Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [62]
I try to sip the hot chocolate, but it is still scalding. There is a copy of Playboy magazine on the table. I thumb through the beginning section until I come to the interview. Playboy interviews Elliott Gould, the actor. It doesn’t take much to shape opinion in this country. I start to read it, but once again I’m saved by the bells. Two, then nine, five, and six. Stebbins Avenue and Freeman Street. That’s right around the corner. “Eighty-two and Thirty-one goes. Chief goes too.” The house-watchman’s voice doesn’t seem as loud on the cold apparatus floor. He begins to yell again, but the department phone rings. He answers it, then yells. “Forget it Thirty-one. Seven-twelve will take it in.”
We can see Ladder 712 racing up Intervale Avenue as we leave quarters. We are at the intersection of Stebbins and Freeman in less than thirty seconds. The corner building is on fire, but it appears to be only one room on the ground floor. The hydrant is right in front of the building, and well need just two lengths of hose. Piece of cake.
“Stretch the two-and-a-half,” Captain Albergray orders.
We could fight this fire easily with the smaller hose, but the regulations call for two-and-a-half for cellar and ground floor fires. Like in the Army, it’s easier, in the end, to do it by the books.
I pull the nozzle off, while Kelsey and Knipps take the two lengths. The end of the second length is uncoupled and being connected to the pumper as I walk up the three steps of the stoop. Captain Albergray and Lieutenant Coughlin watch as Nixon and Mike Runyon force open the locked door. It is a simple lock, and snaps with one pull on the halligan tool. The door opens some, and then shuts hard. Nixon puts his shoulder to the door, but there is someone on the other side pushing against him. A voice, muffled and choking, begins to moan, “I want to die. I want to die.”
Nixon gives a hard shove, and the door opens wide. There is a man, middle-aged, about forty, running down the long, narrow hallway of the apartment. Toward the back. Away from the fire.
The smoke is heavy enough, but the front windows are vented, and it lifts nicely. I am on my knees, Captain Albergray beside me, and Royce behind with a mask, just in case. But, it’s only one room, and I make it easily.
Nixon and the “super-probie” have followed the man. That’s their job—search and rescue. Mike Runyon has begun to open the windows of the other rooms. The man has run into the kitchen, and stands like a cornered animal, with a carving knife in his hands. The “super-probie” tries to approach him, gently. But the man leaps out at him, and swings the knife. Its edge opens the super-probie’s cheek. The man springs back into the comer as John pulls the bleeding super-probie out of the room.
“Go out and get that taken care of,” John says as he pulls the kitchen door shut. “Have the Chief call the cops. I’ll keep this maniac locked in here.”
John pulls on the handle of the door, but the man does not try to open it. He begins yelling again, passionately, “I want to die. I want to die. Let me die.”
The fire is out. Knipps has relieved me on the nozzle. Chief Niebrock divides his attention between controlling the fire, and making sure that Nixon is all right. The other members of Ladder 712 have begun to put holes in the ceilings and sidewalls. The Chief shines his lamp on each hole and studies them carefully, until he is sure that the fire has not extended.
Two policemen enter the hall, guns drawn. “Where is he?” one of them asks.
“That way,” the Chief says, gesturing toward the end of the hall.
John releases the doorknob, and says, “Watch out for him—he’s psycho.”
A policeman kicks the door open. The man is still in the corner, still yelling that he wants to die. Both cops are cautious as they enter the room, stepping slowly and gingerly. One of them commands, in a strong, direct voice, “Come on, drop that knife.”
The man releases an insane, diabolical scream, and runs