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the remaining features to know it was Thomas Nash. The figure was so very different from the man I had sat across from in my office that it didn’t seem possible that I was looking at something that had once been human. His arms were roasted into thin black sticks that crossed his chest as if he had been warding off a blow. The rest of his body was a mixture of black ash, charred tissue and bone, and melted lumps where his feet and shoes had been.
    I snapped. Overwhelming anger filled my body. I turned away from the grotesque figure on the gurney, wanting to destroy. The first thing I saw was a towering stack of garbage left on the curb by someone a few days before. I kicked the pile savagely with my right leg, hitting a metal trash can solidly enough to send it flying into the street. The stack of trash collapsed, sending cardboard boxes and plastic bags tumbling to the ground. I waded into the mess and began kicking each object methodically, only dimly aware that everyone else had backed off. I felt the weight of each container roll onto the top of my foot as I plowed through the pile of garbage, bent on destruction. I began to count each kick, moving faster and lifting harder, sending each bag soaring into the air so that it fell with a splat in the street, the plastic bursting as discarded cans and bottles skittered down the asphalt. I could hear myself cursing as if I stood at a distance from my own body, helpless to stop the attack.
    Maynard Pope waited quietly until I had reduced the pile of trash to debris. When I was done, I was breathing heavily and gasping for air. My lungs felt like all the smoke of the night before had gathered in a big choking ball and lodged in my throat. I had to get the taste of the fire out of my mouth. I bent over and coughed so violently that I finally threw up, losing the contents of my stomach on the edge of the grass and not giving a shit who saw it.
    When I was done heaving, I remained bent over, eyes closed, and rested myself with my hands propped on my knees. Something lly. Sometwet and cold touched my arm. I opened one eye tentatively. A narrow dark nose was in my line of vision, pointing obediently at the pool of vomit at my feet.
    I looked up to find Annie the accelerant dog bowed at attention, her front paws daintily crossed and her hindquarters thrust into the air as she pointed her nose at the pile at my feet. One of her two hundred and twenty-five million nose nerve endings had detected one of my three gin-and-tonics of the night before.
    Maynard Pope coughed and I met his eyes across the draped and thoroughly toasted carcass of Thomas Nash.
    “That’s him,” I told him glumly. “I’m sure it’s him.”
    For the rest of the morning, Annie and her owner moved through the fire scene, repeating the same ballet over and over: Annie would sniff a section of surface area, find a suspicious spot and freeze in a bowing position. Her owner would mark the spot with a small red flag and reward Annie with a treat from the pouch. As they moved on to another area of floor, a forensic fire specialist would come in behind them, carefully swabbing the area with a pad of gauze or carving out a section of the area where Annie had scored a hit. Each sample was placed in a small metal container that resembled a quart-size paint can, then the top was labeled according to a grid code. The process repeated itself again and again as Annie sniffed out suspicious substances beneath the ashes. The dog was finding plenty of hits. In fact, she was bobbing up and down more than a bunch of Dallas socialites kissing Fergie’s ass.
    After a while, Annie was hoisted into the basement using a canvas sling that caused her legs to splay out to the sides. She endured this treatment cheerfully, the consummate professional, her ears perked high and her tail wagging as she disappeared from my sight.
    I knew she’d be a long time in the basement. As I waited for the dog to finish, I leaned against a telephone