Legacy of Pain Rises From Ashes

The French windows in the empty upstairs bedroom bang open and shut, open and shut, in the chilly afternoon wind. What was once a lovely row of cyprus trees is now a line of charred stick skeletons. The remains of two fire-gutted apartment buildings, still reeking of wet ash and smoke, stand as grim reminders that just a few nights ago disaster struck our usually peaceful neighborhood on South Orange Grove Avenue with single fury.

Two people were killed. A third escaped with gunshot wounds and severe burns from what turned out to be a deadly murder-arson case, and residents of seven other apartments were homeless as a result of the blaze. It was too close . . . too close for comfort.

The night started with the usual routine. I went to bed at about midnight, and had just settled into deep sleep when the sound of a police helicopter circling my building jolted me awake. As a city resident, I’ve grown accustomed to the choppers chasing crime suspects up and down the dark alleys of our area. The powerful searchlights have even blazed through my windows a time or two--a disquieting reminder of the dangerous night streets outside.

It took me several moments to register the urgent order blaring this time from the helicopter: “Get out of your houses! Evacuate immediately!”

I quickly dressed in jogging clothes and sturdy shoes, grabbed my purse, keys and coat, and put my dog, Guenevere, on a leash, still not quite believing we had to evacuate. Before opening the front door, I peeked out the window. It looked like the whole street was on fire. I moved a lot faster, exiting through a storm of smoke and cinders.

Neighbors, also roused from sleep, banged on the doors of elderly residents who might not have heard the warning. Together we evacuated everyone from our building. By the time we reached the street, two stately old apartment buildings were fully involved, with flames ripping through roofs and jumping to trees, igniting a third building. The sound was unearthly, like nothing I’ve heard or ever want to hear again--a rushing, moaning, crackling kind of sound.

The police helicopter continued to blare the evacuation order, and residents up and down the block poured out of their homes, bewildered, frightened, fascinated. Fire trucks started arriving and the battle to control the blaze began. We stood and watched in shock.

Onlookers pressed closer to the scene in spite of orders from police to move back. Rumors made the rounds. A woman shook her head, “It sounded like an explosion. I think somebody was killed. . . “ Another neighbor said, “It was murder. They shot three people and torched the place. . . .” As if in support of the latter theory, a badly burned victim was rushed past us by paramedics. I couldn’t tell whether the person was a man or woman. “She was on fire when she ran out of the building,” someone whispered.

As the fire department began to contain the blaze, and we were allowed to return to our homes, I put my Red Cross disaster services training to use, asking the police about the survivors who had no homes to return to. I located one elderly lady who had been carried out of the burning building by the police and was now settled on a couch in a neighbor’s apartment. A young woman sitting on some steps clutched her dog tightly and shuddered as she watched her apartment disappear in flames. I asked if she wanted to come inside and warm up, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the destruction.

A young couple who had been chased from their second-story bedroom by flames bursting through the ceiling were huddled, barefoot, in a door stoop. I asked if they needed a place to stay, and gratefully they accepted. The woman was frantic about her cats. It’s one thing to quickly put a dog on a leash, but quite another to find and evacuate two panicked cats. The couple had fled for their lives, leaving the front door open, hoping the cats had had sense enough to get out, too.

At about 3 a.m., when the fire was fairly well under control, a firefighter escorted us into the couple’s apartment to check for the cats, who were found--alive. They had hidden under the stove and refrigerator and, protected from the blaze by the thick building walls, had survived the inferno, in shock but otherwise unharmed.

When the chaos outside finally subsided, we decided to try to rest the few remaining hours before daylight. We took the cats to my apartment. I provided my unexpected house guests with towels and night attire and retired to my bedroom. It was then that the full horror finally struck me and I sat in bed and wept.

Neighbors across the street, people whose names and faces were familiar to me, had been murdered, and in the arson fire set to destroy the evidence, their remains had been burned beyond recognition. And in the blaze, other innocent neighbors had been stripped of their homes and belongings. It could have been me. My building. My life. . . .

In the morning light, the gutted buildings were a shock to see. The firefighters had done what they could to protect personal belongings, but much was destroyed. Residents carefully entered their apartments to inspect the damage.

My apartment became “command central” for the aftermath, where the Red Cross coordinated relief efforts and the police interviewed witnesses. While waiting for homicide and arson investigators to come to talk to her, the elderly evacuee told me how she had lived in her apartment for 20 years. She was on a fixed income and paid a rental rate that was just affordable to her. I wondered what would be in store for her now.

The salvage operation took most of the day. Neighbors and friends helped victims sort through belongings that were not totally destroyed, and provided transportation to the Red Cross Disaster Assistance Center to file claim forms.

As I drove my elderly neighbor to the assistance center, I wondered where our local elected officials were. Didn’t they used to extend a helping hand in situations like this affecting their constituents? Where were the county mental health specialists to provide survivors with information about the emotional impact of a disaster like this? And who was on hand to let people know they could qualify for assistance from the fund for victims of violent crime?

Reporters appeared and disappeared, filing their stories and requesting interviews with survivors. From police, we discovered that the crime was more horrifying than we’d imagined. The victims were bound, gagged, drenched in flammable liquid and locked in a closet to burn to death. The surviving woman was shot, doused and set on fire. It is a miracle she escaped alive. Because of the possible drug involvement and the exceeding brutality of the arson-murders, residents were understandably hesitant to say anything about the disaster to reporters.

Late in the day, after salvaging what they could of their belongings, evacuees moved to the houses of friends and family and an eerie quiet settled over the neighborhood. As I took Guenevere on a walk, the faces of my murdered neighbors floated through my mind. I could clearly recollect their features--the smiles, the eyes, the shapes of their bodies, the way they used to walk out of their home to their cars parked on the street.

In the dusk light, the fire-gutted buildings took on an almost haunted look, and I began to understand the Navajo superstition of abandoning houses where people have died, for fear of the evil spirits lingering there. These buildings were places of death, and the very air about them was heavy not only with the smell of smoke and wet ash, but with a kind of horrified sorrow.

Earlier in the afternoon, a woman who was apparently the mother of one of the murder victims had stopped by, uncertain of the fate of her daughter. Upon hearing details of the tragedy, she collapsed with grief. “Come on, Mama, come on,” her son said as he held her in his arms. “Let’s go talk to the police. . . .”

As I watched him lead his mother away, I felt ashamed and heartsick, for all of us had concluded without much thought that our murdered neighbors had been dealing drugs, and had somehow brought this horrible retribution upon themselves. Even if this eventually proves to be true, the dead have left behind them a legacy of pain and suffering that has touched their families and friends deeply, as well as their innocent neighbors, whose lives have been forever changed by this nightmare event.

What now? I watched the survivors as they pressed on, packing, sweeping up, sorting through the piles of water-soaked belongings.

Albert Camus wrote: “In the midst of winter, I finally learned that here was in me an invincible summer. . . .” Like the Phoenix, which rose from the ashes of destruction, with dignity, courage, and in spite of it all, the survivors moved forward to rebuild their lives.