The Firebox Stalker

By Neal Stoffers

A conflict rages within Newark firefighter Frank Helms. He loves his job, but knows a part of him needs more. He has plans to study for an MBA in international business and resign from the fire department. His wife Chingli wants him to resign now to take a position offered by her uncle. Is there a way to have both worlds? When a madman begins to shoot people who pull fireboxes, the tension between the two grows exponentially.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Springfield and Hunterdon Publishing
• Release date: Jul 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781970034226

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The Firebox Stalker

The Firebox Stalker

Copyright © 2018  by Neal Stoffers

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing:  2018

ISBN: 978-1-970034-22-6

Springfield and Hunterdon  Publishing

East Brunswick, NJ 08816-5852

www.NewarkFireOralHistory.com

Chapter One

It is going down tonight, the young man thought as he stepped off the bus. The confrontation could be put off no longer. The only choice left was how to react. If all went as planned, he could affect the outcome. Then the contract on him would be withdrawn out of fear of the terrible cost. If not, his mother would be alone in this world and the mob would have taken another man she loved.

He inhaled deeply to calm his nerves, the steam from his breath billowing out into the moist air. The familiar grind of his leather soles on the damp concrete sidewalk was the only thing disrupting the stillness after the bus pulled away. It was already past eight o'clock in the evening. Majestic oaks, bereft of their summer foliage, lined the street. Remnants of the year's crop of leaves covered the storm sewer on the opposite corner.

That would not have happened when he was a child. Back then the people in the neighborhood cleaned up the leaves as they fell. A shower of spray was thrown onto the brick retaining wall on the corner when a car drove through the puddle created by the blocked sewer. At least the wall was being washed. It had not looked that clean since Dr. Kawolski had fled the neighborhood.

The deceptive warmth of a humid, late autumn night surrounded him. The trench coat he wore provided more than comfort and protection from the rain. Its pocket concealed a family heirloom, his father's police service revolver.

Taking another deep breath and nervously releasing it, the man started to review his plan while waiting for the light to change. How had he gotten himself into this situation? Why had the family not moved after his father had died? The neighborhood had already been changing by then. Drugs were becoming a major problem. Were they not why his father had been killed? A cop who had been trying to do his duty; the mob tiring of bailing out their soldiers after his father had arrested them. First was the attempt to discredit an honest cop. After they had become bored with that game, they executed him. Even though only ten years old, he had been amazed at how corrupt the Police Department had become. Enough of the brass had been bought off to squash any attempt to investigate the murder. It was more convenient and lucrative to let the story of a good cop gone bad stand. He had never trusted the Police again. For the first time in three generations, there were no cops in his family.

Questions, questions, he had nothing but questions. He needed answers. Too preoccupied with his thoughts, the light changing went unnoticed. It did not matter. For the past five years the young man had arrived home at the same time each night, walked the same route no matter what the weather. If anyone had so desired, they could have set a watch by him, always arriving on his front doorstep at six o'clock, very rarely even a minute late. Tonight he was over two hours late. In fact, he had not arrived home on time for the past week. His mother had eagerly asked if a woman was the reason for his tardiness. She had looked a little disappointed when he had replied, No, mom. It's just the traffic. It was not a lie. The drug traffic had made him change his habits; punctuality could kill him now.

Lately, his mother showed her disappointment easily whenever the subject of women came up. How does a man explain to his mother that he is a failure with the opposite sex? The problem was women were so naive. They didn't see the world for what it was. For the first few years of dating, he thought the problem was immaturity. The girls involved were only eighteen or nineteen year old college coeds. Their daddies had protected them from the harsh realities of life. Understanding their naiveté made it easy to overlook their immaturity. However, as time went by it became apparent that the problem was not youth. There had been changes in society. The nurturing woman, such as his mother, had been replaced by the foolishly independent woman who did not appreciate the protective embrace of a strong man. Their determination to be equal to men made them blind to the dangers that surrounded them. All he wanted was a partner to protect and love.

Maybe it was best that none had been found. The mob would have gone after her first. The surprise was that they had not attacked his mother yet. If tonight's plan worked out, they would be convinced the price of such an attack was too high and would leave both himself and his mother alone out of respect. Decisive action would earn that respect.

Review the plan! Preoccupation with analyzing how this situation had come about was causing him to neglect that review. Touching the bulge in his pocket, he took in his surroundings. The neighborhood had changed dramatically since he had played on these streets as a child. The streets were now too dangerous for children. Drug dealers driving BMW's roamed where little boys had once thrown footballs.

The appearance of the streets had changed as well. Garbage cans were strewn about waiting for tomorrow’s pick-up. As a child, the city had men pull trash cans to the curb from residents’ yards. The mess that lined this street was kept out of sight until just before the truck came to pick it up. The stench and unsightliness was exposed for a limited time. Back then the residents carried their refuse cans back to their yards immediately after the Sanitation Department completed its sweep of the neighborhood. Now they sat at the curb until the evening.

A cat crossed the street and went up on one of the porches ahead of him. The size of the cat was amazing. It was just another sign of the area’s deterioration. Fat cats were an indication that there was a rodent problem in the vicinity. His father used to say, The cats are fat where the rats are at. The cat meowing and scratching at the screen door of the house he was now passing apparently did its share to keep the rodent population down.

These streets no longer made up a neighborhood. They were just avenues with a collection of domiciles facing them. At one time each family on this block was known to him. The single family homes that lined the street had become merely houses. They had ceased to be homes when they had turned into way stations in the busy lives of their inhabitants. That change had come about over the past decade. Neighborhoods had children playing on the street, their happy voices shouting You're it until the calls of their mothers sent them home. Now there were no children running on the street. If there were any parents on the block now, they just farmed out the raising of their children to others. All were too busy aggrandizing themselves to bother with kids.

The houses were not as rundown as one might expect. This was partly due to their inhabitants' worries about losing face and partly because time had not caught up with the neglect. In a few more years the buildings would begin to fall apart. Respectable people would not buy a house in this area. The candy store that had been frequented by the neighborhood children had become a haven for drug pushers. That was where he would have to be decisive tonight.

It was the mob's store now. The owner had gone bad years before. John might appear to be grandfatherly, but the young man knew better. The ruthless proprietor of the local candy store sold more than just candy. Even as a child, it was known that he was a calculating, greedy old man. His father had told him about the store owner. Other stores in the area would give a cop on the beat merchandise as a token of thanks. John had refused to even give a discount. When the two men had argued, the old man had complained to Police Headquarters and his father had been transferred. That was when the mob started its campaign against a good cop. That was also how he knew the old man was a member of the mob. Only powerful people could have a cop transferred. John needed only to speak with the Police brass on the take and his father was moved.

The young man stopped at the top of a small hill to collect his thoughts. John's Confectionery was at the bottom of the incline. Looking down the hill, he saw where the youths had pointed at him and then argued the night before. They had yelled in frustration There he is! surprised by his crossing the street a block earlier than normal. The week before the young man had overheard part of their conversation as he walked past them. They must not have realized his hearing was that sharp. 5:45. Okay, we'll get him tomorrow night. Why they had wanted to get him was a mystery until his mother had told him that someone had broken into John's. The police had stopped by to see if she had seen something suspicious on one of her walks. Mom had not seemed the least bit worried, but the young man knew what that meant. All the cops in the neighborhood were on the take. The store owner suspected him of having something to do with the break in. He knew enough from his father to realize the old man had put out a contract on him.

For the past three days, his routine was purposely varied. He wanted to buy time to think. A quiet man who never bothered anyone, the thought of violence made his stomach turn. A confrontation would be avoided if at all possible. That would give the mob time to discover they were wrong.

A car parked at the bottom of the hill told him the stakes had been raised. The nose of a white luxury car was clearly visible jutting out into the crosswalk. The young soldiers of the mob who hung out on the corner had been reinforced by a mob officer. What to do? The plan, review the plan!

It was a simple one. Too complex a plan was destined to fail. Ignore them unless they approached in a threatening manner. The first phase called for him to try to talk his way out. As long as there was room to maneuver he would talk. Only if they reached for a gun or tried to force him into a car would phase two go into effect and his father's revolver be drawn. It was important that a distance be kept between him and the mobsters surely waiting at the bottom of the hill. If things got too tight, the gun would be forced out. His father had always said, Never pull out a gun unless you intend to use it. If the gun came out it was going to be fired. He steeled himself with one more deep breath, tapped his pocket, and began to walk down the hill.

No one had seen him yet. Maybe it was not too late to turn around and go down another street. If the mob had a little more time they would find out he had nothing to do with the break in. As the last thought passed through his mind, one of the soldiers came out of the store and looked up the hill. A large smile spread across his face. The thug became very animated and rushed back into the store. It was too late now. The die had been cast.

Three young men came rushing out of John's as the young man approached the bottom of the hill. All three were dressed in suits. One ran to the driver's side of the limo; one walked over to the rear passenger's door; and the third waited with a smile for him to reach the bottom of the hill.

Why were they doing this? Laughing at him as he walked into their trap; waiting patiently for him to deliver himself. They must think this would be easy. The Police would not even look into the matter. They had not investigated his father's murder and he was a fellow officer. A simple, quiet man would vanish. No one but his mother would notice. These thugs expected him to quiver, beg for his life, and then die quietly. Determined not to leave the world in such an ignoble manner, he resolved to go down with a fight.

His heart was pounding as he reached the bottom of the hill. Flaws in his plan were now evident. To take on three thugs at once was a loser. He might be able to get one or two shots off, but his father's service revolver was twenty years old. The mobsters in front of him surely carried the new 9mm pistols. He would be dead before the obsolete revolver could discharge three times. If he tried to run across the street they would shoot him in the back and leave. No one would have seen anything. The neighborhood people were all cowering behind their doors. Even if someone heard the shot and looked out a window, the Police would ignore them.

These thoughts rushed through his mind in an instant. In that time the one thug waiting for him had moved to within arm’s reach. He had not been decisive. His window of opportunity was already closed. He watched in horror as the man in front of him reached into his jacket for a gun.

Everything was now moving at an accelerated pace and yet his mind saw it as if in slow motion. The driver started the engine as his accomplice opened the car door and beckoned him to step in. If he entered the car he would vanish as completely as Jimmy Hoffa. The man reaching for his gun almost had it out. All choices had been reduced to one. He would leave this miserable world with a fight. Reaching into his side pocket, he pulled the old revolver out.

Chapter Two

Frank Helms quietly opened the bunkroom door of the old Vailsburg firehouse. A length of 3/4 inch rope was draped over his shoulder. After softly closing the door, he knelt down and crawled along the linoleum floor to the rear pole hole. A polished two inch brass pole went through the middle of two hinged wooden doors at the bottom of a three foot wide circular opening in the floor. Frank lay down on his stomach, gently opened one of the doors, and lowered one end of the rope to the apparatus floor. Several pairs of eager hands reached up for it as he began to inch along the floor toward a bed at the other end of the room. Heavy snoring could be heard coming from the bed. The young Newark firefighter struggled to contain his laughter.

How could anyone sleep through this racket? It was a question the firefighters assigned to Six Engine would have to answer over the next few months. Company closings and a realignment of Battalions had moved Six Engine from the Fourth to the First Battalion. Now whenever one of the Vailsburg companies needed manpower, Six would be the company drawn from to fill the gap. Everyone who worked with him on Springfield Avenue and Hunterdon Street knew there would be many more trips to this western edge of the city. No one was happy about that prospect; all firehouses were not created equally.

The most glaring point of difference between Vailsburg and the hill, the area of the city served by his company, was the amount of work. The Burg was a stable residential neighborhood where firefighters who had put their time in at busy companies could spend their last years on the job. The few fires fought out of this house were battled with brain not brawn. It was not a firehouse for young firefighters.

Frank had grown up using the men stationed in this firehouse as role models, Scout Masters, and mentors. Jim Burr, his captain for the night, was his father’s best friend. A former member of Six Engine, Captain Burr had advised the young firefighter to put in for that company. Frank had never regretted following that advice.

Because one of the guys had taken a personal day, Frank had already missed a working fire in an abandoned building. There had also been a couple of runs to the projects, but they did not matter. Walking up twelve flights of concrete stairs in a building filled with smoke from burning garbage was not why he loved his job. Since the effort to move along the floor quietly made the going very slow, Frank had a lot of time to think over the night’s events. This bunk room was huge compared to Six’s. That’s what happens when you stuff three companies into one house. At least his wife would appreciate the extra rest he would get tonight. Chingli was always upset when Frank came home exhausted after a night in the firehouse. She had been happy on the phone after being convinced that the Burg was not that busy.

Are you sure? she had asked, Sometimes I don't trust you with your simple explanations. There always seems to be something left out. You don't have to protect me.

He had let the veiled accusation slide, remembering how she was when alone at home. With a year and a half of experience dealing with her, Frank was beginning to get a feel for his wife's moods. She was unusually nervous tonight. Walk gingerly, a voice in the back of his mind told him. Her next sentence changed the subject entirely and almost led to a fight.

Can you transfer to this firehouse?

Why would I want to transfer to Vailsburg? It's too slow, he had responded without thinking.

Why do you have to fight fires? You come home exhausted and smell like smoke and, and you get hurt too much. If you are going to go back to school, wouldn't it be better to go to a slower house? You can study better there can't you? she had said in a soft, almost pleading voice. Alarms should have been set off in his head by her tone, but the atmosphere of the firehouse had deadened his senses. Too much yang, not enough yin would be the Chinese explanation for his stupidity.

Then how come so many guys make captain out of Six Engine? You have to study for promotion on this job, my dear, Frank countered. Don't worry about my studies. I studied for my BA while at Six Engine. I'm sure I can earn my MBA there also.

You did not have a wife when you studied for your BA, she pointed out in an edgy voice.

What does having a wife have to do with how I can study in the firehouse? he asked, still not realizing the conversation was in a downward spiral.

Having a wife does not matter to you, is that what you are saying? You think you can go to work and have fun like a little boy and if you get yourself hurt or . . . or worse and I don't matter, right?! Or don't you intend to go back to school? You promised me you would get your MBA and leave that crazy job. You mean you're not going to leave the Fire Department?! Her voice had begun to rise, finally setting off the alarm in his head.

No, my love that is not what I meant, he said reassuringly. Our plans have not changed. I intend to get my degree and then leave this job. I didn't study Chinese for four years just to sit in a firehouse. Right now, though, we have to eat, so I'll stay on the job. The safest place to be on this job is in a young company that knows what they're doing, Frank tried to say the last sentence in as calm and authoritative a voice as possible.

Okay, if you're so sure, but I'm still scared. I'm all alone here. You're the only one I have. I should have known better than to fall in love with a foreign devil. Why didn't you just leave me alone? she finished in a teasing tone.

Leave her alone! While they were dating it was hard to tell who was chasing whom. This was not the time to point that out to his little scheming China doll. His answer was in Chinese and appealed to her Buddhist upbringing. "Qian shi de guanxi, my love." It was a debt from a past life.

As he crawled along the floor, Frank continued to review the conversation with his wife to see where it had gone wrong. American women were confusing enough; how did he fall for a Taiwanese girl? A woman of Byzantine complexity who was always two steps ahead, but not necessarily in the right direction. The manipulative ploys that came from her sometimes left his head spinning. The biggest mistake he had made so far in dealing with his wife was to tell her that if something mattered to her, but did not matter to him, then she won by default. Fewer and fewer things mattered to him.

His analysis of how the conversation had gone wrong pointed to the natural camaraderie of the firehouse. This had caused his guard to drop momentarily. Women! You always had to be on your toes or they would twist you into a pretzel. Taking a deep breath and holding it for a second, he tried to get his head back to where it was before Chingli called. Relax and enjoy the respite from the hectic in and out of the hill. The night had been interesting so far. After the welcoming banter, the guys had turned to the serious business of dinner. Unlike meals on an average night in Six Engine, they had eaten without interruption. Then Andy Roanoke had made the mistake of bailing out on the clean up after the meal.

A miserable cold had sent the senior firefighter up to bed shortly after he finished eating. He should have just stayed home, but none of the old timers did that unless they couldn’t walk. Not that the younger firefighters were much better. Even though their labor contract allowed firefighters 365 days of sick leave, few of the men took advantage of the benefit. Between concerns for their reputations and the need to work a second job, most of them felt obliged to report to work. There they would crawl into a corner of the bunk room and ride it out, getting up to jump on the rig when an alarm came in. The only hazard to this arrangement was the playful atmosphere that permeated a firehouse.

By now Frank had reached the bed where Andy was snoring contently. He worked quickly, silently tying the rope around the bed’s legs. After it was secure, he crawled back to the pole hole and eased the excess rope down through the doors. Then he backed off and waited for the show to begin. As the rope went taut a phone rang downstairs. When this was followed by the click of the joker circuit on the alarm console, Frank knew they had to hurry. An alarm of some sort was about to be transmitted over the telegraph system.

Andy’s bed rocketed across the room before the house bells began to sound. The sonance of snoring was abruptly replaced by an unmanly shout. Frank watched Andy sit up, his mouth wide open and a confused, shocked look on his face. The shout stopped when the bed crashed into the metal piping that surrounded the pole hole. Bells immediately filled the quiet void that followed Andy’s awakening. The bells sounded nine times in quick succession before the box number came over the system. A signal nine was being dispatched. That would mean only half of the four engines and two trucks normally sent to a fire box would respond. It was probably a pulled box and so a false alarm. Frank slid down the front pole, but not before the senior firefighter had seen him.

I saw you Frank Helms, you little red ass, Andy shouted as he eased out of bed.

Frank hit the pad at the bottom of the pole and stepped toward Twenty-one Engine. His boots were standing on the floor beside the rig. As he slid his feet out of his shoes and into the boots, he heard Andy’s coughing travel across the bunk room floor. The elder firefighter slid down the pole while Frank reached for his turn-out coat.

What goes around comes around, Frankie boy, Andy said with a smile. Frank knew it wasn’t an idle threat. Andy had worked for years with a couple of the guys at Six Engine. They would like nothing better than to join in a little practical joke to make the time between alarms go faster.

A shout came from the watch room as Andy walked to Twenty-Six Engine, Everyone goes. Signal Nine, Varsity Road and Eastern Parkway. The sound of other firefighters coming down the poles from upstairs, walking briskly down the stairs, and coming through the kitchen door filled the firehouse. All were moving toward the three rigs on the apparatus floor. None gave any indication that they had something to do with Andy’s ride across the bunk room. Frank chuckled as he thought about what Andy had said. What goes around comes around in the firehouse.

Overhead doors started to go up and the doors to the trucks were slammed closed. Three diesel engines kicked out black fumes while the house bells continued to sound. Frank moved toward the door controls, but was waved off by one of guys from Truck Twelve. We'll get the doors, kid. He went back to Twenty‑one Engine and climbed up into the jump seat behind the driver. The rig pulled out of quarters a moment later while a second round of bells began to ring in the house. They stopped on the firehouse apron for a moment so the Captain could clear the road ahead with the siren and air horn. The rig pulled away and out into traffic. Since Twenty‑one was first due on this box, Twenty‑six Engine waited until they were clear of the apron before following. Twelve Truck brought up the rear after starting the doors on their way down.

It took less than three minutes for Twenty‑one to reach the top of the hill on Varsity Road. As the apparatus began its descent down the small incline, Frank could see what he considered a familiar scene. A body was lying in the middle of the street at the bottom of the hill. This happened in the center of the city, but not in Vailsburg. By the time Twenty-one reached the corner, Frank had already counted three bodies. He could see there was little chance of reviving the young men lying on the ground. They had all suffered gunshot wounds to the head. Brains and blood had formed pools around each body.

Frank stepped down from the rig and heard the Captain ask headquarters to have Police and EMS respond. They began CPR on the victims immediately, although all knew it was futile. As he labored over the young body beneath him, Frank could only think This is another one for Ray. One of his best friends was a homicide detective. Life had left this young man when the bullet had passed through the front of his skull and exploded out the back. Ray would have the job of finding the killer.

Chapter Three

Ray Friedrick responded to his old neighborhood from the West Precinct. Since the firehouse on Springfield Avenue was located along the route to Vailsburg, he made it a point to swing past it. Passing by the firehouse where his two friends worked was a habit of his. Since Frank had left the Police Department to become a firefighter, Ray had been on the defensive. It became necessary for him to keep track of Six Engine. When the gang got together, tales of busy nights responding to fires would be spun until his inevitably comment of "Every time I passed that firehouse, the rig