Professor Gould’s concern that firefighting, rescue, and investigative activities might have moved artifacts from their original resting places was allayed in part by an “embedding” phenomenon that resulted from a combination of melted roof materials and freezing temperatures. In several areas of the club, biological specimens and personal items lay within a sandwich of building materials, unmoved from their initial place of repose. Like that archaeological staple, the fly in amber, cell phones and jewelry remained frozen in time and place at The Station, until chipped out by FAR volunteers and screened from their surrounding matrix.
When an object is believed to lie where it was initially discarded or came to rest, archaeologists speak of its having a “primary association” with a location. There is a principle in archaeology that smaller objects tend to resist movement in deposits subject to disturbance. By contrast, larger items tend to be more mobile. Thus, between the size and embedment phenomena, smaller personal items like jewelry and buttons remained close to where they had been deposited during the Station fire — a “primary association,” according to the archaeologists.
Not surprisingly, the areas of the club where most bodies were found were the same areas in which fragmented remains and personal items were most heavily concentrated: a mid-forearm-length black glove, with bone fragments within; a web belt with white-metal buckle; a partially burned baseball cap with the logo “Baltimore Pile Driving.” Health club membership cards and supermarket loyalty cards (readily associated with their owners from scannable bar codes) were common finds. In a corner of the atrium, where fire temperatures had exceeded 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit, were found cranial fragments (most likely the result of explosion in the intense heat); elsewhere, a piece of scalp with hair. Jewelry, watch parts, cell phones, eyeglass frames — all remained more or less where they had fallen, preserved in the amber of melted roofing materials.
FAR’S resident forensic anthropologist, Gabriel Flores, assisted with some of the tougher identifications. Among confusing finds were fiber insulation, which, when burned, can resemble human hair; also, white plastic, which, charred, can mimic bone.
The area between the stage and the ticket counter near the front entrance corridor was dubbed by the FAR team as the “panic zone” through which terrified rock fans rushed toward the exit. Eyeglasses and cell phones appeared to have been peeled off as patrons rushed across the floor. Few, if any, human remains were found in this area. By contrast, the area next to the ticket counter and the front entrance corridor contained “the highest concentration of human remains and the widest possible range of personal effects.”
Personal effects were repatriated through the medical examiner’s office, which hired an independent firm to photograph each item and produce an album that was shown to each family. If items were desired, they were cleaned and delivered to their owners’ families. One personal item, a cell phone, was particularly troubling. It had nineteen messages on it from a distraught relative, each of which went something like: “Where are you?” “Are you OK?”
One family made a special request of the medical examiner’s office. Could searchers possibly be on the lookout for a distinctive necklace worn by their daughter who died in the fire? Gould’s group kept it in mind, but the task was akin to spotting a needle in a haystack. Days of digging and sifting by the FAR team yielded no necklace. It appeared that bad luck just trumped good intentions in this regard.
Some areas proved harder to search than others. Carpet on the floor of the main bar area snagged the team’s excavating tools, greatly slowing the recovery process there. Removal of artifacts from tiled areas of the club was much easier.
The storeroom, where ten bodies were found (and where Dr. Metal was last seen alive), was almost completely untouched by fire. All within it must have succumbed to inhaling super-heated combustion gases. Even if its occupants had wished to use the two fire extinguishers found by the FAR team on a shelf there, they would have found them empty. One bore a tag attesting to its most recent inspection — 1995.
Midway through the project, FAR received a request that took it beyond its initial humanitarian objectives. The team was asked by the fire marshal to look for any nine-volt batteries near the stage area, which might have been related to igniting the pyrotechnics. The team located three such batteries near the stage, as well as a cardboard gerb tube. It could not be determined, however, if any of the batteries was related to the pyro.
Forensic Archaeology Recovery spent more than a week excavating the Station site. Its work was interrupted by one night of heavy snow and another day of freezing rain. Over the course of their work, the FAR volunteers excavated and sieved 340 buckets of fill, recovering eighty-eight discrete personal effects of victims and fifty-four biological specimens. They used the full panoply of archaeological tools found on a dig — shovels, trowels, hand picks, brushes — even tweezers.
The work required a hardy constitution. Depression was as much a hazard as frostbite. FAR kept an EMT-certified safety officer on-scene at all times to assess environmental risks and treat minor injuries — also, to monitor volunteers’ physical and emotional condition. Team members were not permitted to excavate or sieve alone, so that each could observe a colleague.
The bitter cold caused the volunteers to take regular breaks. Fortunately, there was a propane-heated tent on-site, provided by the Red Cross. By the eighth day of work, however, signs of physical and emotional exhaustion began to appear among the group. On day nine, Gould closed the archaeology operation, the team’s work as reasonably complete as time, resources, and human endurance would permit.
Exterior of The Station, with mural by Anthony Baldino. When the Derderians shortchanged Baldino for his work, he left the face of John Lennon unfinished. So the club owners added glasses; voila, Ozzy Osbourne. (Photo, Anthony Baldino)
Minutes after pyrotechnics ignited foam on the walls, The Station was fully engulfed. Firefighters use a hand line as they extricate victims from the front entrance. A master stream is directed at the blaze from the right. (Photo, Geoffrey P. Read)
The first of four photos described in chapter 12 showing pyro ignition sequence at The Station. From left to right: Al Prudhomme (shoulder), Scott Vieira (back), Kelly Vieira (back), Mario Giamei (leather jacket), and John Arpin (bald head). Dan Biechele’s head is visible to the right of the pillar, where he has just triggered the pyro. (Photo, Dan Davidson)
Set list for Great White tour, recovered from the ashes of The Station. It was found in band manager Dan Biechele’s portfolio, along with Jack Russell’s guest list for the concert. (Photo, John Barylick)
ABOVE LEFT Fifteen seconds later, the gerbs have burned out and flames are visible on the corners of the drum alcove. Mark Kendall is playing onstage, and Dan Biechele (far right) heads away from the stage in search of a fire extinguisher. ABOVE RIGHT Flames now roar up walls at both corners of the drummer’s alcove. From left to right: Al Prudhomme (cowboy hat), Dan Biechele (flashlight clenched in teeth), Mario Giamei, and Scott Vieira. (Photos, Dan Davidson)
Fire now flanks the drummer’s alcove, from floor to ceiling. From left to right: Donna Cormier’s hand, pointing toward band door, Eric Powers (just escaped from drummer’s alcove), Scott Vieira (cigarette in mouth, turning toward the Cormiers), and Dan Biechele. Note the cardboard box in foreground labeled “DANGER” and “EXPLOSIVE,” in which pyrotechnics were transported to The Station.
(Photo, Dan Davidson)
West end of club, post-fire.
Remains of stage and drummer’s
alcove in center
West end of club, reconstructed in evidence warehouse.
Note downward-sloping tile floor in foreground, recovered from
front entrance to The Station. (Photos, William White)
Exhibit 458, foam blocks recovered from wall of the drummer’s alcove. Note corner cuts on each foam block, which assisted in matching them to polyethylene foam scavenged by Mickey Mikutowicz seven years before the fire. (Photo, Wil
liam White)
Michael (“Mickey”) Mikutowicz, in performance as “Ozzy Osbourne” at The Station. Note egg-crate polyurethane foam sheets over solid polyethylene foam blocks visible to the right in the photo. (Photo, Michael Mikutowicz and Edward Lashua)
Michael Derderian and Jeffrey Derderian leave the Kent County Courthouse under indictment for involuntary manslaughter. (AP photo)
ABOVE LEFT Jack Russell, post-fire. (AP photo) ABOVE RIGHT Dan Biechele at his sentencing, after pleading guilty to one hundred counts of involuntary manslaughter. (AP photo)
Linda Fisher, at home six years after the fire. (AP photo)
Memorials at the Station site.
Note Barry Warner’s house in right rear.
(Photo, John Barylick)
Not all of FAR’S work could be accomplished with tweezers and brushes. One day, a mechanical loader/grabber was called in to move mounds of debris so that further floor areas could be excavated. Brown student Zach Woodford stood shivering alongside Richard Gould, watching as loose material dribbled from the loader’s claw, on the off chance that it might contain artifacts. When a gold chain glinted from the refuse, Woodford signaled for the loader operator to stop.
It was the necklace they had been asked to look for by the grieving family. Repatriation of that artifact alone was proof to the FAR team that its work had not been in vain.
CHAPTER 22
CIRCLING THE WAGONS
We had permission to use the pyro.
— Jack Russell, while the fire still raged
At no time did I or my brother authorize or OK the use of pyro by the band Great White.
— Jeffrey Derderian, five hours after the fire
Our inspector missed nothing. They were in compliance.
— West Warwick fire chief Charles Hall, seven days after the fire
Our officials were doing their customary public duty in a conscientious way.
— West Warwick town manager Wolfgang Bauer, one month after the fire
IT’S A GENERALLY ACCEPTED NOTION IN THE LAW that statements made by witnesses contemporaneous with a critical event tend to be more trustworthy than accounts rendered long after the fact. For this reason, court rules are loosened to allow into evidence hearsay recitations of “excited utterances” made out of court in the heat of a critical moment. On the other hand, time for research and reflection can sometimes contribute to the accuracy of witness accounts.
For potential criminal and civil defendants in the Station nightclub fire, however, neither phenomenon would obtain. Most immediately lawyered up, clammed up, or, more commonly, gave patently false or misleading statements in their haste to deflect blame. In the minutes, days, and weeks following the tragedy, one after another of the responsible parties went public with everything from selective truths to the big lie. At their most benign, these dubious pronouncements merely demonstrated people’s innate capacity for deception when threatened. At their worst, they were pitiful insults to the memory of Station fire victims.
The commonsense question on the lips of everyone who saw video of Great White’s abortive performance at The Station was, “How could anyone set off fireworks in that firetrap?” To the average layman, the issue boiled down to whether Great White had permission from the club to do so. (Not that permission would have made the use of pyro without required permit and licensed pyrotechnician legal, but it was an easy starting point in casting blame.) Dan Biechele and Jack Russell said, “Yes, the band had permission”; the Derderians, emphatically, “No.”
One of the facts supporting Biechele’s position was that his computerized “advance sheet” for the concert, prepared after consultation with Mike Derderian a week before the show and seized by investigators immediately after the fire, read, “Pyro: Yes,” suggesting that permission had been given. Additionally, in earlier venues on the tour like Shark City in Illinois and Ovation in Florida, where permission for pyro had been denied, Great White did not use it.
Even more telling were arrangements for Great White’s scheduled appearance three days after The Station. It was to be at a venue in Hartford, Connecticut, called the Webster Theater. Dan Biechele had hired a videographer, John Lynch, to tape Great White’s performance there. When Lynch attended the Station concert to prep for his shoot by watching Great White’s show, Biechele told him that the Webster Theater performance would be identical to the show at The Station, “but they were not going to be using pyrotechnics because they didn’t receive permission to do so.” Lynch, who was more or less “with the band,” escaped uninjured from The Station through the band door.
Did Great White simply slip its pyrotechnics past the Station management, who would have denied permission if asked? The answer probably lay in the history of prior pyro use at the club. On that point, Jeffrey Derderian could not have been clearer. Five hours after the fire, he sat slumped in a back booth of the Cowesett Inn. Opposite him were Rhode Island assistant attorney general Randy White and West Warwick detective George Winman. Across the street, the horrific process of removing charred bodies from his nightclub was well under way.
White asked Derderian several questions about whether pyrotechnics had been used by various bands at The Station. The club owner’s answer was that it never happened. The prosecutor described sparklers, flashpots, and “devices that deploy open flames of any kind.” But Derderian stood fast. They were never used. The club owner extemporized, adding that when Great White played The Station in 2000, Jack Russell asked for permission to use pyrotechnics, but it was denied. (Unknown to Derderian, Great White had never used pyrotechnics on any tour before December 2002.)
No matter that W.A.S.P., under the road management of Dan Biechele, had fired off Blackie Lawless’s codpiece gerb at The Station in 2000. Similarly, the fact that Holy Diver had used flashpots; Lovin’ Kry, Hotter Than Hell, and Human Clay had all used gerbs; Dirty Deeds, homemade gunpowder-fueled flashpots; and 10/31 used butane fire-breathing — all on multiple occasions — must have slipped Derderian’s memory in the excitement of the moment.
Two days later, prosecutors asked the same questions of club manager Kevin Beese, and his story echoed Derderian’s. “I’ve had bands ask about doing pyro, and the answer is always no,” explained Beese. “You know, we don’t do pyro. We don’t do fire. We don’t do bombs.”
On the other hand, Beese cautioned that he just might not have seen everything that went on in his single-story, four-thousand-square-foot club: “There’s a lot of times I might be in the basement getting a beer or changing a keg. I might, you know, I might be in the back grabbing a bottle out of a closet, you know what I mean?” And, as for pyrotechnics themselves, Beese pleaded ignorance: “I’m not too familiar with any pyros or anything like that. . . . You’re talking Portuguese to me when you’re talking about pyros and stuff like that.” Whatever Beese had learned from Frank Davidson’s demonstration of twelve- and ten-foot gerbs at The Station, in advance of Human Clay’s appearance there, had apparently been displaced by more pressing concerns.
Frank “Grimace” Davidson, who had illegally shot pyro at The Station for Human Clay multiple times, heard from news reports about Jeff Derderian’s post-fire denial of prior pyro there and was having none of it. When he shot his pyro at the club, Davidson at least brought Scott Gorman along, with fire extinguisher at the ready. And Davidson just knew too many people who had died in the fire.
So, Davidson told his whole history to the police — how he’d liberated gerbs from his prior Florida pyrotechnics job; how he’d demonstrated them for Beese and Stone; how he’d shot pyro twice at The Station for Human Clay; how Beese sought to hire him to do it for the club on a regular basis; how he was scheduled to shoot pyro for a video at The Station that very week; and how he’d spoken by cell phone with Scooter Stone while the fire still burned. Armed with this information, prosecutors reinterviewed Beese three days after his first statement.
In his second statement, Beese admitted that some bands’ use of pyro at T
he Station might have escaped his notice: “I mean, it’s quite possible if they did have some kind of display like that, I might have missed it. I might have been in the back. I could have been on the phone. I could have been booking bands, you know what I mean? . . . I’m not saying that there hasn’t been a band that’s come in and slid it by us. . . . But like I said, I’m in and out of the back room, I’m in and out of the cooler, you know what I mean?”
As to whether he knew anyone named Frank Davidson, however, Beese was immovable: “I really have no idea who he is.” “Nobody’s ever demonstrated any kind of pyrotechnic thing for me,” he added. Asked if he ever tried to hire a “Frank Davidson” to shoot pyro, Beese flatly denied it. “The name doesn’t even ring a bell,” declared Beese. Further inquiry would reveal at least this final denial to be truthful.
In his statements to investigators, Frank Davidson also mentioned Paul Vanner, The Station’s soundman, as someone familiar with prior pyro at the club. He claimed to have known Vanner since high school. Police followed up that lead with Vanner himself. In a statement given four days after the fire, Vanner admitted that a KISS tribute band and Dirty Deeds had previously used pyro at The Station. But, as to knowing anybody named Frank Davidson, well, he was as adamant as Beese: “I don’t know any Frank Davidson.”
Davidson’s story simply did not check out.
Every public tragedy has its share of wannabe witnesses, and the Station fire was no exception. One woman gave police a detailed, increasingly fantastic account of how she escaped the fire, when she was actually participating in a community theater rehearsal of A Chorus Line in Massachusetts that night. Could it be that Frank Davidson was just another wacko with a vivid imagination, looking for his fifteen minutes of fame?
Killer Show Page 20