One Careless Moment by Dave Hugelschaffer Page B

the ground. The ribbon and fusee residue had to go somewhere. A gust of wind could have carried the ribbon some distance beyond the origin. A firefighter could have mistaken the ribbon as marking a hotspot and pulled it down once he was sure the spot was out. Maybe the high-pressure jets of water chewed up the ground enough to obscure the slag, or blew it beyond the area we’ve searched. But after a half-hour of searching, I find nothing, even though I’ve covered and re-covered a large area around the origin.
    Aslund returns, asks if I’ve found anything.
    Nothing, I tell him. He frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Cassel —”
    â€œWell, it was here. I saw it.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œYou don’t believe me?”
    â€œSure,” he says. “I believe you.”
    â€œBut?”
    Aslund shifts on his feet. He seems distracted, uncomfortable. “Nothing.”
    â€œLook,” I say. “Something is clearly bothering you. What is it?”
    â€œYou mean other than the absence of any physical evidence?”
    â€œIf everything is gone, then it’s not by accident.”
    â€œYou think someone purposefully tore down the ribbon? Pocketed the residue?”
    â€œMaybe. It had to go somewhere.”
    He thinks for a minute. “What did you make of the burn patterns?”
    â€œInconclusive. The wind in the canyon whipped the fire around quite a bit.”
    Aslund nods. I can see where he’s going with this. No physical evidence of arson and no conclusive pattern of fire travel to support that this is where the fire started. Good thing I called it in before the burnover, or they might have suggested my origin identification was a trauma-induced hallucination. Thankfully, Aslund is too professional to push this further. “Given the origin may have been sabotaged,” he says, “what do you suggest we do?”
    â€œAsk the firefighters. They may have seen something.”
    Aslund gives me a look mirroring my own thoughts: Or they may be responsible.
    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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDid 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.”
    â€œWere you aware of the location of the origin?” says Aslund.
    â€œYeah.” 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.”
    â€œWhich 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.”
    â€œWhen did you get in there, Phil?” I ask.“How long after I called BB?”
    Phil gives