning to all staff on the fire to stay well back.”
    Compton frowns, writes something in his flip pad.
    â€œI’ll need you to show me the origin,” says Aslund.
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œYou saved the fusee cap?”
    â€œYes, I bagged it. Unfortunately, it was in the truck.”
    â€œThe one that burned up?”
    I nod and they both take notes. I can’t help wondering, in a situation like this involving both a fatality and arson, what the protocol is between the Sheriff ’s Office and the Forest Service. So I ask. Aslund and Compton exchange glances and it occurs to me that they’re not sure. In fact, I doubt they’ll be the ones conducting the investigation. They’re front-line people, beat cops — senior staff will undoubtedly take over an incident of this magnitude. Compton glances toward Brashaw’s fire shelter.
    â€œDue to the arson, Mr. Brashaw’s death will be considered a homicide.”
    Aslund and I hike down the backside of the ridge, through a stand of blackened, branchless tree trunks. He doesn’t like helicopters, he tells me. Damn things tend to crash. A plane is one thing, but that main rotor goes and you fall like a stone. So we walk.
    Ash, whipped by wind, envelops us in a choking grey cloud. With the understory stripped away, the slope is visibly steeper than I remember and I marvel that Brashaw and I managed to scramble back up to the ridge so quickly.
    â€œSo you found the fusee cap by the road,” he says, reviewing.
    â€œYes. It was a few yards into the trees.”
    â€œLike someone threw it?”
    â€œMaybe. Or they were walking off the road, to avoid footprints, and dropped it.”
    Aslund nods, thinking about this. He’s in his early forties, lean to the point of emaciation. Hair, shaved to stubble, blends with stubble on his neck and chin. Adam’s apple like the wedge of an axe. Eyes like a falcon, alert and inquisitive. “What about tire tracks?” he says.
    â€œNot that I noticed. But we moved a lot of vehicles and the ground is as dry as concrete.”
    The slope begins to level as we near the trail to the old bear hunting camp. Visible through a picket of black trunks, twin ruts snake their way along the side of the slope. The truck can be seen from a distance, blackened and sitting strangely low. I notice as we approach that it is resting on its rims, tires vaporized. Everything not metal is gone, even the paint, giving the vehicle a skeletal look, like the husk of a dead beetle. The windows have melted out, blobs of glass on the ground like dropped marbles. Coil springs from the seat lie in perfect formation on the metal floor, looking strangely out of place. I reach through the vacant window, pull open the glove compartment. It yields with a painful scrape.
    â€œAnything left?” says Aslund, coming up behind me.
    â€œNothing but ash.”
    â€œWhy did you put the cap in the glove compartment?”
    â€œFor security. In case there were fingerprints.”
    Fusee caps are waxy and would hold a good print, in case the arsonist