By Brian A. Dixon
Since the arrival of Engine 26, Girard Avenue Northeast had descended into chaos. Beyond the hulking pumper and unraveling hoses, onlookers had gathered at the perimeter established by the DCFD to watch the Brentwood colonial burn. Justine Buchowski was rounding out her initial site survey, jotting down the essential details in her rumpled pocket notepad, when she caught sight of a bellowing Battalion Chief Feeney—cheeks puffed, face fire-engine red. It took a moment for her to realize that she was the one he was shouting at.
“Where the hell is he? The structure’s fully involved, and there’s at least one man inside. Don’t you understand how this works? The two of you are arson investigators. The scene is yours after I put it out, not before. Get him clear!”
Buchowski turned on her heels in the roadway slush and hopped over a hose line to march past the Search and Rescue squad donning their Scott air packs for a push into the two-alarm blaze.
Spotting the blue wool cap stretched tight across his tangle of gray hair, she found Dick Byrne crouching in the snow on the west side. The arson investigator was surrounded by a crisscrossed trail of footprints leading to a hatch in the brick foundation. His pale face was impassive, clouds of his breath winding like smoke from his weathered lips as he watched a nearby spigot. Water dripped steadily from its mouth.
“We need to clear the scene.”
“Whisht!” he hissed, his rough Scottish brogue demanding quiet.
Buchowski sighed. Then, she heard it. Below the clamor of nearby firefighters, she could make out something unexpected—a throaty rumble that seemed to come from beneath the house. “What is that? An engine?”
“Generator. Who’s home?”
“Frank Montalto, the homeowner. Returned from a business trip today. His brother Matteo came to meet him and called in the fire. Come on. We need to move. Search and Rescue is going in.”
Byrne cocked his head toward her. “What did you see during your site survey?”
“Dick, we don’t have time for this!”
“Bosh. How often are we able to observe a scene before the fire has finished? Evidence is being destroyed before our very eyes.”
He was right, of course. Retrieving her notepad, Buchowski began to read her observations aloud: “We have three sets of footprints in the snow here on the bravo side. No signs of uncontrolled heat loss on the roof. Windows are intact, blinds closed. This tells me that if Montalto is in there, he hasn’t made any attempt to escape.”
Looking up, she saw the exhaust vent for the furnace and, reaching down, felt that it was ice cold.
The hidden generator rumbled on.
Byrne stiffly raised an arm and pointed. At least twenty-five feet away there was a second spigot in the foundation. Visibly distinct from the tap that he had been monitoring, this one was frozen solid, a glistening six-inch icicle protruding from its mouth.
Buchowski looked again to the dripping faucet close at hand. “That’s strange. All other exterior faucets are…”
Leaning over, she reached out to test the handle.
With a speed and strength that belied his arthritic frame, Byrne’s hand snapped out and grabbed hold of her wrist. He held it fast, so firmly that she could feel pain in her fingers. Measured, deliberate, he asked her, “Have you ever had to thaw frozen pipes?”
Buchowski was stunned and could only shake her head.
“Step away,” he commanded, “and follow me.”
Byrne rose then bolted for the staging area, Buchowski struggling to keep up. Rounding the corner of the house, they heard a splintering crash as the Search and Rescue squad burst through the front door. Buchowski caught a bright flicker of yellow flames amid the clouds of bitter smoke. Ahead, Chief Feeney was puffing up his chest.
Byrne beat him to it. “Pull back!” he screamed, voice shrill. Buchowski had never heard him cry with such horror.
Feeney gaped, obviously not comprehending. Their mad sprint ended as they reached the rear deck of Engine 26.
“Montalto is dead,” Byrne said between gasps. “Your men are in danger. The water pipes in the house have been electrified. Kitchen, bathroom, appliances—everything within the closed circuit is charged with two hundred and forty volts.”
Feeney stared, frozen. It lasted only a moment. Then he was roaring into the mic at his shoulder: “Evacuate! Repeat, evacuate! No one enters the structure until the electric crew from PEPCO clears it.”
They waited in tense silence, watching the gaping threshold breathe fire. It wasn’t until the leader of the Search and Rescue squad emerged from the billowing smoke, arms thrown wide to question the chief, that Buchowski realized she had been holding her breath.
Byrne grabbed a knurled handhold and pulled himself up onto the rear step of the apparatus for a better view of the crowd. “Thawing frozen pipes involves electrifying water lines,” he explained, “but no one in their right mind would use a generator to energize a house in this way. I think Montalto was murdered. His brother made the call?”
“From his cellphone,” Feeney answered. “Told the dispatcher the house was already involved.”
“Detain him. There are going to be questions. And chief, have your photographer make a pass on the bravo side yard. Frank Montalto was wearing brogues when he arrived home, entering through the front. There are three sets of impressions by the basement hatch. Someone was in his basement before he returned.”
“Three?”
Byrne stomped on the diamond plate. “They were made by me and Buchowski as she performed that all-important site survey. Have the set made by a pair of work boots photographed before any of your men muck them up. Snow is not the ideal medium for preserving forensic evidence.”
Buchowski followed his stare, persistent and pitiless, to find Matteo Montalto sitting in the back of a nearby ambulance, a blanket over his shoulders and an oxygen mask held performatively to his face. He was wearing a pair of wet Timberlands.
As Byrne jumped from the back of the rig and landed hard on his rubber boots, slush splashing across the pavement, Buchowski felt as if she had been granted a glimpse of the retired firefighter’s glory days.
“What sharp little eyes you have,” he growled in approval.
She smiled at him and, with his smoldering green eyes, he smiled back.
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Gripping read! Byrne and Bush are a great duo. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Luca!
Great quick read first thing in the morning! Technically accurate explanations enhanced story for better comprehension.
In a detective story, the details matter! I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Bernice.
The smile on Buchowski’s face is suddenly replaced by horror “BYNRE! Your eyes are smoldering!!” She grabs a hose and blast him in the face with a flood of water.
Haha! That ending’s for the Wacky Wednesday edit.
The dynamic between Buchowski and Byrne is engaging, and the reveal of the electrified water lines is clever and well set‑up through subtle clues. Congratulations on a smart, gripping, and highly immersive piece!
Thank you, Sarah!