David Grann - The Devil & Sherlock Holmes

“Remember what?”

“We went in the ambulance together.”

Shea recalled that the Daily News said he had been rescued along with another bloodied firefighter. “You’re the other guy?” Shea asked.

The stranger smiled. “That’s me. Rich Boeri.”

They shook hands, as if meeting for the first time. Shea took out a piece of paper and a pen, which he tried always to carry with him, and pressed Boeri for more information. Boeri said that they were transported in an ambulance to a police boat and taken across the Hudson River to New Jersey. “Did I say anything about the other guys from my company?” Shea asked.

Boeri shook his head. “You just kept saying, ‘Did the towers collapse?’ ”

Days later, Shea was still overcome by the encounter. “I’m just walking down the street and out of nowhere he starts telling me what happened to me,” he said. As Shea sensed more of the past emerging, he phoned one of the people who, according to the Daily News article, had saved him: Captain Hank Cerasoli. They agreed to meet at a diner on the Upper East Side, and Shea made his way there with his girlfriend, Stacy. “I hope I can handle it,” he said.

When they arrived, Cerasoli was waiting inside with his wife. A modest man in his fifties with a bald head and a silver mustache, he wore his fireman’s coat. Over eggs and French toast, Cerasoli described how he was struggling with his own memory loss. He had been hit on the head and initially could not recall the location of the firehouse he had worked at for seventeen years. His memories had gradually come back, and he recalled stumbling upon Shea in the middle of the street after the first tower collapsed. “I thought you were dead,” he said. “You weren’t moving at all.”

Shea’s face whitened, and Cerasoli asked Shea if he was sure that he wanted him to continue. When Shea nodded, Cerasoli explained how he and several others carried Shea on a backboard when they heard the second tower rumble. “We lifted you in the air and ran with you on the board, down an alleyway and into a garage. It suddenly got all black and dark.” Cerasoli drew a map on a napkin, showing where the garage was, on the corner of West Street and Albany Street.

“Was I conscious?” Shea asked.

Cerasoli thought for a long moment. “I don’t remember. There are some details I still can’t remember.”

Shea asked what happened next. Cerasoli said that the Fire Department doctor opened Shea’s shirt and pants. “I was holding your hand. You kept asking me, ‘Where are the others? Are they O.K.?’ I said, ‘Yeah, sure, they’re O.K., they’re out there laughing.’ I didn’t really have any idea, but I wanted you to feel O.K.” Cerasoli paused, then asked, “So were they O.K.?”

Shea shook his head. “No, none of them made it,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Cerasoli said. “I had no idea.”

After they finished eating, Cerasoli’s wife took a picture of them sitting together. “I know he doesn’t want to forget this,” she said.

Cerasoli reached over and put his arm around Shea. “God was with you that day,” he said.

When he wasn’t searching for his past, Shea went from memorial to memorial. One out of every ten people who died that day was a firefighter. Thirty-three died in Shea’s battalion alone, and eleven in his house, including his captain, Frank Callahan, and Bruce Gary, a veteran whom Shea worshipped. “Gary was a senior man with over twenty years,” Shea told me. “He was like Yoda in the house. He was very wise. I wanted to hang out with him all the time. I’m asking, ‘Why you? You would have been a resource for everyone.’ Me? I’m a positive guy, but when people have enough of positive they can’t come to me.”

Shea attended as many memorials as he could, but there were so many that he had to do what everyone in the department had to: choose between friends. In late October, as another service was taking place in the city, I accompanied Shea to a Mass in upstate New York for his lieutenant, John Ginley. Shea still couldn’t drive, and Steve Kelly picked us up. Kelly and Shea wore their Class A uniforms: navy-blue suits and white gloves.

As they spoke in the car about the men who had died, Shea seemed detached, as if he were reading from a piece of paper. Several people close to him had noticed that he seemed increasingly numb. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Shea told me at one point. “I’m not sad enough. I should be sadder.”

While the other men spent more and more time together—searching at Ground Zero, eating their meals at the firehouse, drinking at P. D. O’Hurley’s—Shea spent less and less time with his colleagues.

He now stared out the window at the changing leaves. “Look at them,” he said. “They’re all orange and purple.”

“You sure you’re O.K., Kev?” Kelly asked.

Shea lowered his window and let the wind wash over him. “Ten-four.”

By the time we arrived at the church, scores of firemen were lined up. There was still no body, and in place of a casket a helmet rested at the foot of the altar. “I will never forget those memories,” one of Ginley’s brothers said in his eulogy. “I believe in time this pain will become bearable, because all our memories will be alive in our mind.”

I glanced at Shea. Unlike the other men, who had begun to weep, he was dry-eyed and his face was utterly blank.

By the end of October, Shea began losing interest in his search. “What’s the point?” he asked me. “What am I going to figure out? They’re all dead.”

One day, he found, through the relatives of a deceased firefighter in his house, a news clip from September 11th that showed the men from Engine 40, his truck, going into the towers. At last the quest was over, he thought, as he prepared to watch the clip. On the grainy film he could see each of the men from his company going inside, but he wasn’t there. “I don’t know where the heck I was,” Shea said. “I don’t know what the hell happened to me.”

Finally, he stopped looking for answers, and devoted himself to helping the families of lost firefighters. He was a featured speaker at fund-raisers, though he was suffering from pain in his hand and leg, where the contusions were, and in his groin, where the doctors had surgically removed large amounts of damaged tissue. At a fund-raiser in Buffalo in November, after having appeared only a few days earlier at another in California, he was wan and exhausted. “He’s not letting himself heal,” Stacy told me. “He’s in so much pain, but he won’t say anything.”

As he stared off into space, a stranger asked for his autograph, and he walked away.

The next morning, Flight 587 crashed into the Rockaway Peninsula, near Kennedy Airport, and reporters, believing it was another terrorist attack, tried to track Shea down for comment. Rather than speak to them, he went to the hotel gym and got on the StairMaster in his neck brace, climbing to nowhere and watching the fire burn on TV. “How do you feel, Mr. Shea?” he said, parodying their questions. “How do you feel?”

“He’s starting to have nightmares,” Stacy said. “He’s kicking and thrashing.”

He told me, “I remember the dreams.”

Emotions, once suppressed, overwhelmed him, and periodically he began to cry. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said.

He found an article about post-traumatic stress, and highlighted the words “It is O.K. to be in pain. That is the first principle of recovery.”

By the beginning of December, many in the firehouse were showing their own symptoms of trauma. “You see signs,” Kelly told me. “Marriages are starting to come under fire more than usual. I don’t know if there is more drinking, but there is plenty of it.”