Burn Patterns (15 page)

Ironically, Iris didn't target him for removal from his brigade. She believed Bradley when he insisted, swore, he'd never lit a fire since being a volunteer. He had, of course, when he was a child. She encouraged him to get help with his depression, to do things about his image of himself. Her report suggested Bradley Williams needed to be monitored but not ousted. If given treatment and special supervision he might well remain a very good, particularly devoted firefighter. He certainly believed strongly in his responsibilities to his fellow volunteers and the esteem from his community. It could have been seen as win-win.
The Volunteer Fire Brigade played it safe, however, terminating his services.

Bradley must have come to Iris's office while Iris was at the petrol station getting the coffee. It was later found that Bradley Williams was armed with his farmer father's shotgun, stolen the day before. According to the fire investigators, he must have locked Georgina in Iris's office before setting fire to the place. He must have bought petrol in the can found in the charred debris. A falling beam probably knocked him out before he perished. No shots were fired.

Iris watched the fire from the carpark below the offices. The fire spread with particular speed. The ceiling panels were especially volatile, made of a plastic compound outlawed years before. It burned as a yellow flame tinged with blue. It was estimated ignition until flashover was no more than three minutes. It was a fast fire. A conflagration. Three minutes would not have passed quickly for those inside. Not for Georgina as she appeared at the security grilled window; trapped, feeling the heat coming, breathing the toxic fumes from burning office furniture. Iris saw her hair catch alight.

A man was talking to her. He looked vaguely familiar.

‘The green button, Mrs Foster.'

‘Ross?'

It was a chief superintendent Iris had once worked with. He pointed to the parking metre in front of Iris.

Iris turned and pushed the green button where she'd loaded enough coins for seven hours parking. The coins fell heavily.

‘Welcome back,' said the chief superintendent.

Iris put the parking ticket on her dash, then went straight up to the Fire Investigation and Analysis Unit offices. The messy desks were mostly empty. A young man was listening on a landline at the back. He glanced at her briefly, so she gave a wave. Iris saw the operations room was open. The man on the phone was writing with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other.

Tables had been pushed together in the centre of the operations room to form an island covered with file boxes, manila folders and hard drives. Pin-up boards and whiteboards
covered the walls. They were papered and scrawled with the information, lines of inquiry. There were headings like cause, incendiary device, motive. Lists of guesses and facts were printed in a variety of marker colours underneath. Question marks, circlings, underlinings, arrows crisscrossed, the product of officers writing as they talked, an investigation in progress. On one board were photographs of the burnt-out appliances, the closer one charred and melted in parts; the further one bent and torn. A mud map marking body positions was taped on. So were aerial photographs of the school grounds, of the crater, parched grass, torn bitumen where the gymnasium had been. There were photographs of the piles of bricks. Close-ups of the burn patterns on the bricks.

Iris went closer to read a report. The incendiary was diethyl ether, confirmed by lab reports. Someone had written the word source? Two detectives' names were attached.

On another board was a list of interview subject headings clustered around motive. Iris read through the list: school students, teachers/workers, nutters, terrorist groups, extortion, other, with names of police officers next to each.

Some boards were assigned to the different contributing investigators: coronial investigators, Arson Squad, the Fire Investigations and Analysis Unit, local detectives, federal. There were names, mobile numbers, internal extension numbers, tasks to do written next to these headings. It was a breakdown of tasks and lines of communication for a rapidly assembled multi-agency taskforce. Superintendent Richards was high on the tree.

On another board there was a picture of James with Frank's name, his mobile number attached. Comments were appended on James as a suspect. Unlikely, they suggested. awaiting report – iris foster.

On another board was the word zorro. Koch, his phone number written under. A smiley face had been drawn in blue.

Iris moved to a large board of drawings and photographs. They'd been rebuilding the fire scene, piece by piece, adding speculations to the evidence. She studied photographs from underneath the stage. There was an urn with burnt-out thermostat, close-ups of the charring and ignition area. There
were photographs of the zed burn pattern Charles Koch talked of. More photographs showed sections of PVC pipe leading to a sealed area under the sprung wooden court. A drawing that seemed partly speculative joined the photographs so the point of origin appeared to be the urn. Zed patterns led towards the PVC. They'd drawn the pipes leading under the floor where they'd drawn packs marked de – secondary load. Someone had written gymnastic mats??? A dotted line led to a photograph of the truck on the oval, under which was scrawled secondary electronic ignition source. There were a series of photographs of a release pin in the truck passenger door. A mobile telephone. A list of potential electronic ignition devices likely to have ignited the ether.

‘What are you doing in here?'

Iris turned to see the young detective who had been conducting the interview with the schoolboy in the school gymnasium. He was in shirt and tie, his arm in a sling.

‘I was looking for Charles Koch,' said Iris pointing to the Zorro board. She focused on the phone number.

‘Why?'

‘He has some information I want to follow up with him.'

‘In what capacity are you here?'

‘Capacity?'

‘Who are you working for … I'm sorry, Superintendent Richards introduced you as someone with useful questions, but didn't give a name.'

‘Iris Foster. I'm completing a report on James …' Iris pointed towards the relevant board. ‘For Doctor Silverberg.'

‘My name is Detective Stuart Pavlovic, Mrs Foster. You most definitely can't be in here.' He held his good arm out towards the door.

Iris headed out. ‘What happened to your arm?'

‘A flying brick.'

‘Where is everybody?'

‘A briefing with the Arson Squad downstairs. We're trying to collate witness statements.' He went into the incident room where he gathered four or five files. He flicked the doorjamb, shut the door to the room, locking it.

‘The truck,' said Iris.

Pavlovic regarded her.

Iris said, ‘I don't understand the logic of the truck.'

Pavlovic still said nothing.

‘Why two different ignition points? The urn and the device on the truck? Why not use the mobile directly, if it was to be used?'

‘I'm not really at liberty to share our work, Mrs Foster. Such permission would have to come from someone in authority. Superintendent Richards or above. Do you have a theory or are you only curious?'

‘It's relevant to my discussions with James … the suspect.'

He put the manila files on a desk, pulled out a drawer. ‘Do you mind if I record this?' He pulled a small cassette recorder from the drawer. His unslung arm was sinewy, his shoulders broad. Iris wondered what sport he played.

‘You'll get my report, Detective, when I deliver it to Doctor Silverberg and he sends it down the line. As you suggest, chain of command.'

‘You're here. Impressions. Grist for the mill. A thousand thousand details. Police work.' He was pissed off she'd broken into their case room. He pushed the record button.

Iris leaned towards the recorder. ‘If the offender was going to back the truck up to the doors, once all the students were in, so they couldn't get out, when the fire took hold …'

‘Who told you this?'

‘I'm surmising from information I've gathered.'

‘From the Martian?'

‘No,' said Iris.

Pavlovic nodded, but didn't follow up.

Iris went on, ‘Well, James couldn't have done it, surely. He was nine hundred kilometres away when it would have been time for him to back up the truck.'

‘Unless he lost his courage. Unless he had a nervous breakdown halfway through, ran away.'

‘I see.'

‘You don't think he did it?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘What are you going to say in your report?'

‘I can't brief you. My report isn't complete.'

‘We're spitballing.'

‘Throwing the tea bag at the ceiling to see if it will stick?'

He didn't smile. He was smart but not a joker.

Iris considered the recorder, which he continued to hold casually in her direction. She said, ‘He has a science background, I think. He's impulsive. I don't imagine he's patient enough for the school. The Martian is empathetic too. He's a compulsive firelighter who probably shouldn't be released into the community or put in prison.'

‘Quite a profile.'

‘I could offer more, if I knew more.' She glanced back at the locked incident room.

‘Not my call, lady.' It sounded like an insult.

‘Is Charles Koch down at the briefing?'

Pavlovic shook his head, put the recorder back in the drawer, picked up his files.

The fire investigator at the back desk called out, ‘Works out of Southern Metropolitan usually, but he's not at work. Suspended.'

Before Iris could ask why, Pavlovic interrupted. ‘Could I have your mobile number please? In case I need to follow up on anything?'

Iris fished in her bag, found a card.

The detective held out the files towards the corridor. ‘You can't be here, Mrs Foster.'

Iris headed out. She heard Pavlovic say, ‘Pugsley, what the fuck you letting people into the incident room for?'

She heard Pugsley say, ‘She works here, doesn't she?'

Iris telephoned Charles Koch.

‘Huh?' was his inelegant reply. She could hear seagulls.

‘It's Iris Foster.'

‘Who?'

‘The Fire Lady. I want to ask you about the case. Compare notes. Like you suggested.'

‘Good. Come to my boat. It's at the back of Tradewinds Marina in the Lochland Cut.'

‘I don't think so,' said Iris, suddenly wary. ‘How about somewhere … closer to the city?'

They arranged to meet at a pub on the river near the port.

Iris couldn't see him when she arrived so she ordered food. The crowd was mostly blue-collar, still in fluoro vests, with a scattering of office workers. It was one pm on a Friday. She found a table outside. Occasionally a car or cyclist passed between her and the water. Boats headed upriver with the same frequency. A large concrete traffic bridge spanned above. Trains wiped back and forwards hypnotically on another bridge further downriver. It was summer; the sea breeze wasn't in yet.

‘Sorry, the traffic was crazy.'

Iris blinked back into the present to see the puffing redness of Chuck Koch.

‘What are you drinking?'

She looked down to see she had eaten most of a mixed seafood plate. Prawn tails lay amidst untouched chips. Her wine glass was empty.

‘A sauvignon blanc, I suspect.'

Koch went away.

Iris took a chip, stirred a glob of mayonnaise. Two more trains crossed in the middle of the distant bridge.

The drinkers at the adjoining table were gone, leaving a packet of cigarettes and green disposable lighter amongst their finished lunch. Iris leaned over and took the lighter, holding it up towards the sun. It was a quarter full. She thumbed the flint and turned the tiny yellow flame, noticed her greasy fingerprints on her empty wine glass.

Koch came back carrying her wine, a glass of scotch and a pint of beer. He was dressed in jeans, boots and a purple-striped shirt, which might be his best. He'd tucked it in to his belt with the big firefighter buckle. The shirt strained over his belly. Tiny beads of sweat collected on his balding head. He ran his hand back over his forehead and down the back of his neck, casually clearing the sweat. ‘So you like Zorro for this?'

‘I'm open to all theories, Mr Koch, if you're willing to share them.'

‘And you'll help me with the profile?'

‘Yes.'

‘Call me Chuck. Have you finished with these?' He pointed to the chips.

‘Yes.'

He pulled the plate over, started on the cold chips.

Iris asked, ‘What do you think his plan was, at the school?'

‘He was waiting for the students to go in, for the main doors to be closed. He was going to back the truck up all the way to the doors so they wouldn't be able to open them. All the other exits were already chained or glued. They are trapped when the fire starts, panic, screaming in the smoke and growing heat. Possibly he was hoping for a crowd outside including the fire service, gathered close for the coup de grâce, boom.'

‘So what went wrong?'

‘I'm guessing those two kids who went down under the stage must have upset things. Made the urn spark too soon. Then the kid put out the accelerant trails before they could reach the motherload, whatever that was.'

‘Diethyl ether.'

‘Really? Fuck. No wonder it vaporised everything. Fuck. Excuse my language.'

‘I'll cope.'

‘It's kind of weird stuff to pick. Amazing the sparks didn't set it all off. It must have been sealed pretty good.'

‘You didn't know about the ether?'

‘The science boys must be keeping it to themselves. How did you know?'

‘Have you been suspended, Chuck?'

He banged the table, not very forcefully. He sipped his scotch, looking at her. ‘Strange earrings.'