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Becken's just minutes from Quebec City.

I'm Jean-Rendot Dicham, a Canadian travel content creator.

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After 30 minutes of listening to the man's charcoal-centred ramblings, my notepad was sparse with information.

Oven, gasoline, the egghead. The burnt man's frenzy babbling didn't give me much to go on in terms of how the fire actually started.

There wasn't any doubt over who was responsible for it. Jason Blomquist was rushed to the emergency care with third-degree burns before the blaze even hit his living room and gone out.

He had no prior convictions, but his father, a certain Alfred Blomquist, had spent the past two decades in a psychiatric ward up north for trying to paint his family house with gasoline.

I've served in the arson department for long enough to know that the need to start fires usually sages to the family tree.

Blomquist was thoroughly burnt and handcuffed to his hospital bed. His ravings didn't shed any light on the actual mechanics of the blaze,

but they would serve as an easy home run, any prosecutors straight out of law school.

I thank Blomquist for his time and made my way through the sickly smelling hall with his to the parking lot.

Beyond the shelter of the hospital, it was storming. It was the type of downpour that could slow down, perhaps even put out a barn fire.

For a couple minutes, I stood under the plastic roof and hid the quickest route over to my car.

Because I made my calculations, an old man in a bathroom and a walker made his way out of the hospital.

The old dialogue frail enough to have seen the steam engine get invented but he dragged his walker with a sort of regal authority.

He shuffled his way over to the no smoking side, defiantly glanced at it, and produced a crumpled up sigurillo out of his bathrobe.

I took out a cigarette and joined the old timer for some idle chitchat.

The sigurillo reaped with a horrible mix of vanilla and burnt hospital food.

When he shuffled his way back inside of the hospital, I told him I'd see him around.

Not likely, he roused just before the doors slid shut. The sprint of my car left me soaked out of breath, finding a steady drip of water on the case files I left on the seat that make me feel any better.

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