Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
By the time Eric got to work at a quarter of eleven, most of the firefighters from within fifteen miles were there. Every one of the timber frame buildings was engulfed in flames, and the occasional explosion rocked the night whenever the fire sought out a hidden chemical cache. Local residents stood in their yards with garden hoses, wetting down their homes against the flaming debris that were ejected by explosions or carried by updrafts. The firefighters played their hoses over the blaze with no real effect, knowing the fire would have to burn itself out. Intelligent deployment of resources along with the vigilance of the homeowners prevented any serious damage to the surrounding neighborhood.
After a few minutes of standing and staring like a tourist, Eric finally remembered his job, and that there was second shift guard, Anthony. He talked his way through the police barricades and tried to find out who was in charge. The fire chief coordinating the efforts of the various companies interrupted himself mid-sentence when he heard that someone might have information about the missing guard. The policemen, who often used Wilkins as a port-a-potty, had already informed him that it was a guarded facility.
"How did it start?" he interrogated Eric.
"I just got here, sir," Eric replied, "My shift starts at eleven."
"Well, where's the guy you relieve?" the chief asked in exasperation, looking around the immediate area. "He never even called it in. We don't know if he's inside, or drinking in a bar." The chief looked at Eric's uniform shirt in disgust. "Axle. Tell me the truth son. Are you boys always here when you're supposed to be, or is this one of those punch in and come back in seven hours posts."
"There's always someone here, sir. We have routine spot checks by supervisors." That wasn't completely true, unless routine was stretched to mean once a year during the holidays, but he felt a twinge of loyalty to his employer. "We always park right in front of the door there," he pointed, "So maybe he drove to a pay phone or something."
"More likely he got on the highway and kept on going," the chief grunted. "Give my Lieutenant all the information you have and we'll have the police start looking for him." They all stepped back in the face of another blast of hot air, and the chief muttered, "It's going to be a long, long night."
The fire department lieutenant and the police supervisor led Eric to a parked cruiser, where they pumped him for information about Anthony and the other Axle guards who worked the post. They didn't act suspicious in anyway, but the police supervisor, after taking Eric's personal information and checking his ID, told him not to plan any out of town vacations in the near future. Eric assured them that he was a full time student. The policeman finally escorted him back out of the operations area, and told him to go home. Instead he took a grandstand seat on the hood of his car.
Around two in the morning, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to see Colin. He looked relieved.
"Jesus, am I glad to see you," Colin said. "You can see the flames all the way from the mountain in Holyoke. I swear I knew it was Wilkins from the first flicker."
"Fire started around ten-thirty," Eric said, knowing Colin would want the details. "One of the old hardwired alarms to the fire station alerted them. The second shift guard never called it in. He's disappeared."
"You mean, missing?" Colin tilted his head at the fire.
"No, his car wasn't here when I arrived, and none of the firemen remember seeing it either." Eric shook his head in wonder. "The chief said that half the place was already burning when they got here, and the rest caught within the next few minute. Apparently the flames tunneled through the connecting passages and got spread by burning oil. There have been a lot of explosions too. The chief said it reminded him of seeing a fuel dump go up in Korea."
"He might have been pretty close to the truth, Eric. I just developed those pictures from yesterday this evening, and I was going to stop by after my date with Susan." He motioned Eric away from the fire, to his car. On the front dashboard was a stiff manila envelope. "I wish I'd used faster film, or black and white," Colin said, "The detail might have been a lot better." He pulled out an eight by ten color photo, extremely dim and poorly focused. "I got unlucky with the auto focus too," he added. "It looks like it focused on near field for some reason, but all that stuff must have been at least twenty feet from the camera."
Eric studied the photo with the adjustable map light that pointed down from the visor. "It looks like dozens of drums," he said , "Hundreds, maybe. And what's all that other junk? It looks like the Halloween leaf bags from before the city went to paper only."
"The hue is all screwed up," Colin answered, "But I think that those are hazardous material bags. I've seen a lot of them researching this story."
"So Wilkins was using the place for a dump before they pulled out," Eric said bitterly. "What a bunch of assholes. Where was that picture from anyway."
"It was the last one on the roll. I remember I took it through a gap next to an overhead door, at an isolated building out near where I was looking for the underground tanks that time."
"Fourteen building, are you sure?" Eric sounded surprised.
"How am I supposed to know the numbers," Colin retorted. "I guess I could check those blueprints from I got from Hardwick's office. It was the square building with the concrete loading dock, sitting all alone in the parking lot."
"That's Fourteen," Eric confirmed, "It's not part of the round."
"Of course not," Colin interjected, "You would have know the stuff was there, otherwise."
"I've been in that building," Eric said slowly, in a low voice, "And it was completely empty. Not a stick of furniture or anything. I remember how bare it looked because it's one of the few buildings with a poured slab, instead of wood brick."
"How long ago," Colin's voice was excited, "Do you remember the last time you went in?"
"After Wilkins pulled out," he responded evenly, "I'm sure of it. I always get real tired for a while when the sun comes up, so I used to spend like an hour a morning wandering through the place. I figured that photo was from one of the cellars, or behind a sealed off wall or something. I know I went through everywhere else, and that is a concrete floor," he finished, squinting at the photograph.
Colin let out his breath and clicked his tongue. "This could be big, Eric, I mean like a crime crime, you know what I mean?"
"Sure." Eric was lost in his own thoughts, trying to figure out what was going on. Maybe one of the weekend guys, he was thinking. From the rise that Colin was parked on, he tried to make out where Fourteen was through the smoke and steam. It had vanished completely.
"Look," Colin came to a decision. "We really should go to the cops with this, but it's not going to make any difference tonight. I want to try some image processing tricks in Photoshop, see if I can get a sharper image. Why don't you call me when you get out of class tomorrow, and we'll go down there together. I know some guys on the force who we can really talk to."
"Yeah, sure, they're your pictures anyway," Eric agreed. "I've got one class at eight thirty, and I'd just as soon grab a nap before we go in. How about late afternoon."
"Fine," Colin said, anxious to be alone now and think things through for himself. He figured the way to go would be an addendum to his already written article that he could prepare tomorrow evening. With luck, the whole piece could be in the Sunday paper. Eric got out of the car, slapped the roof, and watched Colin drive away. Then he began a slow walking circuit outside the police lines.
Eric remained the entire night, watching the fire burn out. There was something awesome in the way the old factory gave up its life. The intense heat caused most of the brick walls to buckle and collapse, each event a slow motion special effects dream. The old iron foundry, with it's heaping piles of wooden fuel burned the longest. The first rays of dawn barely penetrated the pall of smoke hanging heavily over the area, then a stiff breeze which had been mercifully absent over the night, picked up, and dissipated the smoke out over the river. The smoldering ruins were indistinguishable from footage of bombed out industrial sites in W.W.II.
Junior showed up for work about a half hour early, and drove right through the barricades, almost running over a cop. The car came to a sudden and unplanned halt when he drove into the side of one of the massive fire trucks. Everyone got pretty excited, though thanks to Junior's normal snail paced driving, nobody was hurt. Eric raced down to the car to help the old guard.
"I thought it was foggy," Junior was repeating to anyone who would listen. One of the paramedics who had been stationed at the fire all night said that the old man appeared to be suffering from shock.
"Junior, Do you know who I am?" Eric elbowed his way into the group, full of concern.
"Of course I know who you are, you young idiot. Your face is the first one I see every morning after leaving my wife for the past few years." He winked at the surrounding crowd, "And I thank the lord every day." He shook off the hands of the well meaning medic, worked his way around the truck and got his first real look at what had been Wilkins Valve. "My god, Eric. What did you do to it."
"It was burning when I got here, Junior. Anthony's car wasn't here, and no one seems to know where he is." Eric got a grip on Junior's forearm, and felt him sag inwards. "There's nothing you can do here, Sergeant," he told him gently, "Let's get your car moved, and I'll give you a ride home." Junior seemed to have deflated somehow, and he lowered his head in acquiescence.
The hood of Junior's car had been wrinkled a bit by the collision, but it started, and with a screeching sound, went in reverse and tore out from under the fire truck fender. Antifreeze poured from the breached radiator onto the ground, and Eric quickly parked it on the other side of the street, never going out of reverse.
The old sergeant didn't talk much on the way home, but assured Eric that he was O.K. and invited him in. Eric begged off since he had an early class to get to, but gave Junior his number in case he needed anything. They had both silently figured out that their careers with Axle were over. They shook hands solemnly, and Eric drove home. Connie was just getting up.
"Did you have a nice night at work, Hon?' she asked drowsily.
"Whole place went up in flames," Eric replied deadpan, expecting to hear her say "That's nice dear," like an old married couple in a sit-com. She didn't.
"What! Are you serious?" The sleep fled from her face, and she inspected him closely for signs of damage. He smelled a little smoky, but the firefighters hadn't let anyone get near enough to become covered with soot. That was their privilege. "You're O.K.," she judged him, "Aren't you?"
"I'm fine. All the buildings were already burning when I got there. Anthony, the second shift guard, took off, and nobody can find him. It's a total loss, I mean there's nothing left."
"Was it arson?" she asked. "That newspaper article almost read like a list of reasons for different people to want to burn it the place down."
He stared at her, aghast. "I am an idiot. That didn't even occur to me. First there were all the questions, and then Colin showed up with this incredible photograph from his visit the night before."
"What do you want for breakfast?" she asked brightly.
"Breakfast!" he exclaimed as if offended by the idea, "I can't eat." He paused, "No, wait a minute." His stomach gurgled, and he realized he'd never eaten his lunch the night before. Just drank a lot of coffee with the cops. "I'll have whatever you're having."
"Yogurt?" she snorted, "You?".
"Uh, maybe some eggs," he said sheepishly. "I got to take a shower and get ready for class."
She smiled. It was still early enough in their relationship that she actually enjoyed cooking for him. At least breakfast. She heard the shower come on, and then she turned on the radio to see if the fire had made the news. The fire was the news. She flipped through the stations to get the complete picture, but it sounded like all of the announcers were reading from the same fire department bulletin. Biggest blaze in Western Massachusetts history, suspicious origin, illegal storage of volatile chemicals under investigation. Then she hit the local talk show.
"You want to get to the bottom of this fire," Burke was telling one of his callers in his self assured voice, "You talk to some people in the administration of this city."
"No, no!" the caller insisted, "It's industry breaking the laws and running scared when they found out an inspection was imminent."
"What industry," Burke shot back, "Wilkins? They're down in Dixie, they don't give a hoot. They haven't paid their property taxes in years." The chorus from the Beetles tune 'Tax Man' blared for a moment, one of Burke's regular sound effects. Then he continued on his earlier track, dancing artfully about the borders of actionable slander.
"Now, who has the most pie on their face over this newspaper expose?" he thundered. "Who stands to gain the most if the insurance company can be forced to bear the cleanup cost now? Not only that," he trumpeted, "But with all that rubble and teetering walls, the whole place will be condemned, and someone will be forced finish the job in a hurry."
"Well, I guess," the caller agreed, "But..."
"No buts," Burke cut him off and disconnected the line, another of his trademark moves. "They call me 'Burke the Jerk' downtown, and a lot of things worse then that, believe you me. This time some people have gone over the line from the traditional perks, as they like to call them, to an active criminal role, and this 'jerk' is going to wake this city up and get to the bottom of it. Next caller."
The eggs were finished, and she turned off the radio as a "Jack, from Springfield" was asking who he should sue to have some oily soot removed from his vinyl siding. "It looked like a refinery fire," he proclaimed. The toast popped up, and she buttered it, cut it diagonally, and arranged it on the dish with the eggs like a restaurant. The kettle whistled, and she poured them each a tea. Eric came to the table, his black hair still damp after a vigorous rubbing that would leave its legacy scattered on the bathroom floor.
"Was that news about the fire?" he asked.
"Nothing you don't already know," she laughed, "Except that Burke, the radio guy, is implying that the either the mayor or the school superintendent is an arsonist. What do you think?"
"I don't think that either of them have the imagination or the balls to come up with something like that." He wolfed down some eggs with a fork, and crammed a piece of toast in his mouth. "I didn't explain about Colin's photo," he stopped to suppress a burp, "It looks like someone was using Wilkins for a hazardous waste dump, and I mean just in the past year. They may have panicked when they read about a DEP inspection in the paper, and decided to destroy the evidence."
"How could it go unnoticed," she asked bemused, "Have you been sleeping in your car all night?"
"One of the guards must have been in on it," he ignored her question. "It looked like more then a tractor-trailer load, and it's not like you could unload one of those things in a couple minutes. It would take hours, even with a barrel fork." He shoveled in the rest of the eggs, and chased them with some tea. "Plus, the stuff was all in a building that isn't part of the regular round because it was bone empty and probably the least fire prone structure on the lot."
"Didn't you say that one of the guards was missing?"
"Anthony, the guy I relieve." Eric contemplated the empty plate. "He's crooked, all right, but I don't know. You'd need a lot of contacts for something like this. You wouldn't last long just walking into places and offering to illegally dispose of the hazardous waste for them. Anyway, he's just a kid really, around twenty. Who would want to do business with him?"
Connie finished stirring her yogurt, a process that had taken her longer then Eric had needed to eat. "Whatever," she agreed pleasantly, "How were your eggs."
"Oh. They were great," he came around the table and kissed her on the head. He might require a lot of coaching, she thought, but at least he takes direction well. "I just have Engineering Economics at eight thirty," he said, grabbing his knapsack, "And then I'm going to come home and try to get some sleep. Colin wants me to go to Springfield with him and talk with some police friend of his this afternoon."
"Can I come," she asked?
"Sure, I guess so, if you want." He opened the door and stopped halfway through. "I told Colin I'd call him around four, so you can wake me up."
"Got it," she made a mental note, "And Eric?"
"Yeah Con?" he called back, already halfway to the first landing.
"You don't have to run out and find another third shift job, huh? I mean, you'll talk to me first, O.K.?"
"Yeah, I'm really running late. I'll see you later," he called up, and fled down the stairs.
She decided to take heart from the "Yeah," however he had intended it.