California Fire And Life

911."

"What time was that?"

"Four forty-four."

"That's pretty exact, Mr. Meissner."

"Digital clock," Meissner says. "You remember things like that. I called right away. But too late."

"You did what you could."

"I'm thinking Pamela is out of the house because Leo is."

"Leo, Leo."

"Leo was outside?" Jack asks.

"Yes."

"When you heard him barking?"

"Yes."

"You're sure about that, Mr. Meissner?"

"Pretty bird, pretty bird."

Meissner nods. "I saw Leo standing out there. Barking at the house. I thought Pamela…"

"Did Leo usually sleep outside?" Jack asks.

"No, no," Meissner says, like dismissively.

Jack knows it's a stupid question. No one's going to leave a little dog like this outside at night. He's always seeing signs for lost Yorkies and cats, and with all the coyotes around here you know it's like "B Company ain't comin' back."

"Coyotes," Jack says.

"Of course."

Jack asks, "Mr. Meissner, did you see the flames?"

Meissner nods.

"What color were they?" Jack asks.

"Red."

"Brick red, light red, bright red, cherry red?"

Meissner thinks about this for a second, then says, "Blood red. Blood red would describe it."

"How about the smoke?"

No question about it, no hesitation.

"Black."

"Mr. Meissner," Jack asks, "do you know where the rest of the family was?"

"It was Nicky's night with the kids," he says. "A blessing."

"They're divorced?"

"Separated," he says. "Nicky's been staying with his mother."

"Where does she-"

"Monarch Bay," he says. "I told this to the police when they were here, so that they could notify."

Except, Jack thinks, Bentley tells me they're still looking.

"I feel for the kids," says Meissner. He sighs one of those sighs that come only from advanced age. The man has seen too much.

"In and out. In and out," Meissner says. "Chess pieces."

"I know what you mean," Jack says. "Well, thanks, Mr. Meissner."

"Howard."

"Howard," Jack says. Then he asks, "Do you know why they were separated? What the issues were?"

"It was Pamela," he says sadly. "She drank."

So there it is, Jack thinks as he watches Meissner walk away. Pamela Vale has a night without the responsibility of the kids so she gets hammered. At some point she lets Leo out to go pee, forgets he's out there, and ends up in bed with a bottle and some cigs.

So Pamela Vale is drinking and smoking in bed. The vodka bottle tips over and most of the contents spills onto the floor. Pamela Vale either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Then, with a burning cigarette still in her hand, she passes out. The sleeping hand drops the cigarette onto the vodka. The alcohol ignites into a hot flame, which catches the sheets, and the blankets, and the room fills with smoke.

Normally it would take ten to fifteen minutes for the cigarette to ignite the sheets. Ten to fifteen minutes in which Pamela Vale might have smelled smoke, felt the heat, woke up and stamped her foot on the cigarette and that would have been that. But the vodka would ignite instantly, at a much greater heat than a smoldering cigarette – enough to ignite the sheets – and because she's passed out she never has a chance.

It's the smoke, not the flames, that kills Pamela Vale.

Jack can picture her lying in bed, passed out drunk, her respiratory system working even though her mind has shut down, and that respiratory system just sucks in that smoke, and fills her lungs with it, until it's too late.

She suffocates on smoke while she's asleep.

Like a drunk choking on his own vomit.

So there's that small blessing for Pamela Vale. She literally never knew what hit her.

They had to scrape her off the springs, but she was dead before the intense heat merged her flesh into the metal. She never woke up, that's all. The fire broke out, her system inhaled a lethal dose of smoke, and then the fire – fueled by all her belongings and her home – became fast and hot and strong enough to melt the bed around her.

An accidental fire, an accidental death.

It's one of those cruel but kind ironies of a fatal house fire. Cruel in the sense that it chokes you with your own life. Takes those crucial physical things – your furniture, your sheets, your blankets, the paint on your walls, your clothes, your books, your papers, your photographs, all the intimate accumulations of a life, a marriage, a physical existence – and forces them down your throat and chokes you on them.

Most people who die in fires die from smoke inhalation. It's like lethal injection – no, more like the gas chamber, because it's really a gas, carbon monoxide, the old CO, that kills you – but in any case you'd prefer it to the electric chair.

The technical phrase in the fire biz is "CO asphyxiation."

It sounds cruel, but the kind part is that you'd sure as hell prefer it to burning at the stake.

So there it is, Jack thinks.

An accidental fire and an accidental death.

It all fits.

Except you have the sooty glass.

And flames from burning wood aren't blood red – they're yellow or orange.

And the smoke should be gray or brown – not black.

But then again, Jack thinks, these are the observations of an old man in bad light.

He carries Leo back to the car. Opens up the trunk and digs around until he finds an old Frisbee he left in there. Gets a bottle of water from out of the front seat and pours some into the Frisbee. Sets Leo down and the little dog goes right for the water.

Jack finds an old Killer Dana sweatshirt in the trunk and lays it on the passenger seat. Rolls the windows halfway down, figuring that it's early enough in the morning that the car won't get too hot, and then sits Leo down on the sweatshirt.

"Stay," Jack says, feeling kind of stupid. "Uhh, lie down."

Dog looks at Jack like he's relieved to be getting some kind of order and settles down into the sweatshirt.

"And don't, you know, do anything, okay?" Jack asks. Classic '66 Mustang, and Jack's spent hours refurbishing the interior.

Leo's tail whacks against the seat.

"What happened in there, Leo?" Jack says to the dog. "You know, don't you? So why don't you tell me?"

Leo looks up at him and wags his tail some more.

But doesn't say a word.

"That's okay," Jack says.

Jack deals with a lot of snitches. Seven years in the Sheriff's Department and twelve in insurance claims and you deal with a lot of snitches. One of the ironies of the game: you rely on snitches and at the same time you despise them.

Another plus for the dog column.

Dogs are stand-up guys.

They never snitch.

So Leo says nothing except for the fact that he's alive. Which sets off this sick little alarm in Jack's brain.

What Jack knows is that people will never burn the pooch.

They'll burn their houses, their clothing, their business, their papers – they'll even burn each other – but they'll never torch Fido. Every house fire Jack's ever worked that turned out to be arson, the dog was somewhere else.

But then again, Jack thinks, so were the people.

And Pamela Vale was good people.

Raising all that money to save the Strands.

So let it go.

He peels off the overalls and the rest of it.

The house inspection will have to wait for a little while.

You got two kids going through a divorce, then their mother dies and their house burns down. Better get them their dog.

Small consolation for a shitty deal.