Burning Man (3 page)

“This is all a misunderstanding,” he said. “I came out here to set a backfire. I thought you were the arsonist.”

“If you say another word without my leave to speak I will shoot you dead.”

He could hear that I meant what I said. All my attention was on Sirius. “What a good dog,” I told him, and he wagged his tail once more, but this time the motion was weaker.

“
Aus
,” I said, telling him to let go.

Sirius released his hold on the hand, and then let his head drop to the ground. His body language told me he was pleased he had done his job. It also told me what I didn’t want to see.

“No,” I said to him. “You are not going to die!”

Sirius didn’t understand my words but heard their urgency. He tried raising himself up but couldn’t do it.

“You’re going to help me carry him out,” I told the Strangler. “If you try to escape, I will shoot you. If you stumble, I will shoot
you. If he dies before we make it out of here...” My voice caught a little, but I managed to finish the sentence: “I will empty my gun into you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

It wasn’t Miranda, and I didn’t give a damn. He nodded.

The fire was closing in all around us. I didn’t give a damn about that either. My partner was dying.

We lifted Sirius up and started moving in what I thought was the direction of the houses. It was a guess, though; the smoke was that thick. I didn’t even notice my bleeding leg. Time was precious. With every step my partner was losing more and more blood. The smoke was a thick, stinging curtain. We were walking in a blinding fog that allowed no clue as to where we were, or which way to go. It was possible we were walking around in circles, wasting time we couldn’t afford to lose. Sirius was making sounds I’d never heard before—scary sounds that came from a body failing him—and then he had a seizure or a series of seizures, and we had to stop walking to put him down. He fought through his spasms and I felt his chest; it was still rising and falling. The seizure wasn’t a death rattle. My partner was still with me.

“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’m here. You hold on, you hear me? We’re going to get you help.”

Just behind us, a stand of pampas grass torched up in flames. The Strangler screamed, “We have to leave the dog!”

He started to move away, and I raised my Glock and aimed at where his heart was supposed to be. “No!” he yelled, just in time.

The murderer spared me from murder.

We picked up Sirius once more. His breathing sounded like an overheating radiator. Blood was filling his lungs. I motioned the way to the Strangler with my gun. There was no path to go but through fire. We stumbled forward, and it was so hot our flesh began burning, but I wasn’t about to leave my partner. The Strangler screamed as his clothes and skin smoked and burned, but he knew I would shoot him if he dropped Sirius.

We avoided fire as best we could, but there was no getting away from it. The inferno was everywhere. “Trailblazing” took on
a whole new meaning. I tried to see through the flames, but my eyes had been pummeled by the smoke and were puffy to the point of closing up on me. The Strangler began coughing violently, but even over his paroxysms I could hear the horrible wheezing of my partner. Show me the way, I thought. Maybe I croaked the words aloud. There was a part of me that recognized my flesh was on fire, but that didn’t stop me. I couldn’t let my partner down. I looked around, trying to see anything. The smoke had blotted out the heavens save for two stars.

“We’ll go past the second star and straight on till morning,” I said, and the Strangler didn’t object.

It was the route to Neverland, at least according to Peter Pan. The Strangler followed my lead, which was better than staying and burning in hell. As we made our way through fire, more of our clothing burned away. There was no escaping the heat; it burned from all sides. Peter Pan hadn’t mentioned that. Still, it seemed to me that Neverland was getting closer and closer.

We pushed through some burning chaparral and into a clearing. Water splashed over us and our bodies smoldered, the smoke rising from our rags and fur. The helping hands of surprised firefighters reached for us, and I had enough presence of mind to announce that I was a police officer.

As paramedics rushed over to us, I hurriedly cuffed the Strangler. “We’re okay,” I told them. “It’s my partner you need to help!”

That didn’t stop them from trying to help us. “My partner,” I said again.

Crazy people carrying guns tend to get your attention. The EMTs ran a few lines into my unmoving partner. Only after Sirius received medical treatment did I allow myself the luxury of passing out.

CHAPTER 1:
NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION

Returning from Neverland was harder than getting there. Some days I wondered if I’d ever get back.

The limo chauffeuring us pulled up to the curb of the Westin Bonaventure. I hadn’t wanted a limo, but the department had insisted. Sirius had liked the ride. The limo had a sunroof that opened, and my partner had enjoyed periscoping his muzzle out the car to catch the breeze. Still, he probably would have been just as happy sticking his head out the window of a MINI Cooper.

The driver ran around and opened our door. I had Sirius on a leash, and Sergeant Maureen Kinsman had me on one, or thought she did. Maureen works out of LAPD Media Relations. She is young and wears more makeup than any cop I have ever seen, including those that work John Patrol. Maureen was perfect for her job. She liked to talk nonstop, which made it easy for me to keep our conversation going with only an occasional nod.

“Once we get to the banquet room, I’m going to introduce you to Kent McCord,” she said. “He told me he wanted to meet you before the presentation.”

The door opened, and I started as some flashes went off. Three photographers were there to meet us. Hotel guests turned and rubbernecked, assuming that the paparazzi had a star in their sights. What they saw was a slack-jawed man with a scarred face and a scruffy-looking dog.

“The press is all over this,” Maureen said, apparently delighted. I did my best to approximate her good cheer.

Somewhere in my therapy I had heard the phrase “Fake it until you can make it.” I don’t know whether a fellow burn patient said it or a therapist, but for the last six months, faking had become a way of life for me. Because I wanted nothing more than to get back on the force, I was doing everything I could to avoid a forced disability retirement. After Jen’s death I didn’t really have a life; I only had a job. Getting severely burned had put that job in jeopardy, which terrified me. That was one of the reasons I had agreed to this luncheon. I wanted to show the brass that I was still part of the team.

Sirius and I followed Maureen. She kept up the conversation for all three of us. All I had to do was offer up my best Bobby McFerrin “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” face, which wasn’t so easy with my scarring. Lots of eyes took notice of us as we walked through the hotel. I told myself that Sirius was drawing their attention, not my face.

I had been brought in with burns on over half of my body surface area, and a good many of those were third-degree burns, or what medical professionals call full-thickness burns. That meant there were patches of my body where all my layers of skin had been burned away. It also meant six months and counting of skin grafts, operations, and physical therapy.

When I look at my naked body in a mirror, the patchwork designs from all the skin grafts make it appear as if I am wearing a harlequin suit. I am told that with time and more therapy the scarring will fade, but that for the rest of my life I’ll be tending to what the burn people refer to as my “scar management.”

I am not the only one dealing with scars and physical issues. Love me, love my scruffy dog. All during my rehabilitation my partner has been doing his own physical therapy alongside of me. I do my stretches and then help him with his. He thinks it’s a great game; I wish I did. Both of us are working on achieving our optimal range of motion, or ROM, as our therapists call it. Sirius and I have both come far, but the fire and being shot took a lot out of us. Sometimes I think we’re the Humpty Dumpty twins, and that neither of us can ever quite be put back together again. This is an opinion I keep to myself, and it’s not something Sirius talks about either. Everyone thinks that Sirius is the perfect patient, and that I’m not far behind. He’s the real thing; I’m the fake.

The mantra of my burn therapist, whom I call the Iron Maiden, is “rehabilitation, reconstruction, and reintegration.” Those are apparently her code words for torture. Whenever I see the Iron Maiden I do my best Monty Python imitation and yell “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” She thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. Every time I see my inquisitor, my heart races and I get cold sweats on those parts of my body that still sweat, which are those places where I didn’t receive skin grafts. You don’t sweat where you’ve received grafts, which is why burn patients are always mindful of overheating.

The Iron Maiden and I both share a laugh when I call her “my torturer.” Around her I’m upbeat and put on my happy face. I know she’s worked me as hard as she has for my own good. Her torture is necessary so that my tendons don’t shorten, and my ligaments and joints will have the best possible function. Her therapy has worked for me; I now have full range of motion in my legs, arms, and hands. I can flip someone the bird as good as I ever could.

I let Maureen lead me through the hotel gauntlet. She chattered the whole time, and rarely needed me to join in the conversation. “That’s a great suit,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

Jen had bought the suit for me years before, but I’d only worn it a few times. The last time I’d worn it, I remembered, had been at her funeral.

“It was a gift,” I said.

Maureen took up her monologue again. Under the suit she had complimented was a not-so-sharp-looking compression garment; what I called my hair shirt. I usually wear my compression garment twenty-four hours a day. It is a skintight layer of clothing that extends from my feet to my neck that’s supposed to help improve my hypertrophic scarring. The Iron Maiden describes hypertrophic scarring as skin that exhibits the three Rs of being red, raised, and rigid. In my case there’s a fourth R—the right side of my face. It’s that which shows my trial by fire more than anything else. There’s an angry red patch of elevated skin that extends from my cheekbone almost to my chin. When I catch people staring at the scar I say, “You should see the other guy.”

Fake it.

My surgeons and doctors seem annoyed by this particular patch of scarring, perhaps because it’s so visible. Nowadays, after more than a few operations, there’s nowhere else on my body with as much hypertrophic scarring. Around my facial scar there are even a few nasty keloids. One cosmetic surgeon wants to try lipo-filling my face, while another thinks I might be a good candidate for laser surgery. Those potential treatments will have to wait.

Still, someone up high must have decided my face was good enough to be seen in public. Or maybe my facial disfigurement, he or she decided, would better serve the department. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sirius and I were being used to combat a recent spate of bad press suffered by the LAPD. Months earlier the governor had announced that the two of us would be receiving California’s Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor, the state’s highest award for heroism. Not long afterward, the LAPD announced it was awarding me its departmental Medal of Valor. When I asked about my partner being similarly honored, higher-ups told
me that a recipient of a Medal of Valor had to perform an act displaying extreme courage while
consciously
facing imminent peril. Apparently they didn’t think a dog could be conscious of peril. I did and threatened to skip the ceremony. When word of my potential boycott surfaced in the media, the department did a one-eighty better than Kobe Bryant and announced that Sirius would also be receiving a commendation. He was going to get a Liberty Award, the canine version of the departmental Medal of Valor.

Getting medals isn’t so bad; getting them in public is. There was a reason for the pomp and circumstance, though. One commander had confided to me that heroes were always good for getting extra departmental funding.

“Here we are!” Maureen said.

I had never seen a meeting room so large. It was like one of those aircraft hangars designed to house jumbo jets. What made it even worse was that as cavernous as the space was, it was filled with people. My heart pounded and my chest and throat tightened, making it difficult to breathe.

“I need to make a pit stop,” I said. “Is there a bathroom nearby?”

“There’s one just down the hall,” she said. “Why don’t you meet me back here in five?”

“Five,” I said and then took off with Sirius.

The bathroom had urinals on one side, stalls on the other. The stall side appeared to be empty. Sirius and I went into an oversized stall that was designated for the disabled. I qualified, even though I didn’t want to. I sat down and fought off the shakes.

The week before I’d met with the departmental shrink, a small man with a big, bald head named Dr. Lockhart. Cops forced to see him call him Doc Rock Hard. Rock told me he just wanted to have “a little chat.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m really encouraged. Every day I’m getting that much better.”

“Many people that sustain injuries such as yours suffer depression.”

“Not me,” I said smiling. “I’m grateful to be alive. All that physical therapy must be keeping my endorphins up.”

“Do you have any fears of what the future might bring?”

A shake of my head; an Alfred E. Neuman look of “What? Me worry?” “I guess I’m luckier than most. I have a very supportive girlfriend.”

That helpful and imaginary girlfriend was the same one that I had invented for the mental health professionals at the hospital. Her name was Patty Norville and she was an elementary school teacher. Patty helped me with my exercises. The only drawback in our relationship, I said, was that Patty was a cat person. I always laughed when I said that. Patty was supposed to be coming to the next burn patient get-together. I had this feeling that poor Patty would be coming down with a bad cold just prior to the party.