The Burnt House (2 page)

The man backed down and found room in the car. “Not the dog,” the man insisted. “I’m allergic.”

Decker didn’t press the dog. As he crossed back, he knocked on the hood of a sedan driven by a young mother. Her baby was in the back. She rolled down the window. Decker said, “Can you take the dog? The owners aren’t home.”

“Is it friendly? I have a baby.”

Decker knew the dog was scared and sometimes fearful animals bite. He told the woman he’d try someone else and finally managed to palm
off the mutt on a mother with a teenage boy who was home, sick with the flu.

The door-banging on the next three houses went unanswered, but he did rescue another small dog and two cats. He was forced to leave behind several big dogs, trapped inside the houses or behind fences. His main concerns were humans, not animals, but it made him feel sick to leave these poor, pathetic pets. But he—like everyone else—would deal with that later.

His throat was scorched with dry heat, his eyes burning behind the goggles.

The next residence on Decker’s list was occupied by a woman carrying suitcases to her car. After giving her orders to leave immediately, he asked her if she could transport the pets he was holding. She agreed without hesitation and left her house, sobbing as she started up her car.

Smoke clouded any remnants of sunshine. The sky was dark charcoal and all Decker could make out were the pinpoint beams of headlights as cars filed out of the neighborhood. Mechanically, he jogged from one house to another, picking up any stray pet he could tote and giving them to the fleeing residents in the area, checking off address after address to make sure that no one was left behind.

An hour into his searching, he knocked on the door of a wood-sided one-story shingle. At first, it appeared that no one was home. But when he knocked again, Decker thought that he might have heard something, a muffled scream or yelp. It could have been animal, it could have been his imagination, but it could have been human. Something in his gut told him to go inside.

Lowering his shoulder, he rammed the door several times until the lock splintered and the door swung open.

The interior of the house was dark clouds of smoke.

“Anyone home here?” he shouted.

The response was a strangled cry: it seemed to be coming from the back. He made his way through the acrid hallway and found an elderly, bedridden, sweat-soaked woman who must have been in her nineties.
It was nothing short of a miracle that she was still breathing. The woman’s wheelchair was folded and tucked into the corner. She was trapped and as scared as a treed squirrel.

“Thank God!” the woman mouthed, tears pouring from her eyes.

Decker unfolded the chair, lifted the sticks-and-bones woman from the bed, and eased her into the chair. Her nightgown was wet with sweat, urine, and runny feces. She was shivering even though it was close to a hundred degrees inside. He found a clean blanket and draped it over her skeletal frame. Then he noticed a pharmacy’s worth of medication resting on her nightstand and stuffed the vials into his pockets. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

“Thank God!” the woman said again.

As he wheeled her through the smoke-laden living room, he said, “You’re all alone here, ma’am?”

“My nurse.”

“What about your nurse?”

“We heard a terrible crash…” The woman was trembling as if she had palsy. “She said she’d be back for me.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A long time…”

“Does she have a car?”

“Yes…in the driveway.”

There wasn’t any car in the driveway. The nurse had probably fled as soon as she saw the flames. Decker wheeled the old lady outside, pushed her in her chair for half a block until he found a van stuck in traffic on the road. He knocked on the driver’s window and a startled woman looked at him and then quickly away. He knocked again and presented his badge. She rolled down the glass.

“I need you to take this woman out of here. She was abandoned in her house.” Decker pulled out the medication from his pockets. “Take these with you.”

The woman didn’t respond, dulled by panic and fright. Eventually, as Decker kept talking, she comprehended what he was asking her to do. She depressed the unlock button and Decker opened the back door.
He belted the old lady inside next to the woman’s five-year-old boy. The child gave the old woman a shy smile and then, in an act of altruism, offered her his lollipop.

The old woman cried. She grabbed on to Decker’s hand. “God bless you.”

“You, too.” He hefted the woman’s wheelchair into the back of the van and thanked the driver, who was still too scared and too stunned to respond verbally.

After he had finished his initial list, he moved on to residences that were farther down the road but still very much in the sweep of the firestorm. With all that jet fuel to burn and broken gas lines to feed the inferno, it would be a long, long time before things were under control.

The fire marshals wanted to clear a two-mile radius. A residential area like this one included not only private homes but condos and apartment buildings. That amounted to a lot of people and a lot of cars. Decker regrouped with his detectives and made new assignments.

Hundreds of remaining doors to knock on: the terrified eyes, soot-streaked arms holding boxes, fingers gripping suitcases. Forms flitted from house to house, vehicle to vehicle. Loose animals roamed the streets, crying out with choked and desperate barks, visibility close to nil.

It wasn’t hell but it was a good facsimile.

He worked without interruption as the fire burned deep into the night.

T
HE POLICE TOOK
eighteen-hour shifts. Somewhere Decker got down enough food to calm his stomach, although he had no memory of eating. The crash information that filtered through to the emergency crews was incomplete and contradictory. With the passing of the first twenty-four hours, no radical terrorist group came forward to take responsibility and that seemed to soothe frazzled nerves. Decker thought it was quite a world when everyone was rooting for mechanical failure. From the eyewitness accounts, it appeared that the plane had been in trouble from takeoff. Ascent was never fully realized, and a few moments later, it nose-dived. No one remembered seeing a midair explosion, and so far, no videos of the crash had surfaced.

Thirty-seven hours after WestAir flight 1324 plummeted into 7624 Seacrest Drive, the fire department declared that the inferno had been contained, although it was far from out. Jet fuel was still stoking the flames, and even in the areas where active fire had died out, there were still flare-ups. It would take days before residents could
come home. The Gov had come down, declaring the site a disaster area, making it easier for the surviving residents to get federal aid and loans.

From the snippets of data that went in and out of Decker’s ears, he surmised that the casualties numbered around sixty to seventy, of which forty-seven came from the hapless travelers on the plane. Ground casualties were still being assessed.

Decker was dismissed from duty after forty-two straight hours of work. If he drove home, he didn’t openly remember operating a vehicle. Nor did he recall seeing his wife and his teenage daughter, or taking a shower. Exhaustion had robbed any recollection of his falling asleep. His first conscious memory was Rina waking him up at nine in the morning. He was confused but not ungrateful. His dreams had been disturbing. He wiped his sweat-soaked face with the sleeve of his pajamas, leaving behind a gray streak of soot.

Rina handed him the phone. “It’s Captain Strapp.”

Decker took the phone and depressed the hold button. Electricity and phone service had been restored sometime between when he had left and when he had come home.

“We’re getting calls, Pete. Family of loved ones that lived in the burnt house or in the area: relatives wanting to know if their kin is alive or dead. I want you to set up a task force and collect as many names as possible. Also, get the dental X-rays so that when the coroner’s investigators go in for recovery, we can provide them a list of names and the X-rays for identification. We’ll be one step ahead.”

Decker understood the words as English, but it took him a few moments to grab the meaning. “Uh…do we have a list of the ground deaths?”

Strapp’s voice was strained. “Did you just wake up?”

“My wife just woke me up. I’ve only been home for”—he looked at the clock—“a little under eight hours.”

“How long did you work?”

“About forty-two hours.”

“Good grief! That’s a lot of overtime.”

“I suppose it is.” Decker hoped he had kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

“In answer to your question, we don’t have a list of ground deaths. That’s what I want you to work on. I want your task force to contact the families of the suspected ground deaths and gather names. You can act as a liaison between the bereaved families
and
the NTSB
and
the coroner’s office. I’m calling for a town-hall meeting to assess what the community needs. The first thing we need to do is to set up a system so that worried families can access information.”

Decker’s brain was beginning to work. Strapp was spot on target. The charred bodies of the crash belonged to the coroner’s office, the wreckage of the plane belonged to the National Transportation and Safety Board, but the community belonged to the police. Working with bereaved families was bound to be a gut-wrenching assignment, meaning it would be a job that he’d do personally.

Another long day.

Strapp was talking. “…less immediate note, there have been reports of graffiti and looting in the affected areas. I want those investigated as well.”

Decker sat up. “Who’s reporting the looting? The residents haven’t been allowed back in.”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

Decker exhaled. “All right. I’ll try to make it down in about thirty to forty minutes.”

“See you then.”

The receiver clicked off. Decker gave his wife the phone. “I’ve got to take a shower and go to work.”

She didn’t even bother to protest. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Food…that sounds
real
good.” Decker swung his legs over the bed, stood up, and stretched his six-foot-four frame. Over the years he had gained a few pounds, topping out around 225, but for a guy in his fifties, he carried his weight well. “Is Hannah in school?”

“School is in the hot zone. It’s been temporarily canceled until the board can find facilities where the kids can inhale without clogging
their bronchioles with ash. We’re going to my parents for Shabbat, by the way. The air isn’t pristine over there, but it’s a lot better in Beverly Hills than it is here.”

“That could apply to a lot of things. That sounds fine. I’d love to see your parents.”

“You would?”

Decker smiled. “After witnessing such harrowing events, I look forward to a night with the in-laws and their mundane problems. Besides, your mother is a phenomenal cook.”

“That she is.”

“What about Cindy and Koby? Weren’t they supposed to come over on Saturday?”

“Friday night, actually, and Mama was gracious enough to invite them as well. Hannah, by the way, is thrilled. Not so much because she’s going to see her grandparents, but because she gets to see her friends that live in the city for a change.”

“It’s the age.”

“That’s true. Hannah lives for her friends. She’s either IMing someone or on the phone or doing both at the same time.”

“I hope I can make dinner this weekend.” Decker kissed his wife on the forehead. “This public servant may be doing overtime for a while. At least it’ll mean more cash in the till.”

“I’d rather have you.” Rina stroked his face and Decker realized how lovely she looked. His hormones shot through his lower body, but it was all for naught. He didn’t have the time.

After he showered and dressed, he sat down to pancakes and a cheese omelet. He drank four cups of coffee and two glasses of juice. He could have eaten more but the clock was ticking. When he announced that he had to go, Rina didn’t try to hold him back.

“Are you safe behind a wheel?”

“Safe and completely fueled.”

“I packed you a lunch while you were showering—four sandwiches and various side dishes. What you can’t eat, you can share with your brethren in blue.”

“I’m sure they will be grateful for any morsel I throw to them.” He kissed his wife chastely on the lips, deciding that this wasn’t at all satisfactory. The next kiss was long and deep. “I really do need to retire from my job.”

“You keep threatening, but for me it’s not a threat. First of all, I love you. Second of all, I’ve been collecting a list of projects that we’ve jawed about over the last four years. I’m ready when you’re ready.”

He knew what she was referring to. They’d conversed endlessly about adding more space to their eighteen-hundred-square-foot home, although the house had been losing occupants rather than gaining them. For the last few months, they’d been cutting out articles in design magazines. Rina’s pet project was a sumptuous master bathroom. Decker had been saving articles that dealt with media rooms and home theaters. Everything was still in the dream stage, but it made for interesting reading over the weekend.

Fantasy was the stuff of life.

AT HIS DESK,
Decker sorted through the list of names and numbers. “This should keep me busy for a while.”

“Why not call a conference for all of them to come in?” Marge asked him.

“Because I think initial contact should be personal. These people lost loved ones in a horrible way. Besides, it shouldn’t take me all that long to make the phone calls. As the families start dropping off the dental X-rays, we’ll set up a schedule. There needs to be someone manning the desk all the time to deal with the bereaved until we’ve got all the bodies accounted for.”

“I can do that.”

“We should also contact several professionals who can offer support.”

“I’ll call social services and see what they can do for us.”

“Great.” Decker regarded his favorite detective—over forty and young at heart. They had worked together for over twenty years. As
bedraggled as he felt, she looked fresh and alert. “How many hours of sleep did you get?”

“About five. Why? Do I look that bad?”

“On the contrary, you look chipper.”

“It’s the coral blouse,” Marge told him. “All women look good in coral.”

“What about men?”

“Men should wear black. It makes them look mysterious. In your case, Pete, black would set off your red hair very nicely.”

“It’s more gray than red,” Decker grumped.

“It’s still has plenty of red in it. So does your mustache. And you’ve got a lot of it…head hair. What you really need to look hip is a soul patch.”

“I’m beyond trying to look hip. All I want is to look appropriate so I don’t embarrass my teenage daughter.”

“I thought that was the purpose of parents of teenagers, to embarrass them.”

She had a definite point. Nothing was as much fun as to see his kids squirm at his misbehaviors. “So what’s going on with the graffiti and the looting?”

“We’ve gotten calls about homes being tagged.”

“How did that happen with units patrolling the area twenty-four/ seven?”

“The taggers are wily guys. They’re also not afraid of heights. We found signatures on the 405 Freeway overpass, and a couple of twenty-foot-high billboards. There’s also one on the top of the Parker/Doddard building, which has to be seven stories high.”

“Criminal Sherpas. Send them out to Everest where they can do some good.”

“I don’t think we’d like to see their signature in the snow, especially if we think what they might use to write with.”

Decker let go with a deep laugh. It felt good. “Not a pretty image. So what’s going on with the looting? Who’s reporting the activity?”

“Anonymous phone calls.” Marge laughed. “Since the residents aren’t
back in the area to substantiate the claims, I’m thinking that may be thieves reporting on other thieves.”

“Any arrests?”

“A few for burglary, but that hasn’t deterred the felons. You know how it is, Loo. If houses are left unattended, crime is going to happen even with a strong police presence. The bad boys love to take chances. It’s like the tented houses when the owner fumigates for termites. There are always one or two yutzes who think they can beat the system and make it out before poisonous gas renders them unconscious.”

“How many looting complaints have been called in?”

“About a dozen.”

“Okay. Assign someone to call up the owners of the looted houses and have someone meet them there. Do a quick search inside to see if something is missing. That way if something has been stolen, they can contact their insurance agency right away.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

“Thanks, Marge.”

“Leave the door open?”

“Absolutely.”

After she left, Decker looked around his private space. It was small, with used furniture, but it had walls that reached the ceiling and a door that made it an office as opposed to a cubicle. He was even lucky enough to have an outside window, although it didn’t open. It wasn’t big, but it usually let in enough light to add a pinch of cheer. Today the sash framed a gunmetal-gray sky. Ash had collected on the sill. He ran his hands through his gray-yet-still-red-according-to-Marge hair. He was still tired, but didn’t dare bitch about it, not when he looked down at all the message slips.

His fingers dialed the first number. A young male voice answered the call. Decker introduced himself and asked for Estelle Greenberg. The voice told him to hold on a second and then it called out, “Ma, police are on the phone.”

The woman who came on the line spoke before he uttered a word. “You found her!”

“Mrs. Greenberg, this Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”

“Yes, yes…did you find my daughter?”

“And your daughter is…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why are you calling me if you don’t even know why I called?”

So much displaced anger. Decker rode with it. “I was just given a message. I’m sorry to upset you. Believe me, that isn’t my intention.”

“Did you find my daughter?” She was yelling over the phone.

“We haven’t recovered any bodies from the affected area,” Decker explained. “It’s just too hot and dangerous to search.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?” The fury in her voice barely overlay her desperation.

“First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Second, I want to explain why I called you. I’m trying to gather information so that when the investigators do go into the area, they’ll know who they’re looking for. From this conversation, am I correct in assuming that your daughter lived in the affected building?”

The answer didn’t come right away. When it did, it was laced with tears. “Yes.”

“All right. May I please have her name?”

“Delia Greenberg. Apartment 3C.”

“I know the next couple of questions are going to sound moronic and insensitive, but I have to ask them anyway. So please forgive me if I upset you. I take it you haven’t heard from Delia since the incident.”

“No.”

“Does she have a cell phone?”

“I tried it a thousand times…” She was weeping. “It goes directly to her voice mail.”

“Okay. Did Delia live with anyone?”

“Alone.”

“So there was no one with her when it happened?”

“I don’t know! There might have been. She had friends stay over sometimes.”

“All right. Do you have any names, perhaps?”

“I don’t know! I can’t think right now!”

“You’re really helping me a lot, Mrs. Greenberg. Thank you for talking to me. One more thing regarding Delia. Do you think that you could obtain a copy of her dental records for identification purposes?”