a complete loss,” Jake said as he sat in a chair facing the sheriff’s desk.
“Yeah, it is. Most of the time these fish camps like yours and hunting camps scattered across the county…when they catch fire, about all the volunteer firefighters can do is keep the surrounding woods from goin’ up. They can’t ever save the structures…but by golly, they give it their best.”
“I’m sure they did,” Jake replied.
“You ever see ’em respondin’ to a call?” Rosco loved to hear himself talk.
“Uh…no, sir, I haven’t.”
“It’s pretty amazin’. It doesn’t matter whether it’s rural Michigan or backwoods Alabama. Volunteer firefighters are a gung-ho bunch of folks. They live for that call, and they drop whatever they are doin’ and race to the fire. Hell, I’ve seen ’em race each other. I’m sure last night was no different,” the aging sheriff explained.
Jake guessed Sheriff Rosco was about sixty years old and close to retiring. He’d probably been in law enforcement his entire adult life. Except for the few extra pounds he was carrying around his waist, this guy could have been Bo Jackson’s twin brother.
“Yes, sir. I really appreciate them tryin’.”
“When I was a state trooper, stayin’ over in Elmore County, we gotta call one afternoon that a car had flipped into a ditch near the top of this really steep hill, right there in the toenails of the Blue Ridge Mountains. At any rate, the responders started comin’ from every direction, and they parked on the side of the road on both sides…and then this ambulance arrived and pulled to the side of the road and opened its side doors out into the middle of the road. Well, as soon as I got outta my cruiser, I could hear a fire truck coming up the hill on the other side, siren blaring and the engine straining. I checked on the guy in the ditch, and he was okay; he was just stuck upside down, and his seat belt wouldn’t release. By now there were twenty or more responders, all in full fire gear, tryin’ to get this poor bastard outta his car, when the fire truck topped the hill at full speed.”
Jake sat still, wondering why Rosco was telling this long story.
“That old fire truck was haulin’ about six thousand pounds of water alone, and when it topped that hill and the driver seen all those vehicles blockin’ the road, he stood on the brakes. That big old truck went to swayin’, and you could see the fear on the faces of the men. There wasn’t nothin’ to do but get the hell outta the way. We all took off running. The truck sideswiped every vehicle except mine and took the ambulance doors smooth off. They finally got the fire truck stopped about a half mile down the hill. I learned a valuable lesson that day: you don’t wanna get between the enthusiasm of volunteer firefighters and their jobs. They got some enthusiasm.”
“That’s an interesting story,” Jake said as he looked around the office at the old pictures.
“Awww, I get to tellin’ stories sometimes and forget what I’m doin’. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No problem.”
“Look, Mr. Crosby, you got any idea how that fire started?” Sheriff Blue asked, trying to catch Jake off guard.
“Please call me Jake, and no. I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven’t been out there in over a month. Could the wiring have gone bad? It’s pretty old.”
“How old?”
“Well, when I was just a kid, my dad rewired it himself, so about thirty years, I guess. It’s been added on to over the years. It wasn’t anything fancy.”
“Who’s yo’ daddy?”
“Robert Crosby. He worked as a production supervisor at Bryan Foods in West Point. Worked there about forty years.”
“Lots of folks worked there at one time or another.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sheriff Rosco Blue leaned back in his wooden chair and placed an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. “It’s kinda peculiar that it suddenly catches fire and burns to the ground. Got insurance on the
“Yeah, it is. Most of the time these fish camps like yours and hunting camps scattered across the county…when they catch fire, about all the volunteer firefighters can do is keep the surrounding woods from goin’ up. They can’t ever save the structures…but by golly, they give it their best.”
“I’m sure they did,” Jake replied.
“You ever see ’em respondin’ to a call?” Rosco loved to hear himself talk.
“Uh…no, sir, I haven’t.”
“It’s pretty amazin’. It doesn’t matter whether it’s rural Michigan or backwoods Alabama. Volunteer firefighters are a gung-ho bunch of folks. They live for that call, and they drop whatever they are doin’ and race to the fire. Hell, I’ve seen ’em race each other. I’m sure last night was no different,” the aging sheriff explained.
Jake guessed Sheriff Rosco was about sixty years old and close to retiring. He’d probably been in law enforcement his entire adult life. Except for the few extra pounds he was carrying around his waist, this guy could have been Bo Jackson’s twin brother.
“Yes, sir. I really appreciate them tryin’.”
“When I was a state trooper, stayin’ over in Elmore County, we gotta call one afternoon that a car had flipped into a ditch near the top of this really steep hill, right there in the toenails of the Blue Ridge Mountains. At any rate, the responders started comin’ from every direction, and they parked on the side of the road on both sides…and then this ambulance arrived and pulled to the side of the road and opened its side doors out into the middle of the road. Well, as soon as I got outta my cruiser, I could hear a fire truck coming up the hill on the other side, siren blaring and the engine straining. I checked on the guy in the ditch, and he was okay; he was just stuck upside down, and his seat belt wouldn’t release. By now there were twenty or more responders, all in full fire gear, tryin’ to get this poor bastard outta his car, when the fire truck topped the hill at full speed.”
Jake sat still, wondering why Rosco was telling this long story.
“That old fire truck was haulin’ about six thousand pounds of water alone, and when it topped that hill and the driver seen all those vehicles blockin’ the road, he stood on the brakes. That big old truck went to swayin’, and you could see the fear on the faces of the men. There wasn’t nothin’ to do but get the hell outta the way. We all took off running. The truck sideswiped every vehicle except mine and took the ambulance doors smooth off. They finally got the fire truck stopped about a half mile down the hill. I learned a valuable lesson that day: you don’t wanna get between the enthusiasm of volunteer firefighters and their jobs. They got some enthusiasm.”
“That’s an interesting story,” Jake said as he looked around the office at the old pictures.
“Awww, I get to tellin’ stories sometimes and forget what I’m doin’. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No problem.”
“Look, Mr. Crosby, you got any idea how that fire started?” Sheriff Blue asked, trying to catch Jake off guard.
“Please call me Jake, and no. I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven’t been out there in over a month. Could the wiring have gone bad? It’s pretty old.”
“How old?”
“Well, when I was just a kid, my dad rewired it himself, so about thirty years, I guess. It’s been added on to over the years. It wasn’t anything fancy.”
“Who’s yo’ daddy?”
“Robert Crosby. He worked as a production supervisor at Bryan Foods in West Point. Worked there about forty years.”
“Lots of folks worked there at one time or another.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sheriff Rosco Blue leaned back in his wooden chair and placed an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. “It’s kinda peculiar that it suddenly catches fire and burns to the ground. Got insurance on the
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