What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [13]
Ultimately, they weren’t really sure what to do with the fiery parking attendant, and since the guy didn’t seem to be about to die or anything, the firemen pronounced it to be, in their professional opinions, “some kind of Goddamn, fucked-up, super fire,” and just let him burn.
* * *
A late-model Ford careened across an athletic field, bumped and lurched over a sidewalk, and skidded to a halt in front of Georgetown’s main parking garage, scattering the crowd of students who’d managed to wrench themselves away from watching the conflagration at Healy Hall. The driver misjudged the distance though, and the car didn’t actually come to a stop until one wheel bounced up on top of the curb.
Agent Bob Robertson stepped out onto the sidewalk and scanned his environment over the top of his car door, taking in every detail, every mote of dust. It was a while though, before his eyes finally settled on the group of firefighters who stood in a circle, talking to the guy who was on fire. That kind of crap just didn’t surprise him anymore. He tweaked the lapels of his jacket, rolled his neck, and strode over to the newest group of weirdos.
The burning man appeared to have just said something funny, because most of the firemen were doubled over laughing, trying to catch their breath. Robertson paused to let the moment pass. He didn’t do funny.
“Detective?” Robertson said.
Detective Dan Schmidt turned from the fire show just in time to see an uptight-looking man in a ill-fitting suit bearing down on him. “Can I help you?” he said, putting his hands up. There were enough people from enough departments standing around already – and nobody was accomplishing much of anything.
“I’m agent Bob Robertson, FBI,” the stiff man said, holding up a badge.
“You guys investigate weird shit now too?” said Schmidt.
“That’s correct. Whaddya got?” He nodded at the burning man.
Schmidt paused for a moment, wondering if he’d missed something, but Robertson just stood and stared. “Well,” he said, “we got a guy,” he pointed to the parking attendant, who at that moment appeared to be imitating a bird, much to the amusement of the firefighters, “and he’s on fire.” Schmidt waved his hands up and down quickly in kind of a “he’s-on-fire” gesture.
“I see,” said Robertson. “How did this happen?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Robertson leveled a serious look at the detective.
Schmidt took the cue. “So, he said he was having an argument with some guy who’d managed to park here without a permit or something. Said the guy drove off in a huff and then all the sudden he’s on fire.”
“Odd,” said Robertson. “He doesn’t seem to be in much pain.” He pointed to the parking attendant who, for a guy on fire, seemed to be having a pretty good time.
“Well, he was kind of screaming and stuff when we showed up. And after we couldn’t put him out, the paramedics tossed him a handful of heavy-duty painkillers. He’s apparently not feelin’ too much right now,” he said, waving his elbow at Robertson in a conspiratorial-chicken-wing, “You know what I mean?” way. Robertson just stared. Schmidt cleared his throat and put his chicken wing away before continuing. “And anyway, you look real close, you can see his skin ain’t burnin’ or nothin’, so I don’t know, you know? It’s just ... weird.”
“Hmmm...” Robertson edged closer to the flames. This wasn’t the first incident recently where he’d been called in to investigate weird stuff involving fire. Not even close. Some kind of sick, pyromaniac fuck was definitely on the loose in Washington, D.C.
“Oh,” said Schmidt, “and apparently one of the elevators is all fucked up. Like