Killer Show: The Station Nightclub Fire (33 page)

Given the post-fire confusion over the permitted occupancy of The Station, and the many requests by news media for reliable information on that subject, the town solicitor for West Warwick, Timothy Williamson, undertook to clear the air, publishing a “To Whom It May Concern” letter on March 14, 2003. A tour de farce of inaccuracy and obfuscation, the attorney’s letter contained the following highlights: Please note that the capacity numbers in the facility formerly known as Glenn’s Pub, Crackerjacks, The Filling Station and The Station have changed because of a request by owners of the property to change the use of the facility. Specifically, the last change in the occupancy numbers came about at the request of the Derderian brothers, through their company,
DERCO LLC
, to change the use of the facility.

A true “change of use or type of occupancy” would have ended The Station’s grandfathering for no-sprinkler purposes. Williamson’s letter uses the phrase “change of use” or “change
the
use” five times.

The change of use consisted of moving three pool tables from the front bar area (left hand side of building) to the atrium greenhouse area. The change resulted in additional room, providing for a higher number of occupants in the building.

Actually, the pool tables could not have fit in the “front bar area (left hand side of building).” More important, their location within the building was immaterial. Pool tables take up the same amount of square footage — the basis for occupancy calculations — wherever they are located. Moving them to a different location within the building does not create “additional room.”

Pursuant to State Law and the Rhode Island Fire Code and the
NFPA
Code, approximately seven square feet is provided for each person standing.

Larocque used just five square feet per standee. Then, he called the entire building “standing room” to get his 404.

If [the Derderians] anticipated the crowd exceeding the maximum capacity, they were supposed to request a firefighter. On the evening of February 20, 2003, the Town of West Warwick never received a request from the Derderian brothers and/or
DERCO LLC
for the presence of a firefighter.

Hiring a firefighter does not expand a building’s maximum occupancy. The maximum capacity may not be exceeded. Period.

Needless to say, Attorney Williamson’s “To Whom It May Concern” letter raised more doubts about the competency of West Warwick officials than it quelled. But Williamson had an equally astute ally in West Warwick town manager Wolfgang Bauer. The town manager pronounced that, when Larocque raised the club’s occupancy to 404, “He did that for a purpose that had very concrete and sound principles behind them [
sic
]. He didn’t do it on a whim.” Bauer never explained what those sound principles might be.

Neither was it ever explained how Larocque overlooked nine hundred square feet of highly flammable polyurethane foam covering the entire west end of the club during multiple inspections over three years. The response of Fire Chief Hall was simply to deny that Larocque missed it. “Our inspector missed nothing,” asserted Hall. “They [The Station] were in compliance.”

Town Manager Wolfgang Bauer took a slightly different tack. “We didn’t see it [the foam] because we either missed it
or it wasn’t there
,” he speculated, floating the novel theory that the Derderians, sensing multiple unannounced fire inspections, somehow removed nine hundred square feet of glued-on foam from walls and ceilings just in time for each inspection, then reglued all
the foam back on as soon as inspections were complete. Bauer asserted, “At the outset, we clearly wish to state that we believe our town and our officials acted appropriately in inspecting The Station. Our officials were doing their customary public duty in a conscientious way.”

Wolfgang Bauer was in no hurry to shed light on the “conscientious way” that Larocque had performed his public duty, circling the proverbial wagons around the town’s fire marshal. Town employees were under orders not to give reporters access to Larocque. One reporter was even threatened with arrest by a West Warwick police officer when he went to Larocque’s house to interview him.

Meanwhile, criminal investigators remained in a quandary over Frank Davidson’s story. Both club manager Kevin Beese and soundman Paul Vanner denied Davidson’s accounts of The Station’s encouraging pyrotechnics there. What’s more, Beese and Vanner claimed not to even know the guy. The police would have to somehow tease out who was lying. If only investigators could listen in on phone calls between Davidson and the two club employees, they might just learn the truth.

A wiretap is a court-ordered secret surveillance of a phone conversation. Neither party to the conversation knows the conversation is being recorded — until it is too late. But when police have one cooperative witness and another not so cooperative, they sometimes use a recorded “controlled call.” A controlled call is one in which the apparently cooperative witness, in the presence of, and under the supervision of, the police, calls the less cooperative one. The caller follows an agreed-upon outline, which is designed to elicit admissions from the other person. The Rhode Island State Police used separate controlled calls by Frank Davidson to Kevin Beese and to Paul Vanner in an attempt to confirm Davidson’s story. The calls’ content proved to be enlightening, if not particularly enlightened.

On the issue of whether Davidson actually knew Beese and Vanner, that much was readily apparent from the opening seconds of each call. As to whether either club employee was aware of prior pyro at the club, the transcripts of the calls could fairly be entitled, “Beavis and Butthead Analyze Fault in the Station Fire.” Studies in rationalization and circumlocution, the two conversations establish beyond dispute that employees of the club well knew that pyro was used there for years, with permission often explicit, but sometimes tacit. In his call, Vanner volunteered that once a band was given permission by the club to use pyro, it probably wouldn’t ask permission on subsequent gigs.

Contrary to the statements he gave police, Beese admitted to Davidson in his recorded call that permission to shoot pyro was, indeed, given in the past: “Some we knew about, some we didn’t know about. . . . But it’s not like every show we have is a pyrotechnic thing.” As far as Beese was concerned, the prosecutors should have only focused on Dan Biechele. “The guy from Great White is the guy that should go down,” was the club manager’s considered legal opinion.

Unaware that the call was being recorded, Beese confirmed Davidson’s claim that he had demonstrated pyro for Beese, and shot it at concerts at The Station: Davidson: And you know, he [Biechele] didn’t have any extinguishers or, I mean, that was a real dumb move on his part.

Beese: Oh, it was really dumb.

Davidson: Yeah.

Beese: It was real dumb.

Davidson: I mean, at least we had, you know, we had Scott [Gorman, holding a fire extinguisher] there and all that shit, and I had Aaron there and, you know.

Beese: Right.

Davidson: So at least I had my ass covered that, you know, the nights I shot. I just want to make sure that I, you know.

Beese: Yeah, and what was that, like once, twice? You know what I mean?

Davidson: Yeah, twice.

Beese: You know what I’m saying?

Davidson: Right, right.

Beese: I mean, like what? Maybe, I don’t know, a year apart, eight months apart?

Davidson: Yeah.

Despite Davidson’s, Vanner’s, and Beese’s reliance upon stoner vernacular and non sequiturs, a common theme emerges from the call transcripts. It is, essentially, that the club let people it knew, like Davidson, shoot pyro, because they seemed to know what they were doing, and because club employees told them to be careful not to “burn my building down” or “make any stupid mistakes” (quoth Vanner). Many others simply shot pyro there without objection by the club. But, with the circular logic that hindsight bestows upon the truly clueless, the club would never have given permission to Great White if it knew that
their
pyro was going to kill so many people.

All of which proved that Beese had flatly lied to investigators about his
knowledge of prior pyro at the club. But what of both Beese and Vanner denying any knowledge of Frank Davidson? The all-too-simple answer appears in each call transcript. Davidson’s call to Vanner begins: Recipient: Hello.

Davidson: Is Paul there?

Recipient: Who’s this?

Davidson: Grimace.

Recipient: Who?

Davidson: Grimace.

[Vanner picks up phone.]

Davidson: Hey, what’s up?

Vanner: What are you doing, man?

Davidson: Dude, what the fuck happened?

Vanner: Fucking kid fucking blew up the club, brother.

Davidson: Who?

Vanner: Fucking idiot from fucking Great White.

Davidson: Ugh. What the fuck. I talked to Scooter like right after it, like when he — he was, like, out — when you guys were outside, or whatever.

Vanner: Oh, did you?

Davidson: Oh, yeah, dude.

Vanner: Oh, really? What did he say?

Davidson: He told me the pyro looked fine.

Vanner: Oh, really?

Davidson: Yeah.

Vanner: Oh. It was fucking out of control, brother.

…

Vanner: . . .
What’s your real name, bro?

Davidson: Frank Davidson.

Vanner: Yup, that’s it; it came up, man. Somebody asked me about, “Do you know this kid, Frank Davidson?” And I was, like, “No, I don’t know him.”

The same theme was echoed in Davidson’s recorded call to Kevin Beese: Beese: Whatever. I mean, the whole day was going smooth, man. Not a problem, nothing. And then this shit, you know?

Davidson: God, dude.
Hey, do you know my real name?

Beese: No.

Davidson: No?

Beese: No, why? What is your real name?

Davidson: My real name?

Beese: Yeah.

Davidson: It’s Frank Davidson.

…

Beese: They did ask me about a Davidson.

Davidson: What?

Beese: They did ask me about a Davidson and I told them I didn’t know him.

Davidson: You’re kidding me.

Beese: No.

Davidson: No shit?

Beese: Nope.

Town officials and club owners were not the only ones running for cover when tragedy struck. Musicians, their lawyer, a foam salesman, a videographer, a landlord — all distinguished themselves by spinning tales or covering tails.

Jack Russell told Larry King in a televised interview that he was “pulled out” of the club while he tried to go back in to rescue people: “Actually, I was pulled out. I’m not sure who pulled me out the back door. To this day, I don’t know. I kept trying to go back in and make sure my guys and people had gotten out. I kept getting pulled out and pulled out.” This is not corroborated by any eyewitness account, nor does it appear in Russell’s own immediate post-fire police statement. On the Butler video, band members are seen scurrying out the band door — under their own power.

Ed McPherson, Russell’s lawyer, appeared on Larry King with his client, blaming the polyurethane foam, an inward-opening exit door, and overcrowding for the tragedy. He conveniently overlooked Great White’s illegally igniting fireworks inside the building. In fact, the inward-opening door, while a repeated fire code violation, played no part in the outcome; it is seen on the Butler video wide open during the entire event.

Barry Warner, the neighbor who worked for American Foam Corporation and took the Derderians’ order for flammable polyurethane foam, told the Associated Press that the Derderians approached
him
after learning that he worked for American Foam. According to Warner, he “absolutely, positively” wasn’t selling when the Derderians visited him. “It was late afternoon. . . . I wear a suit and tie when I sell or work. . . . I was sitting there in my jeans and a T-shirt,” he explained. However, Warner’s sworn grand jury testimony established that, in fact,
he
suggested and sold the foam to the Derderians.