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The Brass Wall
The Betrayal of Undercover Detective #4126
By David Kocieniewski Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 2004 David Kocieniewski
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7905-8
CHAPTER 1
NO ACCIDENT
FEBRUARY 24, 1992
MORE THAN A year before Vinnie Armanti ever set foot in Sebastian's, at shortly after 7:00 A.M. on a cold winter morning, Lieutenant Thomas A. Williams was standing before a small group of firefighters inside the Rescue 4 firehouse. He had stopped talking just long enough to balance a quarter on his thumb. Rescue 4, one of the city's elite fire companies, based in Woodside, Queens, had just received a new chain saw to test. As shift commander, it was up to Lieutenant Williams to determine who would be the first to use it during an actual run.
Rescue companies have the most treacherous mission in the New York City fire department. Their special duty, beyond saving civilians unable to escape disasters, is to retrieve other firefighters trapped within blazes. They are the most highly trained, specially equipped members of the force, so the arrival of a new piece of gear is an important event. Each rescue company's rig is really little more than a huge, mobile toolbox packed with complicated apparatus: scuba gear for underwater work; acetylene torches to cut through metal locks, ducts, window bars, and pipes; block-and-tackle units to help move heavy machinery; and an assortment of ropes, clasps, and mountain-climbing gear to retrieve people trapped in inaccessible places or to snatch up a potential suicide too petrified to crawl back from a ledge or a bridge.
The shift had begun that day, at 6:00 A.M., with Lieutenant Williams showing the five men in his command the new saw they would be testing. It was an amazing product, specially engineered to help firefighters cut through walls and roofs more easily. One of two men would use it that day, and now Lieutenant Williams tossed the coin into the air to see which it would be. Fireman Michael Milner won the toss; under another commander, that victory might have meant that Milner would carry the saw into battle that night. But in Rescue 4, on nights when Lieutenant Williams was in charge, things were a little different. The loser got the saw because Milner chose to spend the night charging into fires alongside the lieutenant, as the "irons and can man" who carried his equipment.
It was a bit ironic that the men of Rescue 4 coveted every chance to be near Lieutenant Williams when they were out in the field because, truth be told, there were times inside the firehouse when many of them hid just to escape his nonstop banter. He could talk sports, family, culture, current affairs, international relations — anything from the most personal, private matter to the most far-flung theory. He beamed when he spoke, at great length, about his two daughters and his wife, Patricia. In staggering detail, he told the men how he spent his days off doing household work to help Patricia, who held down a fulltime job. But God help the poor soul who mentioned a politician. Lieutenant Williams had always considered them two-faced back stabbers, and in the two years since the city had closed a nearby Queens firehouse as a budget-cutting move, his disdain had turned to disgust.
Whatever the topic, Williams's fast-paced, playful voice was inescapable inside the station house, as indelible as the smell of soot, the hum of fluorescent lights, or the chatter of the department radio.
"Like a broken record," the men would say to each other. "He was vaccinated with a Victrola needle."
Firemen work shifts that run twenty-four hours or more. They spend more time cooped up with one another than they do with their families, and at times, frankly, that familiarity frays the nerves. If Lieutenant Williams had been a supervisor of lesser stature, it is more than likely that one of his men would have bluntly addressed the issue of his jabbering. Yet no man who worked in Rescue 4 could ever bring himself to embarrass Williams by asking him to pipe down. Not even in jest. Some would feign sleep, hoping he'd find another audience. Others would slip out of sight, tuck themselves away in the TV room or a bunk, hoping to sneak a few moments of peace. But none of them could conceive of saying anything that might bruise the lieutenant's feelings. They simply respected him too much.
Lieutenant Williams had earned that high regard because he knew more than the best way to fight a fire; he seemed to grasp, instinctively, how to bring out the finest in the men around him in the process. After thirty-two years on the job, he had mastered as much of the science and art of firefighting as anyone in the department. But he never failed to ask every man for his input, and his constant inquiries forced his men to always keep thinking.
Lieutenant Williams also had one of the rarest attributes of any supervisor: the willingness to challenge his superiors on behalf of his men. His brother, Robert Williams, was a battalion chief who could have offered him an easy path to the status, security, and higher pay of the department hierarchy. But the lieutenant often said that the strength of the fire department and his love of the job both came from the men on the front lines. So he remained in his less exalted position and used his department connections to help his subordinates whenever they got into a jam. On numerous fire calls, when some battalion chief would ask Williams and the members of his crew to perform menial tasks, such as tearing down walls, he would curtly remind them that Rescue's job was rescues and the grunt work should be left to others. Then he'd gather his men and leave.
"We're outta here," he'd say, cultivating his reputation as a maverick but earning unwavering admiration from his troops.
Yet even if Williams hadn't been a motivator or a maverick, even if he'd been the most miserable, snarling lout who'd ever strapped on an FDNY helmet, there was one immutable reason why his men wanted to be near him. He made them feel safer. The most dangerous part of any call is entering a burning, smoke-filled building when you don't yet know where the fire is coming from. Lieutenant Williams was incomparable in those harrowing first stages because he had instinct, an uncanny ability to find the fire. That skill made his crew confident that whatever might happen, Williams would somehow find a way to get out safely. The closer you stayed to him, the more likely you'd wind up a survivor, too.
Milner had won the opportunity to partner up with Williams the night of February 24. But once that matter had been settled, fate decided to tease Milner by depriving Rescue 4 of any real fire to fight. On most days, the rescue squad averaged eight calls per shift, and it was not unheard of for them to make fifteen runs. But throughout the shift that day the squad had only a few minor jobs. The men enjoyed an uninterrupted dinner, which was a rarity. Afterward, they dispersed around the firehouse to watch television, catch a few minutes of sleep, or listen to Williams talk, talk, talk.
Finally, at about 10:45 P.M., a flurry of activity burst over the department radio. A dispatch operator fielded a call for a burning building in Maspeth, and Rescue 4 didn't wait for the alarm to sound. Williams ordered his men to suit up, and they scrambled into action. As he climbed aboard the truck, Lieutenant Thomas A. Williams shouted a reminder:
"Don't forget that saw."
* * *
LESS THAN THREE miles away, inside 66-45 Grand Avenue, apartment 2L, Michelle Anthony nuzzled tight against her husband, Shelly. Bundled in sensible flannel pajamas, they were too deeply ensconced in sleep to hear the first whine of the smoke detector outside their bedroom door.
Although it was not yet eleven P.M. — an hour when many young New Yorkers are just beginning their nights out — the Anthonys had neither the time, the energy, nor the inclination to stay out late. Michelle, a nursing student, was exhausted from a tough day at Long Island University. Shelly was a New York City transit police officer whose responsible nature was only further encouraged by his duties and his demanding work schedule. Married just eight months, they were already on something of an austerity budget, dutifully squirreling away money for a new home in the suburbs.
But the Anthonys were such upbeat newlyweds they never really felt deprived. Shelly had picked Michelle up from school that day, saving her the grueling subway commute. After a quiet dinner at home, they'd turned in at 9:30 P.M. and were fast asleep an hour later when the first spark ignited one floor below them and the flames began to spread their brilliant, terrifying light.
Their apartment was on the middle floor of a sturdy, three-story building on a noisy business strip. The traffic outside was so loud that the Anthonys didn't hear a sound as the fire chewed through the building's frame, sending clouds of smoke up stairwells and plumbing shafts.
It wasn't surprising that the wail of the smoke alarm had failed to stir them. Their home was a classic New York bargain apartment: dark, with few windows, and oddly configured — the kind of place where light and sound just disappeared. When she was in the bedroom, Michelle would often miss calls because the telephone was in the living room and its rings never reached her all the way down the lengthy corridor. It was annoying at first. Then frightening. What might happen if she was back there during an emergency and she couldn't hear the commotion until it was too late? A rickety fire escape led from their bedroom into the courtyard, but it looked unreliable, and the courtyard itself was enclosed. The only real exit was the front door, way down the hall in the living room.
Michelle put a night-light in the hall, just outside their room, and asked Shelly to install a smoke detector near their bedroom door. He teased her gently about being paranoid, but he did it anyway. By 10:30 P.M. on the night of February 24, however, the alarm wasn't enough to rouse them as the smoke spread toward their bed. Shelly had always been a heavy sleeper. Michelle was the one who usually woke more easily, but her body had an important reason to need more rest: Although the Anthonys did not know it, she was two months pregnant.
When the alarm finally roused Michelle, she looked toward the clock; when she couldn't see the numbers, she assumed it was still too early to wake. A wave of relief washed over her. Then, slowly, she realized that the alarm was coming from someplace infinitely more disturbing.
She took a deep breath and felt the smoke sting her lungs. Her heart began to sprint. Just as she had always feared, the building was burning and there was no way out. As she opened her eyes fully, she saw that the room was so thick with smoke she could barely make out the window.
"Shelly! Shelly, wake up!" she screamed, shaking her husband, uncertain whether he was asleep or unconscious. He stirred, but he didn't wake. Her thoughts began to scatter. She had to get out and she couldn't leave him, but how could a small woman like her carry a big guy like him?
"Shelly!" she shouted, her words cut short and her breathing labored from the combination of smoke and terror.
Finally he jumped up and bounded out of bed, instantly recognizing the smoke and making a seamless transition into a living, breathing version of the police department's emergency manual. Feeling the walls, he could tell by the heat that the flames had begun to climb up behind the plaster.
"We've got to get out of here," he said.
Michelle was too panicked to answer.
Smoke was pouring in from outside the bedroom door, but that was the only way out. Shelly told his wife to crouch down, and as the door swung open, they saw a wall of thick smoke from the ceiling to about waist level. Shelly looked back at her and started to crawl.
"Listen to my voice," he instructed, "and follow me."
Naturally calm, confident, and self-assured, he drew on those traits as he struggled to help Michelle find some strength within herself. On her hands and knees, half-paralyzed with fear, she heard his voice calling, trying to help her pull through. What's going on? Michelle kept asking herself as Shelly coaxed her into the hallway. What could have caused this? As they inched down the hall, that endless hall, she worried about everything she was leaving behind — her wedding gown, the hundreds of photos of her family. All her memories turning to ash.
Shelly kept calling her, reassuring her, repeating over and over that they were going to make it.
The smoke got thicker and the temperature hotter as the terrified couple moved toward the living room and the stairway. Halfway down the hall, Michelle was struck by a comforting thought: At least if I'm going to die, Shelly will be here with me.
"Keep moving," he called.
When they reached the living room, with the smoke sinking lower and the heat nearly searing their hands, Michelle saw a glimmer of light. It was Shelly opening the door to the hallway. Coughing and shouting, they scrambled down the stairs and sprinted out the door and onto the sidewalk. The cold, wet pavement chilled Michelle's bare feet, but it was the most beautiful sensation she had ever felt.
Shelly hugged her, held her until her crying and shaking started to slow. Moments later, as she tried to dry her eyes, she noticed a short, Mexican-looking man with a mustache standing next to Shelly. Her eyes began to well up again, this time with tears of joy. The man looked so concerned that she instantly assumed he was ready to run up and help.
"Is there anyone else up there?" he said, in a high-pitched, scratchy voice.
"I'm not sure, but I think so," Shelly replied.
Michelle was awed to think that some total stranger might actually risk his life by running into the hell she and Shelly had just fled. She was about to thank the man, whoever he was, when she heard the sirens growing louder. The fire trucks turned the corner, lights flashing. Suddenly, the man turned, without saying a word, and fled into the night.
* * *
WHEN RESCUE 4 pulled up to the scene at 11:05 P.M., black smoke was billowing out the windows of the building; the place was going up at a good clip. A few residents had escaped onto the roof and needed to be helped to safety. It was unclear whether anyone else remained inside, but even when a building appears vacant, rescue firemen try to search every possible room for survivors.
As they entered the building, Milner walked a few paces behind Lieutenant Williams carrying a metal can of water, for spraying back flames, and the iron — a tool resembling a whaler's harpoon that is used to poke through walls and grab burning pieces of debris. Partway up the first flight of stairs, Milner noted smoke rising between the gaps of the staircase, a sign that the fire was creeping up from the floor beneath them. He pointed it out to Williams, who nodded in acknowledgment, and they trudged on up. At the top of the stairs they found an open door. Entering some kind of office, they noticed what looked like a maze of metal desks, bookshelves, and filing cabinets visible through the smoke. About ten feet inside, Williams stopped in his tracks.
"Something's not right," he screamed, pulling his air mask off his face so Milner could hear his words.
He ordered the fireman with the new saw to head to the roof and forge a vent hole, then walked farther into the office, with Milner following. They were taking a beating from the waves of smoke and heat, and when they reached the front wall, Williams ordered Milner to break the large plate-glass window that ran from the ceiling to a ledge about four inches off the floor. Under most circumstances this would have helped clear the room: A fire's heat and pressure always rush toward the easiest escape route. But the window faced south, and the wind was coming from that direction, too. The stiff breeze blasted the smoke back at Williams and Milner, who attempted to continue their search, pushing on toward the center of the office. When they reached a set of bookcases jutting out into the aisle, a huge gust of smoke and superheated gases overwhelmed them, instantly reducing their visibility to an inch. Heat radiated through their boots, gloves, and face masks.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Brass Wall by David Kocieniewski. Copyright © 2004 David Kocieniewski. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
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