Fire Engine Dead Page 18

  Gary shook his head. “I’ll take that in the spirit in which it was intended. We do tend to become rather attached to our collections, don’t we? A terrible thing,” he repeated.

  We observed a moment of silence, during which time our drinks appeared. Then I said tentatively, “I saw Jennifer there with him. He seems to be depending on her a lot these days.”

  “He’s been lucky to have her. He’s not a well man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and this dreadful event has hit him hard.” After Gary had taken a healthy swallow of his ale, he said, “So, what is it you want from me?”

  I took a deep breath. How far did I dare trust Gary O’Keefe? I didn’t know, but I was getting nowhere being tactful and oblique with my questions. “Cards on the table? As I said on the phone, since the last time we met the FBI has asked me to take a look at the fire and the destruction of your collection, from my perspective—inside the museum community. They still haven’t decided whether this fire was simply one of a string of arsons or it was a deliberate attempt to destroy what you had stored there, and of course the death of Allan Brigham makes it all the more critical to follow all avenues. I’ll admit that I don’t know your museum or your staff very well, so I was hoping you could give me some insights into the personalities and the interactions there?” That sounded sufficiently neutral, I hoped. We were closing in on two weeks since the fire and the death had occurred, and there was no solution in sight. “You of all people know exactly how many others knew where the collection was.” And knew how to start a fire, but I didn’t add that out loud.

  “I hope you’re not suggesting that I had a hand in it?” Gary said, his expression sober.

  I responded quickly. “Good heavens, no! Gary, most of us wish we had your kind of public profile. You’re one of the most visibly helpful people in the city. In fact, you’d probably have a good shot at winning an election for mayor.”

  He laughed and threw up his hands. “Heaven forbid! I can’t imagine trying to manage this city. I’m happy right where I am.”

  “You told me you were a firefighter, right?”

  “Once a firefighter, always a firefighter. I left the job because of an injury, but as you can see, I just couldn’t stay away, so I found myself a way to stay involved.”

  “From what I’ve read and heard from other people, the local firefighters are a very close-knit group.”

  He nodded. “That’s more than true. When you lay your life on the line to save people, it brings you together. The same could be said for the police, but at least in our case few people shoot at us. I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember the MOVE fiasco? That was, what, the mideighties?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know any details.” I would have been in grade school—how old did he think I was?

  “Not the city’s finest moment. The police moved in on a row house that was home to a militant liberation group, and they dropped a bomb on the roof. Then they wouldn’t allow the fire department to fight the fire that resulted, and eleven members from the house died. Worse, the fire spread and destroyed an entire city block. That was one time when the police and the fire department failed to work together. But in general our relations have been good.”

  “I can see that it must be a very intense experience. What can you tell me about arson and people who deliberately set fires?” I said carefully.

  Gary got a faraway look in his eye. “A fair question. Tell me, Nell, do you have a fireplace?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you use it?”

  “Now and then. Why?”

  He didn’t answer the question but asked, “When you do use it, why is that?”

  I had to think for a minute. I had in fact made a point of adding a working fireplace to my former carriage house, which hadn’t had one when I bought it. It had been an indulgence, but for some reason I hadn’t ever examined too closely, it had seemed like an essential part of any house. It spoke of home, as in hearth and home. “When I want to feel safe, I guess. Or during romantic moments.” I briefly thought of cuddling with someone in front of a cheerful blaze—something that hadn’t happened very often.

  “Ah, you’ve hit on something there. Fire has its fascination. When there’s a building burning, people are drawn to it. Maybe starting a fire gives the guy a feeling of power, or control. You have to admit it makes a very big statement, to destroy a building. In a way, the safety of the people who might be inside the building is a very minor part of the equation—well, save for us firefighters. Maybe that’s the difference: we put the lives first, and an arsonist doesn’t care. It’s all a mass of contradictions, isn’t it? The arsonist cares about the fire, not the people, but for the firefighters it’s the other way around.”

  “It is.” I hesitated before asking my next question, although Gary showed no reluctance to talk. “I’ve heard that there are cases in which a firefighter will set fires in order to make himself appear to be a hero. Are you familiar with that?”

  Gary straightened up in his seat. “I have no personal experience with that, but I can tell you that if he were discovered, his colleagues wouldn’t stand for it. Goodness knows there are plenty of opportunities to act the hero without manufacturing them.”

  “Is heroism part of it?”

  He looked down at his glass, swirling the liquid around. “I think we go into the job to do good, not to be heroes, but it seems to come with the territory.” He sat back and took a long pull of his drink. “I’m probably not explaining myself well, even though I’ve given this plenty of thought over the years. Let me put it this way: fire is an elemental force, for both good and bad. We firemen are charged with keeping it under control, but we respect it, its power. We don’t take kindly to those people who misuse it. Can you understand that?”

  “I think I do. Tell me, is there a profile of people who choose to join the fire department? Any particular personality type?”

  “I can tell you the obvious: we’re mostly big, strong, healthy guys who value good judgment and teamwork—you can’t fight a fire alone. Is that what you mean?”

  Although he might not know it, Gary’s passion came through loud and clear. “You mentioned health—I recall Peter saying at our lunch last week that his father was a firefighter but that he couldn’t follow in his footsteps because his medical problems wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I was surprised that he brought it up with you—he doesn’t talk about it much. I know it still eats him up. Of course he looked up to his father, and he’s never shaken the feeling that he disappointed him.”

  “You know, Gary, you’re quite the psychologist.”

  “I like people, and I pay attention to them. I love to talk about firefighting. That’s why I’m still at the museum, guiding tours, helping out anyone who wants to do research. It’s not for the money. I don’t know how I’d fill my days if it weren’t for this job. I’m not into playing golf or woodworking.”

  From all I’d seen and heard, I’d have to say that Gary was exactly what he appeared to be: a decent and open man who loved firefighting. Of course, he could be a skilled actor, and I wasn’t about to tip my hand, just in case. I’d give him one last chance to mention the fire engine, and I had to ask, “Tell me, Gary, what do you think happened?”

  “With the fire?” He shook his head sadly. “I’d hate to guess. The string of arsons in the city? It’s an awful thing, but it happens, now and then. It’s spring, right? That brings out something in people—a restlessness, an itch. The fires could be related. Or not. I’d really prefer to think it’s only one sick individual who’s behind them all.”

  I sensed some misgivings on his part. “And if they weren’t related, was the museum’s collection the target?”

  Gary shook his head. “I can’t for the life of me see why. What harm do we do?”

  “The watchman had been a firefighter. Could he have had a grudge?”

  “I knew him slightly. He was an angry man, felt he’d been
given a raw deal in life.”

  “By the fire department?” I asked. “Was he let go?”

  Gary hesitated before answering. Finally he said, “Yes. He had problems dealing with the stress, and he took to drinking too much. After awhile he couldn’t be trusted, so the department eased him out. I know what he was offered when he left the department, and it was fair. He was the only one who thought he deserved more. But I can’t see him doing something like this.”

  “Given his problems, would he have panicked when the fire started? And in his rush to escape, stumbled and hit his head?”

  Gary shrugged. “I’m not one to say. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”

  Another question occurred to me. “You know, I’m not sure I know the extent of the fire. Was the warehouse completely destroyed?”

  “No, our men reached it before it went too far.”

  I noted that once again he had identified himself with the current firefighters, despite the fact he hadn’t been part of the department for years. “Do you know where the fire began?”

  “The back end of the building, where it would be least likely to be observed. That was logical.”

  And careful, I added to myself. It showed planning. “And that just happened to be where the museum’s materials were stored?”

  Gary tilted his head at me, surprised. “You really think that the collections were the target?”

  Instead of answering, I asked, “You haven’t considered that?”

  “But why? I mean, it’s not as though there was much of value there, except to us. Sure, some old stuff, but there’s more of it around—we’ve already managed to replace a lot of it through donations. There was the fire engine, of course. That was a real loss to us.”

  Finally he’d brought it up. Tread carefully, Nell. “It was insured.”

  He nodded. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that someone destroyed it just so the museum could claim the insurance? It’s not enough to make it worthwhile. We get by financially. The renovations are mostly paid for, from outside sources, so it’s not like we needed the cash for that. There’s no good reason to destroy the collection…unless it was anger at the place.”

  He didn’t seem to know that the real fire engine hadn’t perished in the fire—or he wasn’t about to admit it to me. Interesting. “Why would anybody be angry at your museum? Disgruntled ex-employees?”

  “You’ve met us all, and we’re all still here. What do you think?”

  “I can’t see any of you doing this, but I don’t know you well. What about your board?”

  Gary sat back again and blew out a long breath. I waited. Finally he said, “I will not accuse any member of our board of a crime. After all, most of them are firefighters, or have been.”

  “But?”

  He avoided my eyes. “This is just between the two of us, but there are those on the board who think we’ve outlived our usefulness, that we’re just a drain on city funds.”

  Several reactions buzzed through my head, not very coherently. “But didn’t they just help out with the renovation?”

  Gary nodded. “They did—but of course the renovation was set in motion a couple of years ago. Things are different now, and pennies count.”

  “But surely what it costs them to support the Fireman’s Museum isn’t enough to make a difference to the city budget?”

  “It’s a matter of perception. You do recall that members of city government run for office? And there are candidates who want to be seen as proactive in slashing costs, especially these days. We’re an easy target. Of course, they could just cut our funds and tell us that we’d have to find our own way to replace them. Frankly, we wouldn’t last long.”

  Once again I was glad that the Society didn’t depend on the city’s support. But what Gary had said raised another issue: if someone within the museum feared a withdrawal of city funding, that might have been enough to make the insurance money look tempting. The museum’s operating expenses were low, and a check like that could sustain it for a year or two, long enough to let the economy recover, or the political climate at City Hall change, or to identify new funding sources. Great, now I had a whole set of motives—random, personal, and institutional. But it kept coming back to: who could have set the fire, or found someone who would do it?

  “Gary, I know this is hard, especially when you know so many of the people involved. And I don’t want to put anyone in a bad light, but we have to eliminate the possibility that someone wanted the collection destroyed. I know Peter has been very torn up about this. What about Jennifer?”

  “Jennifer? She’s a good woman. Her late husband was a firefighter, you know.”

  “I’d heard that he didn’t leave enough for her to get by.”

  He looked pained. Still, he answered, “Yes, and that’s one reason she’s working at the museum.”

  “How long ago did she start?”

  “Oh, five, six years now? Her husband had died a year or so earlier.” He smiled. “She’s indispensable at the museum—does just about everything.”

  And doesn’t get paid nearly enough for it, I added to myself. I wondered why Jennifer had put up with the lousy pay for five years now—couldn’t she have found a better job? I had to regretfully acknowledge that I had learned little from Gary, who had gone out of his way not to implicate anybody. I was out of questions, and it was getting late: time to wrap things up.

  “Gary, thank you for meeting with me, and for being so honest. I want you to know that everyone is working hard to lay this to rest. Will the museum be able to open on schedule?”

  “Most likely. The fire departments in the city and beyond have been scouring their back rooms and attics for old equipment and such—they’ve been extraordinarily generous. That lovely engine, now—she’ll be harder to replace.”

  “Where would you find one? Are there auctions for such things?” I asked. I honestly didn’t know.

  “Now and then they go on sale. But we couldn’t afford one at auction at any rate. This last one was donated, years ago. Still, we’ll manage. I hope I’ve been able to help you, Nell.”

  “You have, Gary. I appreciate it. And you let me know if there’s anything else I can do. There may be more information in our collections that would be useful to you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Are you all right for getting home?”

  “I can pick up my train just down the block. Good night, Gary.”

  Once I’d found myself a seat on the train, I had time to reflect on what Gary had said—or not said. All I had heard so far was how wonderful and noble and honest everybody even remotely involved was. Gary had even managed to avoid overly bad-mouthing Allan Brigham, even though he clearly knew of his flaws. Nobody closely associated with the museum had voluntarily brought up the question of theft; either they were brilliant at covering things up, or they were suspiciously ignorant. Or they were all working together. Or nobody was involved.

  And I was getting exactly nowhere.

  CHAPTER 21

  I did not relish going to work the next day. I felt a bit dirty, digging into the personal lives of my peers, even though it was for a good cause. Worse, I wasn’t coming up with anything useful. James had asked for my help, and I’d done my best to follow through, but I had discovered little that he couldn’t have found himself more quickly and efficiently. I wasn’t even sure this was a collections issue—or even a deliberate crime, beyond the unknown fire setter’s urge to destroy something.

  I was getting conflicting impressions from various people about why anyone became a firefighter, and why anyone would try to do their modest museum harm, directly or indirectly, individually or collectively. Certainly firefighting was an honorable profession and always had been throughout its long history—which had begun right here in Philadelphia. The tragic events of 9/11 had burned that image into the public’s vision. Firefighters were the good guys, committed to protecting and helping people, and nobody wanted to hear anything bad about them
—which made this investigation all the more difficult. There was always the chance that a few of them were danger junkies or were looking for some public adoration to boost their own self-esteem, but it was a long jump from that to burning down buildings and killing people.

  I had to wonder how many arsonists were eventually caught. Hadn’t Celia said that many arson crimes weren’t even reported? That meant that someone could have been building up toward a major event like this without leaving any sort of trail. I wanted to believe that if all these recent fire events were the work of one person, then he would at some point slip up or leave some crucial evidence and then be identified and caught. Five fires in less than a month. All set by the same person? Or had someone taken advantage of the flurry of destructive activity to conceal one very different fire?

  Gary had put his finger on some interesting aspects of the problem. There was no question that fire fascinated people, but obviously they responded in a variety of ways. Why, when I had always lived a modern suburban life, did I react on some primitive level to sitting in front of a fire in my own home? Why did it still have this almost magical appeal in this modern era, when we no longer depended on fire for heat and light?

  And how was I supposed to make sense of all this?

  In my office—before Eric, for once—I called James, who was also already in his own office, no surprise.

  “You have something?” he asked after we had exchanged basic hellos.

  “Not really. I talked to Gary O’Keefe last night.”

  “The curator? And?”

  “He seemed surprised that anyone could have wanted to target the museum’s collection. He couldn’t think of anyone who might have a grudge against the museum. He didn’t want to think that the night watchman had anything to do with it, although he said he thought the guy was a malcontent and had a beef against the fire department. He did hint that there was a rift in the board, between the ones who wanted to keep things going and the ones who wanted to see the museum quietly go away. He didn’t say a word about the possible swap of the fire engines. Have I added anything new to what you’ve got? One blessed, bleeping thing?”