Alan Russell - Burning Man

Wetting my lips, I started whistling an off-key rendition of “Wichita Lineman.” I was whistling in the dark, while the wind was pushing hard and making all sorts of shadows jump. It struck me that maybe I should have packed a crucifix and a silver bullet.

Sirius whined. He always senses when my moods turn dark. Or maybe he didn’t like the plaintive tune I was whistling. I was no Glen Campbell, but the wire he sang of was out there. I could hear its rattled threats.

We reached the end of the cul-de-sac. There was a gated entry to Miller’s driveway and house. From what I could see, a chain-link fence stretched along the perimeter of the property.

“End of the road,” I said to Sirius.

My partner’s ears went up and he eagerly made circles in the backseat. He was ready to get moving. I didn’t quite share his enthusiasm. All around us was the beginning of a bad horror story: it was a dark and stormy night, or at least a blustery night. The gusts were hitting my parked car with such force it felt as if I had a case of delirium tremens.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I told Sirius. “It’s a good thing you’re a dog.”

We got out of the car. As we started our walk toward the fence I was greeted by the smell and sight of smoke. I still couldn’t see or hear the fire, but its presence couldn’t be ignored, and I had to fight the instinct to flee. The entry to the house was set back about seventy-five yards from a wrought-iron fence. From inside the house I could just make out a tiny, flickering orange glow.

It was possible the house was on fire, but it was more likely that I was seeing the reflection of a candle. Still, I took the light as an invitation to proceed. If questioned, I would say it was probable cause for me to enter Miller’s property. Someone had to play the role of Smokey the Bear.

I eyed the wrought-iron fence, and the best point of entry, and thought about leaving Sirius behind. He must have read my mind, because he started pacing and whining.

“It’s better if you stay,” I said. “You smell what’s in the air? There’s a fire and I think it’s getting closer.”

Sirius positioned himself between me and the fence. He was determined not to be left behind.

“Anyone ever tell you how stubborn you are?” I muttered.

My partner knew I was posing. I was glad he was with me, and the two of us went in search of a way to get him inside. The wrought-iron fence extended all along the front of the house, but the rest of the property line was set off by chain-link fencing. We looked for a chink in the chain link, and along the south side of the house found some give in a section passing over a small gully. I lifted up the fence from the bottom, clearing enough space for Sirius to shimmy under. He took the low road and I took the high, climbing up the six-foot fence and then hoisting myself over. The wind was blowing from the north to the east and played havoc with my dismount, dropping me to the ground like a winged bird. Luckily, I didn’t hit one of the many landmines-cacti that made up most of the front landscaping. With the flashlight and moonlight, I avoided the cacti. Sirius used his dog radar, moving in and out of the needled obstacles. We made it to the pathway and walked toward the house. I still wasn’t sure how to best approach Miller. My little voice was no longer talking to me.

At the front of the house was the window where I’d seen the glowing reflection from inside. I put my hands up to the window and looked in. A single candle was lit at the dining room table. Sitting at that table in a low chair was Dave Miller. I wasn’t sure if he could see me in the shadows, but he seemed to be looking my way. Because I saw no point in hiding, I raised my hand and rapped on the window. Miller didn’t respond. It was possible he thought the sound was only the wind, so I tapped the pane even harder. Still he didn’t rise or motion but just continued to sit.

Drawing my gun, I walked to the front door and knocked hard enough to be heard even over the noise of the wind. I took cover at the side of the house, waiting to see if Miller responded to my knocks. Paul Klein had died from a gunshot wound to the eye, and I had to assume Miller was still armed.

When Miller didn’t come to the door, I retraced my steps to the front window and again looked inside. He hadn’t moved, so I once more waved and knocked to get his attention, but he ignored me. I was forced to again return to the front door. I expected it to be locked, but the handle turned and I swung the door open.

I shouted so as to be heard over the wind: “Mr. Miller? I’m Detective Gideon. We talked the other day.”

He didn’t respond. A heavy scent of paint fumes pervaded the house, and I wondered if those fumes had gone to Miller’s head.

“May I come in, Mr. Miller? We need to talk.”

Miller still didn’t answer. I entered the house, doing the kind of peek-a-boo with my head and gun that you see fake cops do on television, but without their panache. Miller wasn’t waiting for me with a gun. In fact, when I stepped into his sight, he barely gave me a glance.

By that time my eyes were watering. It wasn’t only paint fumes in the air. There were multiple scents of varnish, solvents, and cleaners. There was just enough light that I could make out several drop cloths in the living room. A ladder was in the middle of the room and next to it was a work bench with paint.

Miller broke his silence. “You and your dog need to leave,” he said. His words were slow and slightly slurred. An opened vodka bottle sitting at the table might have had something to do with that.

“We’ll do that, but we’ll need you to come with us. There are some questions I have to ask you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I didn’t like the vibe I was getting. I didn’t like the fumes in the air.

“I am not asking. Mr. Miller, you are under arrest.”

He interrupted me before I could finish and read him his Miranda rights. His hand was poised near the candle. “There’s furniture stripper on the table. You really don’t want this candle to fall over.”

I could see-and smell-the puddle of furniture stripper on the table. Miller’s eyes were glassy, but his hand was uncomfortably close to the candle. There was no way I could get to him without his knocking the candle over first.

“I don’t want to have to use force, Mr. Miller.”

“If you shoot me,” he said, slurring his words, “you’ll set off the fumes. You shoot me, you shoot yourself.”

I edged forward as I continued talking. “I’m putting away my gun. See? Why don’t you let me open a window and then we can talk.”

“No,” he said, running his finger just above the flickering candle. “You and your dog get out.”

“Is it all right if I sit down? All I want to do is talk to you.”

I moved toward the table, not waiting for his answer. Even though he was impaired, Miller was still watchful.

“That’s close enough,” he said. “And keep your dog back.”

I made a hand gesture to Sirius, and he backed off several steps while I took a seat at the far end of the table.

Through blurry eyes, Miller regarded me. “Why couldn’t you have waited for just a few more minutes?”

“What happens then?”

“You have eyes, don’t you?”

He motioned with his head to the window behind him. The fire was no longer hiding from me. A long line of flames was now lighting the sky. My heart started pounding and I had to control my voice.

“We all need to get out of here,” I said. “With the way the wind’s blowing, that fire will be on us any minute now.”

“I’m here for the show.”

My eyes went from Miller to what was coming our way. My throat tightened. The fire was still a ways off, but it wasn’t far enough away. The flames were being pushed by gusting winds. The inferno was growing.