Down to the Needle

“The perp torched himself,” a fireman said, shouting to be heard over the clamor.

Angry red and orange flames from the still burning back half of the warehouse licked at the night sky. Glowing yellow embers, blown by April’s night breezes off the nearby ocean, took flight. Fire trucks encircled the building. Firefighters scrambled over strewn equipment. Men wearing army fatigues darted about. Two ambulances waited for the injured.

An officer cupped a hand around the side of his mouth and also yelled. “The perp’s inside?”

Abigail Fisher and Joe Arno nudged in closer to hear the conversation between firefighters and the police.

A fireman pointed to the front section of the building where the flames had been doused. “Burned himself into a corner.” He shook his head. “Still got the gas can in his hand.”

“How soon can we get in there?” the officer asked.

“You aren’t going to ID this one right away,” the fireman said. “He melted like wax.”