Fire Engine Dead (16 page)

I digested that for a moment before asking, “What’s the relationship between firefighters and arsonists?”

“Another complicated question. Very broadly, a true arsonist acts to satisfy some internal compulsion, even if he can’t explain it, while a firefighter acts to protect the public. At least, we hope so.”

“You’re implying there are exceptions?”

“On occasion. But that’s not to say that firefighters are closet arsonists, in general.”

“But would firemen know any arsonists? Even at arm’s length? I mean, are there people who have a reputation as fire starters, even if they’ve never been caught?”

Celia laughed. “It’s a very reasonable question, but it’s hard to answer. I’d guess firefighters become aware of specific individuals, based on the details of the crime—timing, what devices or accelerants they use, and so on. But that’s still a long way from knowing their names or how to find them. I won’t say it’s impossible, but it seems unlikely. Are you asking if a member of the fire department, or someone who knew a member, could locate an arsonist for hire? It seems rather far-fetched.” Celia was silent for several long moments. “You know, putting all these facts together, it sounds as though someone harbors a lot of hostility toward firefighters in general.”

“Why do you say that?” James asked.

“If this was a planned crime, as you’re suggesting, someone had to have known about the collection and where it was stored. That same someone would have known of the presence of a watchman, and yet, if what you’re implying is correct, that fact didn’t deter him. Maybe this Brigham
wasn’t meant to die, but the possibility was there. Psychologically, the arsonist would have taken some perverse satisfaction in simultaneously ripping off the museum devoted to firefighting, stealing their most precious item, and making them look foolish by actually burning the rest of the collection. Sort of a triple whammy. Which doesn’t mean he intended to murder anyone.”

James nodded. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, but you’re right. So all we have to do is look for someone associated with the museum who hates firefighters? When most of our suspects have public ties to firefighting?” he asked.

“Don’t take this lightly, James,” Celia said. “We may be looking at a rapid escalation in behavior following a long history of minor incidents that may never have been reported, and who knows what he might do next? I know that doesn’t provide you with much guidance, but it’s the best I can do absent any more concrete data.”

“I understand, Celia. So let me get this straight: we’re probably looking for a man, and he may have had a long but unreported history of setting fires, which may have been prompted by any number of reasons, but which involve some sort of anger toward the fire department or firefighters in general.”

“I know it’s not much to go on,” Celia said. “I’m sorry.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got a class in an hour, and I need to prepare for it. I can send you some published papers to look over that might be of help to you. Of course, there’s my book.” She dimpled briefly, and she reached for a bookshelf behind her to pull out a trade-size paper-bound volume. “Nell, let me give you a copy. I think it covers what you need. Then let me know if you think you need more?”

James stood up, and I followed suit. “Thanks, Celia. I
appreciate your time.” He handed her a large envelope. “These are the reports of all the recent fires. I’d appreciate it if you take a look and see if anything jumps out at you. And keep them under your hat.”

Celia took the envelope. “Of course.”

“And you know where to find me if anything else occurs to you,” James added. “This is an odd one.”

“I agree. Nell, nice to meet you. Let me know if you have any further questions.” She handed me a business card, and I tucked it in my bag.

“I’ll do that. Can I ask, whatever made you go into this line of work?”

She smiled at my question. “I wanted to be an FBI agent, but all they asked was if I could type. I figured this was a good end run.” Then the smile left her face. “And I think what I do is important.”

“It is, Celia,” James said quietly. “We’ll get out of your hair now, but thanks again.”

“Thank you!” I called over my shoulder as I trailed after James.

As we hiked back the mile or so to the car, I asked, “What did we learn?”

James looked down at me. “Did you want a simple answer? Celia’s one of the best researchers in the field, but she’ll be the first to admit that people set fires for a wide variety of reasons, logical or not, and it’s not easy to pigeonhole them. She was being cautious, but I’d guess that she sees it as unlikely that a fireman would hire an arsonist to do his dirty work, even if he could find one. If—and I mean that seriously—a fireman felt the need to set a fire, either out of compulsion or for illegal purposes, I’d bet he would do it himself.”

“Makes sense to me.” I was pleased that I had no trouble keeping up with James’s long strides—all that walking to and from the station seemed to be paying off. “So that limits the field to people who would know how to set fires—which includes almost everyone involved with the Fireman’s Museum. Great.”

“You didn’t think this would be simple, did you?”

“It never is.”

As we drove back to the city, I realized that I was pleased
that James had included me, but I was still confused by what I had heard. “James, you said you handled arson cases before?”

“Now and then. That’s why I know Celia. She’s kind of a unique resource. Read her book,” James said, his eyes on the road. “She does provide some broad profiles for the different types of arsonist.”

I nudged his shoulder. “You have to turn here to get to the Schuylkill.”

“Got it.” He moved onto the on-ramp and sped up.

“I guess my problem is, I have trouble seeing any of the people I’ve met from the Fireman’s Museum as arsonists.” And, I reminded myself, killers. That was even harder.

“Are you talking about Peter Ingersoll?”

“In part, I guess. He’s an administrator, and he said he has asthma, although I suppose he could have lied about
that. But I don’t see him hauling heavy equipment around or torching a warehouse. And I was in the room with him when he learned about the warehouse fire. I saw how he reacted. When was it set, do you know?”

“Early morning, according to the fire department, but it spread slowly. It took the department awhile to put it out, and then they found the body. And then they had to figure out who the place belonged to, and only then did they get a handle on who had stuff there. Ingersoll would have had plenty of time to set a fire, go home, shower, shave, and make it to your luncheon.”

“So it’s not an alibi. I wonder where he lives.”

“Rittenhouse Square.”

“Do you have a file on him?” I turned in my seat to look at James.

“The police and the FBI have looked at all the principal players.”

“Don’t tell me you have a file on me!”

“No comment.” James’s mouth twitched.

I took that as a yes. At least I had nothing to hide, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about the FBI snooping into my life. Not that anybody could hide much in this Internet age. Sometimes I yearned for the simpler days when people wrote letters to each other, which often took days or weeks to arrive. Was that why I oversaw collections full of them? Since they were far fewer in number than modern communications, they were more precious, at least to those who cared about such things. And somehow I doubted we would be collecting emails of the rich and famous any time soon.

I pulled my mind back to the arson. “Did you find anything important about anyone?”

“Nothing about setting fires, but they all have some connection
with the city fire department or another department.”

“Not just Gary? Even Jennifer?”

He nodded, keeping his attention focused on navigating the notorious Schuylkill Expressway. “Jennifer was married to a firefighter and still collects a pension from the department. Peter and Scott’s father was a fireman.”

“What about criminal records?”

“Only Scott Ingersoll—he seems to be a hothead and has gotten into a few fights, but there’s nothing arson related.”

I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news. “Well, for the moment I reserve the right to believe that it is possible for anyone to hire a thug to do their dirty work. Have you had any luck identifying a trucker?”

James sighed. “I should have known what I was letting myself into when I asked you to help. I don’t suppose I can ask that you limit your questions to your areas of expertise?”

“Look, I understand about confidentiality and FBI rules and all that stuff, but I’ll be much more useful to you if I have a better picture of what’s going on. What you’re looking for. What you’ve already covered and dismissed. That kind of thing. And you’re right—you should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not going to sit quietly in my corner. You may have your own law enforcement turf to protect, but the Philadelphia cultural community is
my
turf. And you know I can keep my mouth shut.”

“You are the perfect Girl Scout, Nell. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but as you point out, I have protocols to follow. Plus, much as I hate to say it, we’re just getting up to speed on this whole investigation now, and I don’t have a lot to share with you.”

“The blind leading the blind. Great. Tell me this—do you think there will be more fires?”

“I don’t know. I still don’t have enough evidence to say whether the ones we’ve had are related, or whether there’s more than one arsonist running around. It’s a big city. And there’s another angle we haven’t even talked about: it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had commissioned these fires to make the fire department look more essential—you know the city is looking to cut the department’s budget.”

“What, fires as a public relations tool? That’s an awful idea.”

“Well, if you exclude the one fire that interests us, the others have been relatively benign—no significant loss of property, and they were put out quickly.”

“And that looks suspicious?” I asked. “You really think it’s just more than the fire department doing a good job?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Look, I don’t want to throw stones at anyone. I respect the fire department and the job they do. But you’ll have to admit it’s a good cover for the fire engine switch, especially if someone knew there were going to be other fires.”

“James!” I said, appalled. “You’re really thinking there are two conspiracies here? One to boost the public perception of the fire department, and another to rip off the museum? I’m glad I’m not you, seeing nefarious plots under every rock.”

He glanced briefly my way. “Nell, it happens more often than you’d like to think. But you go right on thinking the best of people. It’s part of your charm.”

Great. Nell Pratt, aka Pollyanna. Still, I’d rather look for the best in people than assume everyone had an ulterior and malicious motive. Of course, I spent most of my time living
with the past, while James was on the front lines of the present. Maybe that made a difference.

We arrived in front of the Society building. James pulled into the bus stop space and stopped the car. “Will you be seeing Ingersoll again, or anyone else associated with the Fireman’s Museum?”

“Not that I have scheduled. Do you want me to try to plan something?”

“Only if it looks natural. And I’ll trust you not to ask stupid questions.”

“You mean, like,
Have you met any arsonists lately?
”

“Exactly.” He grinned at me, and I swatted his arm.

“I think you’ve given me enough work to keep me out of trouble for a while. Let me know if anything else comes up—or burns down.” I climbed out of the passenger seat and waved as he pulled away, before marching up the stone steps.

I managed to make it all the way to my office without being interrupted, but when I arrived there Eric looked ready to burst. “Oh, there you are, Nell. It seems like half the staff is looking for you. Rich has called a couple of times, and then Latoya—something about processing the new materials? And Marty’s waiting in your office.”

Great. If I’d been hoping for a little time for myself, I was out of luck. “Thanks, Eric. I guess I’ll deal with Marty first.”

I marched into my office and hung up my coat. “Hello, Marty. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Marty had been sitting on the settee against the wall, leafing through an issue of
Antiques
, but she jumped up and moved to a chair in front of my desk. “What the hell is going on in processing? I thought your people were working on the Terwilliger Collection?”

I sat down behind my desk. “So no one told you?”

“Told me what?”

I sighed. “The FBI finally released the documents they had seized.”

Marty nodded impatiently. “Well, we figured they’d be coming, didn’t we? Why is everybody running around like a bunch of headless chickens?”

“Because your cousin James decided to release
all
the documents they’d seized. One hundred and sixty-seven boxes’ worth, to be precise. And he sent ’em all here.”

It was interesting watching Marty’s expressions change, and I sat back and enjoyed the show. First anger, that James had interfered with the processing of her family’s beloved collection. Then speculation, as she began to wonder just what else might be in there. Then a kind of glee, when she realized that there might be some really good stuff mixed in and she had first crack at all of it. I waited.

Finally she said, “I don’t know whether to kick or kiss that boy. Have you looked through the stuff?”

“Not yet, beyond peeking in a few boxes. It all came in yesterday and what time we had we spent hauling them upstairs. And both Nicholas and Alice showed up early, and I barely had time to introduce them to Rich before the avalanche. And this morning James and I paid a call on an arson expert.”

“Why?” Marty relaxed back into her chair, apparently over her snit.

“Because there’s been a whole series of fires recently, and he’s trying to figure out where the Fireman’s Museum fire fits. If it does.”