K. Janssen - Hampton Manor

He could hear police and fire engine sirens heading his way. He wasn’t surprised that a fire at Hampton Manor would take precedent over an empty warehouse that was a goner from the get-go. They can’t have much water left. Boy, are they’re in for a long night . He started his engine and backed out. As he began to roll forward he noticed that the large steel gates that blocked access to the Manor were still closed. With no one and no way to open them from inside the house, the gates would remain locked. I’d love to see how they deal with that, but I’ve got to move along. The dastardly deed is done.

The Assassin planned to stay overnight at the Happy Days Motel in New Jersey where the original license plate would be put back on the car and the cell phone, pager and remotes would be thrown at half-mile intervals into a nearby lake.

The Manor gates would turn out to be a minor inconvenience compared to the long list of contraventions the Fire Department would endure before the night was over.

Chapter 45

As the Assassin slowly closed the book on his assignment, the drama at the fire site was just starting to unfold in his wake. Fires rank very high in the list of spectator sports. As observers, men usually outdraw women at these “events”. The blaze underway at Hampton Manor would be no exception. Old Brooking was being inundated by a series of what appeared to be random events. First the water system failure, then the old Parker Brother’s lumber warehouse going up in flame and now Hampton Manor ablaze. The town was having a genuine “three-fer.”

Townsfolk jockeyed for position to ogle the spectacle. Some came on foot, some by car others via bicycles. Several teens traveled over on their skateboards. The Assassin was missing the big show, but at a time like this it was best not to be a strange face in the crowd, even one with a partial disguise. People in small towns tend to recall strangers during catastrophic events. It’s not wise to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when that happens.

Among the several hundred spectators throughout the night, were Kane Masterson, Marcia Bloom, Lauren and Daniel McKnight and Evelyn Littleton, each fixated on the fire and the hapless efforts of the brave men fighting it; each having different feelings about the relevance of what they were seeing

Hampton Manor, sitting atop a knoll could be viewed from almost every part of town. For over seventy-four years it has been a symbol of the affluence that made Old Brooking one of the most picturesque towns on Connecticut’s southern shore. Now afire from wing to wing it gave the appearance of a giant bonfire at a football rally.

Two police cars were the first responders to the scene, followed by the Police Chief’s unmarked car. The Chief stepped from the car and walked over to gate. He looked up at the blazing building, flames completely engulfed the outer shell. He made his assessment and returned to the vehicle. His driver saw the look on the Chief’s face. It was going to be a long night whatever the Chief decided to do. He asked, “What’s next?”

“I don’t think there is much we can do. The town doesn’t have any equipment to take out that gate or any munitions to take out the lock. We’ll have to do around it, through the hedges on both sides. We’ll have to wait for one of the fire engines. Those hedges would rip up our undersides.” He talked on the phone with the Town Administrator and Fire Chief and dispatched his men to set up barricades and tape to create a clear path for the first two of the town’s fire engines that were within earshot.

“When they get here tell them to go right on through the hedges. From the looks of that blaze, no one is going to fault us for damage to the landscaping. That’ll be the least of anyone’s concerns. The Chief says they called for backup from the surrounding communities, so expect two trucks from Minton and two from Treebrook to come rolling in behind ours.”

The two town fire trucks easily rode over the hedges, one on each side, followed by two police cars. They quickly made their way to the front of the building, The firemen were off the rigs before they came to a stop. One of the firefighters was Old Brooking’s Chief of twenty years, John “Buck” Carlson. The look on his face told the story. Without sufficient water, there was no way they could even approach the building. The brick and stone exterior walls were already charred from the flames and the thick black smoke. The building’s size presented a formidable challenge. It was over two hundred and fifty feet long by one hundred feet deep in the main building; the wings were about fifty feet deep. The flames were evenly spread over the two story building.

The windows along the West Wing silhouetted the metal bars, installed for security reasons, against the backdrop of flickering flames. The bullet proof one-way glass that was intended to hide them from public view was blown out by the initial blast, exposing them to onlookers. The second explosion had damaged the front door which eventually fell from its frame.

The heat and smoke kept the firemen from coming any closer than thirty feet of the structure. Several firemen headed for the attached garage intent on checking for keys to move the six vehicles parked there. The roof of the garage was already in flames and their Chief signaled for them to back off. At this point the threat of a ceiling collapse and gasoline tank explosion outweighed saving a few vehicles.

The frustration they felt at the warehouse fire was returning. Water was their most potent weapon, but their tanks were now empty. The surrounding towns were sending help, but the only thing that they would accomplish would be to put out the flames. Any thought of salvaging the Manor was long since gone. The job now was to extinguish a fire that covered over eighteen thousand square feet.

A rescue vehicle and a tanker from the Minton Fire Department arrived and the Fire Captain aboard the tanker sought out “Buck” for orders on where to dispense their precious cargo of twenty five hundred gallons of water. The Chief decided that preventing the cars from exploding was a priority. As the water doused the flames, the garage roof collapsed and steam from the dying embers filled the air. The cars were totaled by the weight of the roof, but at least they had prevented an additional explosion.

Within minutes a pumper and a tanker with a total of thirty five hundred gallons of water arrived from Treebrook. Chief Carlson conferred with their Fire Captain and they concentrated the water on the front entrance; their intended point of entry into the Manor when the danger subsided.

The crews from the three communities withdrew fifty feet and waited. It was already 10:00 and the fire was starting to run out of material to consume. From experience the fire professionals knew that their vigil would continue for several more hours. They also knew that when it was over, very little of Hampton Manor would be left. It was a classic case of “too little, too late.”

The heat lessened within twenty minutes and the two neighborhood tankers emptied their cargo of water on the main house entrance. and hallway. Occasionally they heard small explosions from within the Manor as stored oxygen or nitrogen tanks exploded. It would be at least an hour before it would be safe for the crews to venture into the building.

The Treebrook engines finally left at 11.00.; the rescue truck and tanker from Minton an hour later. Buck thanked them for their help and pledged to assist them in the future, should the need ever occur. That was one favor they all hoped would never have to be repaid. Chief Carlson accepted Treebrook’s offer to allow the four Old Brooking pumpers to return with them to refill their tanks.