Fire Engine Dead (22 page)

“No, ma’am, it’s not. I found Peter Senior’s obituary, which lists all his achievements and awards and so on. It also lists his surviving family, which includes Peter’s brother Scott.” She pushed what I saw were photocopied newspaper articles across my desk.

“I know—I’ve met him. Why is this relevant?”

“I did a little checking on him, too. From what I did find, Scott is kind of the anti-Peter—never went to college, has held a string of dead-end jobs, none of them for too long. And he’s got a criminal record, mostly for minor offenses.”

“Shelby, how do you find out all this stuff?” Marty asked, clearly impressed.

“There’s all sorts of good info on the Internet, if you know where to look.”

James had already told me about Scott’s less than pristine background, but he hadn’t seemed to think it was relevant. “Any mention of arson?” I asked.

“No, but there aren’t a lot of details about his criminal activities. So maybe it’s possible?”

I had to wonder: was it possible that the son of a much-
decorated firefighter would become an arsonist? I had no idea, and I wondered what Celia would have to say. Could Scott have been doing it all along, acting out against his hero dad? But Dad was dead now. Scott didn’t stand to benefit…or did he? How did he feel about his brother Peter? Would he want to trash his brother’s professional reputation by making him look like a fool when his precious collection burned up?

“James told me he had run background checks on the people involved,” I said slowly. “He mentioned that Scott had a record, so I suppose he could find out more about Scott’s criminal background—and who he knows.”

“If he’s any good, he should have found this already. If the police are looking…” Marty had little patience with city government.

“He may not know about Scott’s father, though.” I smiled, thinking of what Celia had told us. Was Scott acting out against hero Dad? “Thank you, Shelby—good work. Is that all?”

Shelby gave me a fake pout. “Well, there’s no handy signed confession in the file, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Ha, ha. Now shoo, both of you. I’ll pass this tidbit on to James.”

Marty and Shelby exchanged looks, then stood up in unison. “Yes, ma’am. We’re out of here, ma’am!” Marty said crisply.

Then they linked arms and marched out of the office together. I smiled at their retreating backs before picking up the phone to call James.

“Morrison,” he barked.

“Pratt,” I responded in kind.

“Hi, Nell,” he replied with a laugh. “You have something?”

“Maybe. You mentioned that Peter’s brother Scott had a record?”

“Yes. We’ve looked at him. He’s got an arrest record, mostly for things like bar fights or public drunkenness. No arson, if that’s what you’re asking. At the moment we can’t tie him to this. Of course, we can’t rule him out yet, either.”

“Did you know that Peter and Scott’s father was a fire fighter?”

“Yes, I did, Nell. Why does it matter?”

“Did you know that dear old Dad was a media grabber who liked to pose with rescued kittens? And collected a fair bit of news coverage?”

“Ah…no, I guess not. Where are you going with this, Nell?”

“Think about it. Peter wanted to be a fire fighter but his asthma prevented him. But what about Scott? There must be a story there. You could ask Celia if any of his background or criminal record fits one of her profiles. Does he have an alibi?”

“No, not that I know of—the police are checking that. But having no alibi doesn’t prove anything. Do you have an alibi for the right time period?”

“Uh, no. But why would I have set the fire, assuming I could even figure out how? Because I hated Peter Ingersoll? Because I’m planning to eliminate all the museum competition of Philadelphia so I can be queen of whatever?”

I could hear a stifled chuckle. “You have anything else for me?”

Nothing that Selden had told me was worth passing along to James, and I was pretty sure that James did not
want to hear that yet another civilian was now privy to details about this case. “Not yet. You’ll be the first to know. Thanks for lunch.”

“Right. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

What had I learned today? Not much. James was doing whatever James did, and I had Shelby and Marty on the hunt on my end.

The only key player I hadn’t talked to lately was Gary O’Keefe. I picked up the phone again.

I met Gary O’Keefe in a dim bar not far from Independence
Hall. I’d debated for a few minutes about how to approach him, but my creativity had failed me—it had already been a long day—and in the end I came straight out and told him that I was helping the FBI with the investigation of the fire and could I talk to him? He’d agreed instantly and suggested the bar. He was waiting in a booth when I walked in, and stood up when I approached the table.

“Good to see you again, Nell, although I might wish the circumstances were happier. I have to thank you for helping us with the collection information, and so promptly. If nothing else, this awful event has taught us to keep our records backed up.”

I sat down and ordered a Guinness, one of my occasional guilty pleasures when I could get it on tap. “Did you lose much of them?”

“More than we should have. Normally the archives and the administrative records are kept on the third floor, which the public doesn’t see, or only by appointment. But there were a lot of unexpected structural issues with the renovation, and we had to clear out most of the working space. It’s a wonder we still had offices, even if they had no more than plastic sheeting for walls. Your material helped to fill in a lot of the holes.”

“Were you able to use the information to file an insurance claim?” I asked.

“We did, but as I think I told you, most of the collection was of limited financial value. And we hadn’t upgraded the coverage for the fire engine, for reasons of cost yet again, so we won’t get much on that. Certainly not enough to replace it. Ah, she was a beauty…” He stared over my head at nothing.

I wasn’t surprised: insurance on collections usually bore little relation to the market value of the collection. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t supposed to come out and talk about the theft of the
real
fire engine. Why was it that Gary, with the nominal title of curator, hadn’t made the same observation that Marty and I had, that the two pictures didn’t match up? Or had he, and chosen not to say anything? I could understand his not bringing it up with me—that would be disloyal to his own institution, and I’m sure he’d prefer to keep it quiet. But ethically and legally, surely he should have told the authorities? Was he involved somehow? I felt like I was walking a tightrope, choosing my words carefully. If Gary knew anything about the swap of the fire engines, now would be the perfect opportunity for him to bring it up, and I paused to give him a chance.

He leaned in, and I held my breath, but when he spoke,
it wasn’t about fire engines. “Poor Peter—he’s having a hard time of it. To have such an awful thing happen on his watch.”

I had to agree. “I saw him at the Bench Foundation event last night. He doesn’t look well, does he? I can only imagine how I’d feel if such a thing happened at the Society. I’d be tempted to throw myself on the fire, too. Oh, sorry—is that in bad taste?”

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.”