Then they had an idea. They asked the LAFD arson unit to put out a bogus request to the FIRST organization for publicity photos. Vanity carried the day, and they sent a photographer to a FIRST meeting and got a good shot of John Orr without his glasses for a six-pak. The photo spread was shown five to ten times a day to potential witnesses at every one of those arson fires in the Los Angeles basin, and beyond to the Central Coast and Central Valley of California.
This time they didn't ask who'd been seen in the store at the time of the fires, as the original investigators had done. This time it was: "Is one of these men a customer?" And "Have you ever seen any of these men? And not necessarily on the day of the fire, but anytime?"
They scored their first hit when they interviewed former employees from People's Department Store, the first arson that had been committed in the L. A. series. People's employee Ana Ramirez looked at the photo spread and said, "Yeah, that guy there, number five. He's a customer. He wore a khaki shirt like a service person. I saw him a couple times a few weeks before the fire. He was coming back from where you pay your bills in the store."
She was a middle-aged woman and she was certain. Mike Matassa said she'd be a great witness. They were off and running.
Evelyn Gutierrez, a former employee of the gutted D&M Yardage store in Lawndale, was shown the photo spread and told them that number five was the person she'd seen in the drapery section of the store fifteen minutes before the fire broke out.
And while all this drudge work was paying off, Mike Matassa conducted a little experiment. He made a Pillow Pyro incendiary device. And it worked.
The task force believed that all of the call-outs and log sheets and telephone records to be secretly supplied by Battalion Chief Gray of the Glendale FD would point to one inescapable conclusion: John Orr was always out of the office on pager, always unaccounted for and alone on the dates and times of every single arson. They believed that there would never be any recorded telephone traffic on any of the records at the time of the fires that could later be used to alibi him.
A problem occurred when a witness picked out one of the other faces from the photo lineup. The mug shot she picked happened to look like the composite they'd originally drawn with her help. They questioned her repeatedly until they finally realized that the guy she'd originally described for the composite sketch never could have started the fire. She admitted she'd only seen him at the store after the incendiary device was discovered.
When the frustrated task-force interviewer asked, "Well then, why in the world did you choose him for the composite sketch back then?"
They'd only asked her if she'd remembered anybody, she replied. And yes, she had. She'd remembered him, she said, because he was cute, and had a nice ass.
Chapter
8
In June 1991, John Orr and his wife, Wanda, drove to Orange County to attend his daughter Lori's high-school graduation. Also that month he wrote a cover letter to a New York literary agent who'd been referred by an author he'd met at a book signing in Beverly Hills. After phoning the agent he was invited to send his manuscript, Points of Origin.
By July, Mike Matassa was back at work as a co-lead investigator, or "case agent" as ATF called it, with Glen Lucero as the other co-lead. And it was during these dog days of summer that Lucero could see the stark difference between a complex government investigation and one done by the locals. As Lucero put it, "The state prosecutor gets the dregs and tries to make it work. A deputy D. A. says, 'We might convict him, let's give it try.' It's very different when you're dealing with a government case and assistant U. S. attorneys."
Then another opportunity to catch him in the act presented itself. That is, if they were right, and old habits die hard. If he'd regained the nerve he had prior to March 29, before he'd heard of the task force. The California Conference of Arson Investigators was holding its summer session in Fresno from July 31 to August 2, and John Orr had signed up for it.
This time there would be no bird dog attached to his car, nor an airplane spotter, and once again John Orr took what Mike Matassa called his "plain white wrapper," the white Ford Crown Victoria. And once again, when he got behind the wheel and on the freeway, the speedometer needle vanished.
On the afternoon of July 30, the surveillance caravan surrendered by the time they reached the highway known as the Grapevine. John Orr was over the hill and rocketing toward the Central Valley before anybody's lunch had settled. The task force tried to stay in the game with Ken Croke acting as eyeball in the lead car. His G-sled was a black Lincoln Mark IV, but the Grapevine climb proved too much and it overheated. When steam came pouring out from under the hood, the G-ride pulled over, the door flew open, and Ken Croke jumped out yelling for a fireman.
When Mike Matassa found out what had happened to the eyeball he got a frantic radio message from the rookie Boston agent asking, "What'll I do, Mike? What'll I do?"
With John Orr out of sight, and for all they knew, somewhere just south of Seattle, and this surveillance turning to shit even faster than the last one, Mike Matassa said, in the accent of Ken Croke's hometown: "Just call Triple A, Ken. Put it on your Veezer card."
Glen Lucero, who was hanging back in another G-sled, could not be the eyeball because John Orr knew him, so he floored it and picked up Ken Croke. Though they topped out at one hundred miles per hour all the way, they would not catch up with the surveillance caravan until they all arrived in Fresno.
Matassa's boss, Larry Cornelison, had been assigned to attend the CCAI seminar in order to monitor the activities of their suspect, and he was already there when John Orr arrived at the Holiday Inn. He watched his man check in, make a stop at the bar, and go to his room.
The next day, Cornelison was also with John Orr for the morning session, and for lunch at the hotel with several other CCAI committee members. Those who knew were giving one another and John Orr quick nervous glances like patrons in a Pussycat theater, but at 2:30 p. M. Captain Orr left the seminar and did not return. Cornelison notified the surveillance teams by radio.
At 3:00 p. M. the ATF resident agent in charge, William Vizzard, who was participating in the surveillance, was parked in the vicinity of the Fresno Convention Center when he saw dark smoke rising. He drove to the location and saw that a trash container by the convention center was on fire. He put it out with a fire extinguisher from his car. In the trash receptacle were pieces of foam among cigarette butts and other debris.
The fire could have meant nothing at all, but Mike Matassa asked, "Is this guy fucking with our heads, or what?"
At 8:48 a. M. on August 2, Mike Matassa watched through binoculars as John Orr checked out of his hotel, loaded his bags into the trunk of his car, and closed the trunk. But before getting in for the drive home, he got down on the ground and looked under the car.
The trip home was uneventful and, of course, fast.
Task-force members found themselves wondering how their colleague John Orr was different from them. Mike Matassa was in some ways quite unlike John Orr. Matassa, four years younger, had ethnic roots with recent forebears and was a product of the Northeast. He wore his father's gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. John Orr was from western America, the white-bread variety among whom ethnicity is unknown or so far back nobody cares. And his family had no religious affiliation. Unlike Orr, Matassa was childless, but his marriage worked. John Orr's fourth marriage was in jeopardy; his affair with Chris had reached the point where he was listed on her daughter's emergency-call card at school. The child even called him Dad.
One thing that the two men had in common was that early in their adult lives their first career choice had been the Los Angeles Police Department, which had rejected John Orr and had seemed an impossible dream to young Mike Matassa. They had both settled for other investigative work, and both had done well.
Neither had ever gotten past a preference for street police work. Matassa liked to point out that ATF agents were more like the cops who policed the streets of L. A. than they were like the other feds so distrusted by street cops. And he said that ATF would do the down-and-dirty police work that needed to be done, and was proud that back when he was a new agent he'd assisted the LAPD in making a case that helped convict the Wah Ching gang members who'd shot two LAPD officers in a botched jewelry-store robbery.
And of course, John Orr's love of street police work was legendary in the city of Glendale, if distressful to his bosses. It set him apart from both his fellow firefighters and the street cops he tried to emulate while hungering for their respect. In the end, Matassa, and Glen Lucero as well, belonged to things larger than themselves, but John Orr had never quite belonged anywhere. Everything he did and everything he wrote indicated that. Whereas Lucero believed that his position as a fireman turned crime investigator gave him the best of both worlds, John Orr, with the identical background, saw himself as a "bastard child" belonging to neither world, appreciated by no one.
Meanwhile, Captain John Orr was getting very anxious about his novel. He sent his 104,000-word manuscript and a check for three hundred dollars to the Writer's Digest Criticism Service, hoping to learn how he could make it acceptable for publication.
About the time that John Orr was waiting for comments from hired critics, Mike Matassa and the task force had come up with a new wrinkle to catch him in the act of setting a fire, thus speeding up the maddeningly slow and methodical investigative moves required by the assistant U. S. attorneys. John Leonard Orr was about to become a law-enforcement footnote: the first crime suspect on whom a Teletrac device would be tested.
He couldn't have known of its existence. The L. A. Sheriff's Department had obtained the Teletrac from a Los Angeles dealer who'd been using it like the Lo-Jack device that locates stolen cars. Upon hearing about it, sheriff's arson investigators who'd done work on the Pillow Pyro case said, "Let's give it a real test on John Orr."
With the Teletrac they didn't need an eyeball at all. The device could relay information to a receiver screen that looked like a Thomas Brothers map grid. A little cursor traveled on the map and could feed back the tracker location every second or every hour, as they wished. They decided to set it up so that it relayed information every five seconds when they had a surveillance team on him, and every fifteen minutes when they did not.
The monitoring equipment included a printout that told them where it was within their selected time frames, and the assistant special agent in charge of the L. A. ATF office scanned the printouts. For their computer cursor, they chose a little rectangle with a single word inside it: "Fire."
Now they only had to wait for Captain Orr's city car to be taken to the garage for its regular service. The device would be installed behind the dashboard, hardwired into the electrical system to run off the battery. And this one had no antenna for him to see.
For the remainder of the hot smoggy summer, the task force was taking trips to the Central Valley and Central Coast to interview more witnesses for the assistant U. S. attorneys. On one of those trips by Mike Matassa and Ken Croke, they found themselves at a shit-kickin' bar in the boonies, looking for a former employee of a burned retail store. Both Matassa the Pennsylvania guy and Croke the Massachusetts guy learned just how far away the rural Central Valley of California is, culturally speaking. There wasn't a single copy of The Hollywood Reporter for miles around.
When they walked into the saloon in their arson-nerd business attire, the music literally stopped, or so they claimed. Somebody might've pulled the plug on Travis Tritt or Vince Gill or whoever the hell it was singing about bad love, bad booze, and hangovers. And the two feds found themselves part of a frozen tableau in a place where there were no waitresses named Crystal or Brittany. All the ones there were called Mavis and Flo, and there were no busboys named Chad. In fact, there were no busboys. And all the guys around there, and a few of the women, dipped snuff and drove trucks with NRA bumper stickers that said, "GUNS, GUTS AND GOD," with more firepower in those pickups and possibly on their persons than ATF had in its entire L. A. gun group.
So the feds were extra polite, and if they bought a brew they drank it straight out of the bottle, wiped the foam away with a coat sleeve, and became acutely aware that they had left the L. A. city limits.
More bricks and mortar were added in September when Constance Schipper, an employee from Builder's Emporium in North Hollywood, talked with Glen Lucero and chose photo number five as having been to the store at some time before the fire. Also in September, the official review of Captain Orr's personnel file from the Glendale Fire Department revealed that he'd been scheduled to work on the date of every fire that had occurred between December 10, 1990, and March 27, 1991. A week later the review was completed on Glendale call-out sheets, which showed that he was not at any fire scenes in the city of Glendale during the dates and times of Pillow Pyro fires. In short, he was still unaccounted for when every one of the arson fires had occurred, and he had always been alone. Joe Lopez was on a day off, or in training, or elsewhere, when the arsons had taken place.
Mike Matassa said, "Let's see him chalk it all up to coincidence. Let's see him produce an alibi witness for even one of them."