Page 55 of Flint’s Strike

Eliot

I sit in my truck for a full five minutes, windows down, listening to the scene.

The building’s new construction—or was. A mixed-use retail strip, six storefronts in a row. The kind of thing going up all over Mueller as the neighborhood fills in. Three of the glass doors are gone, frames warped, the storefronts behind them gutted. The two units at the very end are mostly intact—though they’ll never be occupied. Not now.

Smoke damage runs up the exterior, dark tongues of soot extending from where most of the large, glass windows used to be.

The heat’s worse here than at the Ranger station. Radiant warmth comes off the concrete in waves. Wet char and a faint chemical tang hit the back of my throat as I ease myself out of the truck, giving my knee a moment to remember what walking feels like.

I work through the protective gear methodically. Coveralls, hard hat, safety goggles, leather gloves over nitrile, respirator. By the time I’m done, my back is soaked with sweat.

A tall, older man, the only one in a captain’s helmet, breaks away from a cluster of AFD personnel near one of the ladder trucks and hustles over to me.

“Flint?” he asks.

“Yup.” I show him my credentials. “You the incident commander?”

He pulls off his helmet and wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist. Deep creases around his eyes are lined with soot, and he carries himself with a weariness I remember all too well. “Captain Okafor with the one-four. We were first on scene. The call came in a few minutes after nine a.m. By the time we got here, it was fully involved. Finally got it knocked down at ten thirty.”

“What about the fatalities?”

Okafor’s jaw tightens. “My crew found them in Unit B. They were right up against the emergency exit door at the back of the building.”

Fuck.

If they were at the door, why didn’t they escape? Smoke inhalation kills faster than people think, but the victims still should’ve gotten out.

“That’s…”

He nods. “Twenty-two years, and this job can still surprise me.”

I gesture to the Medical Examiner’s van parked at the corner. “Any idea how much longer the ME’s gonna be?”

“Any minute now. We’ve kept the northeast corner secured,” Okafor says.

Hefting my gear bag, I grit my teeth as the skin across my torso pulls taut. “Anyone else been inside?”

“Two of my investigators. But they’re out now. I’ve got one firefighter doing a final stability check—Martez—she’ll be out in five. After that, the scene’s yours.”

I shake the captain’s hand, then head for the building. “Flint?” Okafor calls, his voice strained. “Somethin’ about this ain’t sittin’ right. When you figure it out…will you call me?”

I turn, holding his gaze for a beat. “Count on it.”

A full circuit of the exterior takes me twenty minutes. The east face took the heaviest damage, while the west is almost pristine. At the back of the building, two of the steel doors are propped open—likely by one of the crews on scene. Not the one to Unit B. I take a couple of close-up shots of the hardware on the door in question. Exterior hinges look fine. The lock’s intact. So why didn’t they get out?

Martez is standing outside Unit C when I return to the front of the building. She’s young. Mid-twenties. Has the same look in her eyes Zack always got after a bad fire. Like a tiny crack in her innocence just got wider.

“Cap said you’d want to hear my report, sir.” She straightens her shoulders and waits for me to nod. “The ceiling assembly in the northeast corner failed. There’s a twelve-foot gap in the firewall along the ceiling.”

Well, shit.

“What about the suppression system?” I’m already calculating how long it’ll take Parker and Nate to figure out who inspected this building.

“It discharged. But it didn’t do much in the northeast corner.” She pulls off her helmet, red hair secured in a tight bun. “Watch yourself near the back wall. Debris from the ceiling collapse is pretty thick.”

“Will do. Thanks.” I adjust my respirator, double-checking the fit one last time before I step into the crime scene.

A quick glance up the street confirms the medical examiner’s gone. It’s a small relief, but one I don’t take for granted. Too many bodies in my past I’ll never be able to forget.