There's Just No 'Getting Away From It All'

Chapter Twelve

Station 51's crew reached the scene of the possible structure fire fifteen minutes later.

Mike pulled Big Red right up to the Danfield Pharmaceutical Warehouse.

Roy parked the Squad behind three police cars and a waiting ambulance.

Both men cut their trucks' sirens.


Captain Stanley jumped down and went jogging up to a police sergeant, standing under a street light. "What is goin' on?" he demanded, sounding somewhat annoyed.

"We've got the arsonist trapped in a corner of the warehouse," the Sergeant explained. "It's a stand-off. He's poured gasoline all over the place and he's threatened to light it if we try anything."

"Good grief!" Hank exclaimed.

"There's more. The watchman says he thinks he might have wounded the guy. The watchman also says that the warehouse is packed full of chemicals…some may be toxic—or explosive."

"If he does light that gasoline, I'm gonna need more manpower!"

"That's already been taken care of, Captain…" the Sergeant calmly said and pointed off down the dark street. "We have two battalions, four additional engines and a back-up paramedic squad waiting in the wings. Oh, also two foam trucks."

Stanley stared disbelievingly out through the darkness at the row of engines and equipment parked just a block away. "How—?"

"—We called them on the phone and told them not to use their sirens," the Sergeant interrupted. Then, seeing the Captain's still completely puzzled expression, he further explained, "You see, the arsonist has a portable scanner rigged up on the Fire Department's frequencies. He can hear all your calls. We don't want him to think that this is anything more than a one alarm call. He would probably like to go out in an eight alarm blaze of glory. But he might not think a single alarm possible structure fire is worth it."

Captain Stanley stared incredulously at the Sergeant. "So what are we supposed to do?"

"We can't use a marksman—not with all that gasoline around. So we'll just have to wait."

"For what?"

A patrolman left the warehouse and came running up to them. "He's insulted, Sarge," he breathlessly reported. "He wants more firemen here. He wants to know why only one alarm was sounded."

"Will your men volunteer to go inside?" the Sergeant suddenly wondered, and pointed to 51's paramedics.

Stanley considered a flat out no answer, but he had faith in his men's sanity. "Why don't you ask them?" he offered.

The Sergeant turned to DeSoto and Wright. "How 'bout it, gentlemen?"

Roy looked uneasy. "Just what did you have in mind?"

"The arsonist may be wounded. You could offer to treat him. When you got close enough—you could jump him."

"What happens if he lights the match?" Dave interjected.

The Sergeant didn't reply. He didn't have to. The look on his face said it all.

"Sorry," DeSoto said, "but my wife made me promise her I wouldn't do anything foolish. And it would be very foolish to volunteer for anything that would put my life in that maniac's hands." He turned to Stanley and offered a more sound suggestion. "Cap? Couldn't we put some hoses inside to dilute the gas?"

"Sounds good to me, Roy. But I'm not sure who's in charge of this circus—" Stanley stopped speaking as two more cars suddenly pulled up.

Two men exited the vehicles and came hurrying up to the Captain and the Sergeant.

"What's going on, Hank?" Chief McConike inquired.

"What do we got, Sergeant?" the other man demanded

The Sergeant went first. "Lieutenant, we have the arsonist trapped inside. It's a stand-off. He's poured gasoline all over the place and has threatened to set it on fire if we try anything. The warehouse is full of chemicals."

"Chief," Stanley spoke up, "We'd like to get some water in there to dilute the gasoline."

"What's stopping you?" McConike wondered.

"The Sergeant wants us to wait."

The Chief and the Lieutenant turned to the Sergeant. "For what?" they both asked at once.

"He might be wounded. The watchman thinks he may have wounded him."

"Are we waiting for him to bleed to death?" McConike incredulously inquired. "He may not even be injured!"

"I'm open for suggestions," the Sergeant admitted. "Anybody got a better idea?"

There was a long silence.

"I think we could water down that gas without even letting him know we were pulling anything," Captain Stanley finally determined.

The Chief apparently liked the plan because he turned to the Lieutenant.

The Lieutenant looked thoughtful. "If your department is willing to assume full responsibility—go right ahead!"

McConike turned to Station 51's Commander and nodded.

Stanley turned and issued several orders to his engine crew.

The firemen ran over to their truck and began pulling hoses.

DeSoto had been discussing something with Wright. He turned back to his boss. "Cap? Dave and I are willing to try to distract the arsonist. If we can keep him talking, he might not hear the water running. We'll be careful…" he promised.

Stanley hesitated, but then slapped the paramedic lightly on the back. "Okay, Roy! But don't get anywhere near that gasoline! That's an order!"

The two distracters nodded and went trotting over to their rescue truck. They grabbed a few pieces of gear and ran into the warehouse.


The two firemen followed their noses over to where some uniformed police officers were crouched down behind some crates. They knew they had to be fairly close to the arsonist, because there was an overpowering odor of gasoline in the air.

"Where is he?" Roy asked one of the officers.

The officer pointed to the far left corner of the brightly lit warehouse. "Over there. Right behind those barrels."

"Has anybody seen him?"

"No. Why?"

"I was just wondering if he's been wounded," DeSoto explained. "Have you been wounded?" he shouted, deciding to ask the arsonist, himself.

"Who wants to know?" the arsonist called back, from the corner of the warehouse.

"Roy DeSoto! Los Angeles County Fire Department!"

"Squad 51, right?"

The paramedic was surprised. But then he remembered what the Sergeant had said about the scanner. "Right!"

"I recognize your voice! Where are the rest of the firemen?"

"Outside! Have you been hurt?"

"What are they doing out there?"

"They're waiting to see if we need their help! Have you been hurt?"

"You're lying!"

"Look, if you've been hurt, we can help you!"

"Why would you wanna do that?"

"That's our job! That's what we get paid to do! We help people!"

"I meant, why would you want to help me—an arsonist?"

"Arsonists are people, too!"

There was some strained laughter…followed by silence.

Well, not complete silence.

Roy could hear the faint sound of running water. He watched as the warehouse floor gradually became covered with water. "Please! Let us help you!" he shouted loudly, trying to drown out the tell-tale sound.

"Just go away, and let me die!"

"You don't have to die! Give yourself up! The police won't hurt you! Please! Let us help you!" DeSoto's voice was getting hoarse. He cleared his throat and turned to Wright. "You try."

"What do I say?"

"Say anything!" Roy prompted. "Just so he doesn't hear the water running."


Ten minutes later, the distracters had just about run out of small talk.

But that was okay, because the whole floor of the warehouse was now covered with water.

"Tell Captain Stanley to bring the foam trucks up," DeSoto told one of the policemen. The officer nodded and left the warehouse.

"Go tell your Captain to get some more firemen here! I'm going to light this match!"

"Why do you want to burn this building down?" Roy asked, just for something to say.

"I don't want to burn it down! The firemen will put the fire out before it burns down! They always do!"

"Yeah! But there are only six of us here! And, we only have one engine!"

"Get some more trucks! Get some more firemen! I've poured gas all over in here! Where are the firemen?"

The policeman re-entered the warehouse and came running up. "Everything's all set!" he breathlessly announced.

Roy exhaled a long sigh of relief and got stiffly to his feet. "Now we can wait," he croaked rather hoarsely, on account of his strained vocal cords.

He and Wright left the warehouse.


"How does it look in there?" Stanley asked, as his men stepped up to him. He noticed their bodies reeked of gasoline.

"It'll still burn," the senior paramedic croaked, "but it shouldn't explode. It's pretty diluted."

Stanley turned to McConike. "Chief, I think we've just lessened his threat—substantially! The foam crews are all set…"

"Good work, Hank!" McConike declared. Then he turned to the police lieutenant. "It's your move…"

The Lieutenant pursed his lips. "We'll wait!" he determined, following a long, thoughtful silence.


A half hour later, an officer exited the warehouse and came running up. "Lieutenant? We can't get the arsonist to answer us. He may be unconscious…or dead…or bluffing—to lure us over to the gasoline."

The Lieutenant turned to McConike. "Your move, Chief!"

The Chief turned to Stanley. "Hank?"

"We could move in with the foam crews," Station 51's Captain suggested. "That way, if he is bluffing—and does light the gasoline—we'll be on top of it in seconds!"

McConike nodded his approval of the plan.

Stanley passed the order along.


The firemen got into position.

"Now!" the Captain shouted.

The doors on the end of the warehouse were slid open.

Two crews entered, spraying foam—and two more entered, spraying water. They sprayed a path over to where the arsonist was hiding.

The paramedic team followed the foam sprayers.


Roy and Dave reached the arsonist's position.

The guy was lying in a puddle of bloody, watered-down gasoline.

DeSoto shoved some empty gas cans out of his way. Then he stooped down and pressed his fingers into the carotid artery in the motionless man's neck.

Nothing! No pulse…no respirations! His pupils were fixed and dilated.

The paramedic stared down at the bullet wound in the victim's upper left thigh. He recalled Dixie's comment earlier, about hoping the police caught the guy before somebody became a fatality. He turned away from the sickening sight and quietly croaked, "He's dead."

Dave turned to the police officers who had accompanied them. "Must've bled to death."

The Sergeant didn't seem a bit surprised.

Wright watched as the Lieutenant took an opened book of soggy matches from the arsonist's clenched fist. "It's a good thing he didn't carry a cigarette lighter," he solemnly realized.

TBC