Justice

         The gnarly, lumpy branches shriveled from the flames, burning away, and twigs breaking off and collapsing to the ground.  These twigs held their fire and the blaze spread , blackening grass and causing it to collapse under its own weight.  The fire danced brightly along the ground, its crackling rising into the air with the same sickening sound as the burning flesh in the tree.
         The corpse’s feeble grip slackened, and the body thudded to the ground.  That was when Eric heard it.  He immediately abandoned the trail.  The packed dirt path gave way into thistles to his left, then went into the burning clearing.
         He saw the fire and his hand reached for the radio hanging at his belt.  He pressed the TALK button, his hands shaking.  “We’ve got a problem,” he said, just before his hand loosened its grip.  He stumbled, coughing, his lungs filling with the noxious smoke.
         A flame rose.  Eric’s grip tightened involuntarily and his thumb pressed the button.  Static crackled briefly before Eric screamed, a terrible, hideous scream which shook the earth.  He dropped the shiny black object to the ground before him, its antennae denting itself on a sharp rock.
*
         The police had apparently found some urgent reason that they needed to speak with me.  I had had my phone turned off, but it began to ring anyway – perhaps I had accidentally sat on the power button.  Either way, the phone rang just as I swallowed another mouthful of lo mein.  I dropped my fork and picked up the phone, saying, “I turned the cursed thing off, so this had better be good!”  voices argued on the other side of the line, until finally the phone on the other end switched hands and the sherrif spoke.  “We have a report of two deaths during yesterday’s fire,” he said.  “A pair of burned bodies were found and we don’t know where they came from, but one of them was a park ranger.”
         There was a brief pause as what had just been said sunk in, and I understood.  I wasn’t actually being suspected, in fact, they wanted me to help investigate.  Me, barely out of college!  Then I heard him continue: “I thought you might want to help the professor in his investigation.”
         My head hit my hand.  He was talking about Professor Witskelkly, a most detestable figure who had briefly taught anthropology at my school.  He quit, but still had his P.h.D and was usually referred to as professor.  “Fine,” I snarled, determined to show the Sherriff – and Witskelkly – what I knew about my trade and what I could do to help.  If they wouldn’t accept me as capable themselves, I would force them to.  I had never liked that professor anyway.  No one had, really, and that was mainly why he quit.
         The taxi driver cost me five dollars and took about ten minutes.  After I got out, I saw two police waiting outside the door.  They stopped me for a moment, and then let me pass, but I saw the way they looked at me.  Just ignoring them rather than bothering with their foolishness, I kept walking.  The doors slid open as I neared them.
         I was immediately met by the gruff professor who glared down at me with disapproval from the 6.5-foot elevation at which his head could be found.  A pair of metal tables supported two scorched, misshapen masses that could barely be recognized as corpses.  They had a vaguely human structure, even though it was hardly recognizable.
         “Who?”
         For a moment I didn’t realize the professor had spoken, and his frown bent still lower than it already had been.  I nodded and walked over to the table.  Within the first body there was a glint of metal.  I pulled latex gloves from a box nearby.  Putting them on and putting on a grimace, I parted the ribcage of the first body.  The scorched flesh fell away easily, and I grabbed onto the glinting object, burned organs rubbing against my hands.
         A nametag came out.  “Eric Jones,” I read, dropping it next to the corpse.  “Someone bag this.”  The others in the room looked slightly embarrassed that they hadn’t noticed, but as before I just ignored them.  They were already running a background check on Eric.
         I turned to the other corpse.  No name.  his hands were clenched and his mouth was spread out in a silent scream.  I undid the grip and noted his awareness of the fact that he had a chance to escape.  But, he had clung to the tree as if it was his life.  That was why he had died.  The nearby sheriff walked over to where I was.  I just looked up and said simply, “I don’t know.
*
         The next morning at 6 A.M. I arrived at the place where the deaths had happened and pulled the tape up above my head, then stepped forward.  A detective walked up to me with an evidence bag.  I took it and walked over to the scorched tree.  The metal lighter in the bag had ruptured and its fluid ran down the branch where the second corpses’s fingers had grabbed, seeking purchase that it believed would grant it continued life.  There was a scorch mark along the stream of lighter fluid.  I turned the evidence bag around to examine it.  A burnt tag stuck to the bottom.
         “Serial number?” I ventured to inquire.  I didn’t know whether or not to bother trying to decipher the scorched paper, because I couldn’t tell whether particular numbers were actually others.  I gave the evidence bag back to the detective who had handed it over and thanked him for the help.
         That afternoon was spent in the office.  There were several people printing out Eric’s data file, but my focus was on the corpses.  I still could not recognize the second one, but the others were hard at work, trying to find out what the serial number was.  Perhaps it was an impossible task, but without the number I would have to revisit the scene in order to have any hope of finding more evidence.  It was entirely likely that there was no more.  I eventually retired for the night, stopping by a gas station to fill up the car.  When I got home, I fell asleep quickly.  Waking up I realized that it was 9 AM.  I had to hurry or I would be late.
         As I grabbed my keys, locked the door behind me and rushed to the car, I realized that the rain was coming down in sheets and torrents.  It pattered against the rooftop, violently striking my head with enough force to hurt.  I responded to this with a fury of my own, running faster than I ever had until I was inside my car and the door was closed.  It was a strange feeling once I was there, looking out at the storm though none of it affected me.  The heavy rain hit my car’s metal roof.  I sighed, turned the key, and set the shift to reverse.
         Pulling out on to the road, I turned to the east and watched the office grow closer by the second.  The sight of something in the distance billowing up stopped me.  I grew closer to the noise and saw the scarlet tongues of flame flickering upward.  A scream pierced the early morning.  The rain was beating back the fire and it was slowly winning, but that scream… it had been stifled.  I groped for my phone.
*
         “Another lighter,” the officer said simply, throwing it to me.  I quickly bagged it and tossed it back.  The small device still had a tag that the arson hadn’t removed.  An hour later, we were at a local shop that sold miscellaneous items (the good stuff, it was called).  A bell rang as we entered, suspended by red yarn so that it hung in front of the door, announcing our presence.  The shopkeeper had been making some kind of record, typing on the laptop on his desk.
         He turned and groaned when I showed him my search warrant.  “What do you need?” he asked.  “Do I have something illegal?”  his voice was high, considering his other characteristics.  I showed him the lighter and told him that he sold it, then informed him of the arson that had been committed through its use.  His eyes widened slightly.
         “That?”  he looked extremely shocked to see it.  “I’ve sold a lot just like that, but only one today.”  He walked over to the computer, pressed a few keys, then came back with a printed record.  I thanked him, stapled it, and put it in the file.  “Ron Reydges,” he said as I turned to leave.  “He’s the one that bought it.”
         I had the case file with me, so I put the record in the file then drove back to the office.  As I drove, I saw a twisted tree.  Entering the building, I retrieved the file and immediately left, ignoring the stuttering sherriff.  The car was still idling in the road, and I pulled the side door open, crawled across the shotgun seat and took my place in front of the steering wheel.  Stepping on the gas I drove as quickly as I was allowed to over to Reydeges’s residence.  I knocked soundly upon the door and the door swung open.  Reydges leveled a pistol at my neck, his hands shaking, his electric green eyes narrowed.  I took a step back.  He reached forward in response and grabbed me by the arm.  I was yanked into the house.
         A makeshift set of manacles, really some knotted fabric, found its way around my arms.  I stumbled forward, letting out a muffled screech.  He pushed me through the entry room into an open closet – wood, probably pine, with black paint and a smooth finish.  The doors closed and locked behind me, the sound of the key the last thing I heard for over an hour.  Then the door slammed.  I heard my phone ring only seconds later, and answered in a hoarse whisper, “I’m locked in Reydges’s house.”
         “Where?” asked the Sherrif when the long pause that followed my unconventional greeting had ended.  I told him, and started to speak again, but the other end hung up.  I sat in the darkness until the key went into the lock again.  The door flew open and a knife dove in, striking me shoulder and driving me back against the wall.  Excruciating pain shot through me and I looked up at him and spoke. “You killed three people.  You burned down a large section of forest.”  Grunting in pain I drew my gun and raised it towards him.  The tranq dart hit him in the chin and he stood there for a moment, then the sleeping chemical began to do its work.
         Before he hit the floor the door burst in and a bullet caught him by the side.  He fell, not only unconscious but dead with blood blossoming over his clothes, a bullet cracking his ribs in several places.  I looked towards the sherrif.  He had a look of fury on his face.  The fool thought that Ron deserved to die without even a trial.  He hadn’t even let the man speak.  I glared in his direction and stood up.  It took only a few minutes to wash away the blood and bandage my wounds, but I never forgave the officer for his cruel, rash, foolish actions.  He was never convicted for the murder that should have gotten him locked up.  He was just as much in the wrong as Reydges.
         How I hated him.