typing.
“So,” he said, feeling much relieved. “What’ve you got?”
“Nothing much,” Pam said. She stopped typing and, turning, handed him the paper. “A File-13 from Detective Maloney in Westbrook. Seems they’ve had a few suspicious fires down their way and they all sort of fit together. State fire marshal indicates they were all set the same way. No real serious damage, just a couple of abandoned warehouses and one old barn. But according to this, whoever’s setting them seems to be moving north.”
Winfield frowned as he quickly scanned the sheet of paper. A File-13 went out on the teletype to all police stations in New England as a general, informational bulletin. In these days of manpower shortages and budgetary restraints, not every crime could be pursued with full vigor. A File-13 was pretty much a catch-as-catch-can notice. If something happened to catch your eye, you could give the station of origin a call and offer what information you had. Usually, they just piled up and, after a week or so, made their way to the real File-13, the waste basket.
This particular bulletin concerned straight arson, and because no people so far had been hurt or killed, the FBI hadn’t been called in. In time, either the arsonist would stop and disappear, or he would do some serious damage, or someone would get hurt or killed. Then more effort would be exerted to bring him in.
What caught Winfield’s eye, though, was the warning to watch locally for a “cluster of suspicious fires.”
Westbrook’s had a few fires recently , he thought. So what? It could be coincidence just as easily as it could be someone setting those fires.
“I don’t get it,” Winfield said when he was finished reading. “Why does this detective think the arsonist is heading our way?”
Pam quickly returned to her typing, but she heard his question over the loud clattering sound she was making, and without slowing down, tilted her head toward the telephone on her desk. “I know as much as you do. Give him a call if you’re so interested.”
Winfield groaned as he massaged the small of his back with his fist. He glanced again at the File-13, his eyes getting caught once more by the phrase “cluster of suspicious fires.” Moving stiffly, he walked down the hallway to his office, unlocked the door, entered, kicked the door shut behind him, and sat down at his desk.
His eyes felt like they were dusted with powdered glass. From his top drawer, he took a bottle of Visine and squirted three drops into each eye, blinking rapidly as the fluid ran from his eyes and down his cheeks. It felt better, but not much. A solid eight hours of sleep was what he needed, and the last thing he wanted was for anything to happen today.
In spite of that, though, he picked up the phone and dialed the Westbrook police station. After eleven double rings, Detective Maloney picked up his receiver.
“Detective Maloney here,” said a sharp, clipped voice.
“Hello, this is Sergeant Winfield up in Dyer.”
“How may I help you, sir?” Maloney said, sounding as though he had come to the police force straight out of the Army.
“Well,” Winfield said, settling back in his chair, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back, “I just got your telex on the suspected arsons, and I had a couple of questions for you.”
“Shoot,” Maloney said, so quickly it almost sounded as though he had sneezed.
“Well, you say here to watch for a ‘cluster’ of fire, but I was wondering why you think this guy’s heading up this way.”
There was a short pause on the other end of the line, and Winfield could hear sheets of paper being turned. He leaned forward in his chair, bracing the phone with his shoulder.
“Since that went out, we heard from two more stations in Connecticut and another one in Massachusetts. All three of them reported several suspicious fires and putting them together with the others we’ve had, it appears as though they’re all the work of a
“So,” he said, feeling much relieved. “What’ve you got?”
“Nothing much,” Pam said. She stopped typing and, turning, handed him the paper. “A File-13 from Detective Maloney in Westbrook. Seems they’ve had a few suspicious fires down their way and they all sort of fit together. State fire marshal indicates they were all set the same way. No real serious damage, just a couple of abandoned warehouses and one old barn. But according to this, whoever’s setting them seems to be moving north.”
Winfield frowned as he quickly scanned the sheet of paper. A File-13 went out on the teletype to all police stations in New England as a general, informational bulletin. In these days of manpower shortages and budgetary restraints, not every crime could be pursued with full vigor. A File-13 was pretty much a catch-as-catch-can notice. If something happened to catch your eye, you could give the station of origin a call and offer what information you had. Usually, they just piled up and, after a week or so, made their way to the real File-13, the waste basket.
This particular bulletin concerned straight arson, and because no people so far had been hurt or killed, the FBI hadn’t been called in. In time, either the arsonist would stop and disappear, or he would do some serious damage, or someone would get hurt or killed. Then more effort would be exerted to bring him in.
What caught Winfield’s eye, though, was the warning to watch locally for a “cluster of suspicious fires.”
Westbrook’s had a few fires recently , he thought. So what? It could be coincidence just as easily as it could be someone setting those fires.
“I don’t get it,” Winfield said when he was finished reading. “Why does this detective think the arsonist is heading our way?”
Pam quickly returned to her typing, but she heard his question over the loud clattering sound she was making, and without slowing down, tilted her head toward the telephone on her desk. “I know as much as you do. Give him a call if you’re so interested.”
Winfield groaned as he massaged the small of his back with his fist. He glanced again at the File-13, his eyes getting caught once more by the phrase “cluster of suspicious fires.” Moving stiffly, he walked down the hallway to his office, unlocked the door, entered, kicked the door shut behind him, and sat down at his desk.
His eyes felt like they were dusted with powdered glass. From his top drawer, he took a bottle of Visine and squirted three drops into each eye, blinking rapidly as the fluid ran from his eyes and down his cheeks. It felt better, but not much. A solid eight hours of sleep was what he needed, and the last thing he wanted was for anything to happen today.
In spite of that, though, he picked up the phone and dialed the Westbrook police station. After eleven double rings, Detective Maloney picked up his receiver.
“Detective Maloney here,” said a sharp, clipped voice.
“Hello, this is Sergeant Winfield up in Dyer.”
“How may I help you, sir?” Maloney said, sounding as though he had come to the police force straight out of the Army.
“Well,” Winfield said, settling back in his chair, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back, “I just got your telex on the suspected arsons, and I had a couple of questions for you.”
“Shoot,” Maloney said, so quickly it almost sounded as though he had sneezed.
“Well, you say here to watch for a ‘cluster’ of fire, but I was wondering why you think this guy’s heading up this way.”
There was a short pause on the other end of the line, and Winfield could hear sheets of paper being turned. He leaned forward in his chair, bracing the phone with his shoulder.
“Since that went out, we heard from two more stations in Connecticut and another one in Massachusetts. All three of them reported several suspicious fires and putting them together with the others we’ve had, it appears as though they’re all the work of a
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