God, the smell of burning ash is the worst I have ever experienced.  A house had caught fire and I was called into it, since my house was a few blocks away.  I had been on the beat for 25 years, and had moved my way into the lead criminal investigator status.  I had been on arson for about 7 years, and it is the hardest case type to deal with.  It isnt vice, finding drugs is simple.  You find a lowlife, beat him into telling you his dealer, beat him to tell him HIS dealer, and so on until you reach the big dog.  Homicide is even easier.  With most murders being domestic or someone personal, aside from the average Zodiac you will be set.  But not arson.
Arson is almost impossible to tell who started it.  It is even harder to detect whether it was a crime or not.  With gas pipes being about as reliable as Daphne from Scooby-Doo, you have to rely on pure instincts, friend.   Hopefully the entire family lives and there are no casualities...but when there are....
I remember my first arson death.  The bodies were hideous.  To go into detail would be pushing the envelope farther than most civilians could handle.  Women, children, men, nature picks who it wants like a cheap magician and a stack of cards.
But this fire was still burning and, reluctantly, I decided to help.  There were no signs of anyone home but some bastards are heavy sleepers.  I busted the door down with a hankerchief in hand, calling out if anyone was still there.
It was a small home, two bedroom to be precise.  From what was not already on fire I noticed the furniture was tacky.  One bedroom was shut off, a few bars of wood had fallen in front of it.  I gave it a peep for old time'sake.
What I saw in there made me laugh and want to cry at the same time.  Some young broad was sleeping through it like a baby.  I sighed and threw myself into the room.  The bars were sturdy but so burned they broke pretty easily.  I ran over to her bed and shook her, trying to wake her. 
She gasped.  Her face turned from pure happiness to hell in about a second.  I couldn't blame her.  If my sin den was turning into a pile of Kingsford charcoal I'd be pretty upset to.
Enough with the introspection, I grabbed her tiny frame and rushed her out of the door.  The front door was fallen in, and I asked if there was another way out.  I was answered with a scream and some nonsense about her pictures.
"LADY! Your pictures are gone now! Everything is gone! Please, get yourself together for five seconds and we won't be dead!"
She nodded with tears falling from her eyes like a bad romance.  So childish, but I couldn't do anything to help except get her ass out of there.
She led the way to some pitiful screen door, and we busted out together. 
The fire chief was standing outside, smoking.
"Knew some broad was in there.  We had an informant come by and tell us it was her neighbors house, and they hadn't seem a girl named Amy all week.
I never talked to the firemen because well...they were idiots.  Most of them were fat and out of shape, a pure disgrace to the heroes I had encountered in my short years of the NYPD.
I had gathered my wits after a smoke break, and began looking for the pitiful girl.  She was laying in the ambulance with a blanket and some water.  Just like in the movies, with that little blanket.  I laughed.
I walked over and asked how she was doing. "Alright I guess.   You didnt have to save me you know."
"Yeah, I know." I replied.  It was true.  I didnt have to do much of anything anymore.  But being alone in a house with a bottle of whiskey and the only companion being said bottle, life got lonely.
"Detective, her arms.  Did you see them?" The EMT asked.
To be honest, I dont think anyone could have looked at her arms.  She was good looking, but Jesus, in the middle of a fire I dont care if youre Angelina Jolie.
It was sad.  Her arms were covered in very obvious needle holes.  The poor girl was an obvious dope addict, and to look at her face washed was another story.  She had short cut brown hair; thin, sad eyebrows and gray eyes.  She had a subtle jawbone and was a little scrawny.  Something about her reminded me of my old high school years.  Hell, more in fact.  An alcoholic introverts worst nightmare is always high school.  A social free-for-all, a brutally unhonest society where even the worst bullying goes unpunished.  Enough with the sores though.
"Got a place to stay?" I grumbled.  I knew the answer. 
"No."  I wondered why?  A heroin addict never has any friends.  They leech everything and everyone they ever loved using the drug.  I dealt with it all back in vice.  She needed a bath, 48 hours of detox and some new clothes.



                                                         -End of part one-