14. THE STRIKE FORCE

THE NIGHT SKIES of Utica are no longer filled with smoke: Renewal began in April 1997, when the small city—devastated by arson—punched back.

A team of 16 experienced police officers and fire investigators set up shop on the second floor of a firehouse, just a few blocks from the heart of Cornhill. Sealing themselves off, they began working around the clock to take back the city.

“We needed to be alone,” said Mickey Maunz, a retired captain in the Utica Police Department’s Criminal Investigations Division, who was one of the original team members. “To talk different cases and run our ideas together.”

Utica was one of four cities across the country—all losing battles against arson—chosen by FEMA’s National Arson Prevention Initiative to set up a strike force. It was a large-scale collaborative effort: The city’s fire and police departments were assisted by the Oneida County Sheriff’s Office; the Oneida County District Attorney’s Office; the New York State Office of Fire Prevention and Control; the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; the New York State Insurance Fraud Bureau; the US Marshals Service; and the New York State Police. The FBI and FEMA also provided aid.

The Utica fire and police departments had worked together, but never as closely. “There was a little animosity, distrust,” Captain Maunz said, wryly. But that quickly went out the window: “It was established we needed them as much as they needed us. We learned to trust each other.”

In a photo of the Strike Force, the men—in white shirts and ties—stand close together, outside a firehouse. The youngest, crouched and smiling, is Phil Fasolo, then a 27-year-old fire marshal. The eldest is his uncle, Captain Claude DeMetri, 56, the Strike Force’s commander. A pale, reserved-looking man, he is almost hidden in the back.

The men revered him: “He was old school,” Lieutenant Fasolo said about his uncle, who died in 2006. “He didn’t micromanage us, but he guided us like a father at times.”

Previously, the Utica Fire Department had only basic investigative tools: cameras and tape recorders. The Strike Force was given state-of-the-art equipment: body wires to tape people and video cameras. They had access to marked and unmarked cars, and dogs trained to sniff out arson. The Strike Force was also given funding to build a custom database and a local area network, so investigators could send and receive information from other agencies.

The Strike Force took an aggressive approach: As soon as an alarm sounded, police investigators and a fire marshal headed to the fire. As spectators stood around, mesmerized, the team videotaped them, then canvassed the neighborhood, looking for the building’s owner, landlord, and occupants. If the fire marshal decided it was arson, the investigation simply continued.

Investigators were able to track arsonists who fled the state: They emailed high-resolution mug shots of suspects to other agencies. US Marshals, working with the Strike Force, captured fugitives in North Carolina, Arizona, and Florida.

The Strike Force got guilty pleas from two Utica brothers, John and Joseph Kaminski, who had recruited poor local men to burn down 18 of their properties.

One arsonist slipped away: Lieutenant Fasolo, tracking a suspect, found him lying in a hospital bed in Syracuse.

He was all bandaged up, covered with burns that matched an explosion on Niagara Street in Utica. So much gas was poured into a building, “the entire front wall of the house blew off and landed across the street,” Lieutenant Fasolo said. “We were 100 percent sure it was him.” But the man had an alibi; he said he survived a barbecue fire.

The rate of convictions—which had been 2 percent—jumped to 100 percent, Captain DeMetri said in an interview in 1998. Arson was cut in half.

Some blocks looked less desperate as the city began to remove abandoned buildings. In 2000, when the Strike Force disbanded, the Bosnians were already standing on ladders and roofs, rebuilding. The refugees—arriving from over 35 different countries—helped keep fire at bay by bringing blocks back to life. But they also presented challenges: The fire department was unprepared for the newcomers, some of whom had never seen a stove, used indoor plumbing, or slept on a mattress.

Communication was the biggest problem: A mother whose apartment is on fire might not speak a word of English. The site itself might be more crowded and chaotic than normal: An apartment meant for 6 people could turn out to hold 12.

“You’re trying to figure out where everybody is,” Captain Zumpano said. “Who’s in, who’s out? You’re getting varying information—and spending more time than usual searching for people.”

There is no time to call for an on-site interpreter. Emergency responders can access a translation service on their cell phones, but it is cumbersome.

Often, firefighters turn to an English-speaking child of the refugee family. These children often do a good job answering questions. “But a child doesn’t process information like an adult,” Captain Zumpano said, “and in that situation may be too frightened to speak.”

“We’re asking rapid-fire questions, expecting rapid-fire answers.”

There are cultural practices that are potentially hazardous: Bosnians have sometimes smoked sausages in attics. The Karen display national flags and hang cloth from doorways. The Somali Bantus, not used to mattresses, would place them against doors and windows, blocking exits. They covered walls with tapestries and velvety pictures of Mecca—and hung long drapes.

Drapes can be a serious problem, Captain Zumpano explained. “Fire can jump from a tapestry to cloth very quickly. It can light the place up.”

Cultural practices often evolve out of necessity: In their country, the Somali Bantus live in dark dwellings, Dr. Stam said. “They’re hiding from the sun.”

In Utica, “they like having the drapes drawn to keep out the light,” she added. “And they like the privacy. They don’t want people knowing what they’re up to.”

In the camps, the Somali Bantus cooked outdoors, using firewood. Moving into their new apartments, they were mystified by gas stoves.

When Zahara arrived in St. Louis, a woman from the refugee agency showed her how to turn on the burner. “But I was too scared,” Zahara said. The woman had cautioned her about how easily a fire can start. Instead, she cooked on a neighbor’s electric stove. It was weeks before she became comfortable using her own stove. And she kept checking: Is it on or off?

Many Somali Bantus started cooking on small hibachis they placed on top of burners. This felt more familiar. And some used stoves to heat their apartments during the long winters.

The fire department started seeing a flare-up of serious fires.

The department had held a few safety workshops at the refugee center. “But I was coming at things from an American point of view,” Chief Ingersoll said. “I didn’t have a great understanding of the conditions the refugees were coming from. I just knew they were here.”

Then in 2013, a fire almost killed a 4-year-old Somali Bantu girl.

On a winter day, Johara Abdi, a Somali Bantu mother who had been out shopping, returned to her apartment in Adrean Terrace, a public housing project in Utica. Smoke was billowing from her duplex. Eight of her children—ages 2 to 17—had escaped. But they had not been able to reach their sister, Halima, napping on the second floor.

Fred DeCarlo, a veteran firefighter, managed to make it up the stairs. “It was pitch-black; he had no visibility,” said Chief Ingersoll, then fire captain, who was putting out the fire in the kitchen. It had sprung from a hibachi sitting atop the stove.

Minutes later, Mr. DeCarlo ran out of the building with Halima, limp in his arms, her head flopping with each of his steps.

Halima—who suffered lung damage from smoke inhalation—eventually recovered.

“It was a turning point for us,” Chief Ingersoll said. “We had to refocus and start bridging that gap.” “We started getting involved.”

The department began coordinating with the refugee center and the city’s Municipal Housing Authority. The refugee center did multiple training sessions with the firefighters.

“We wanted them to know the reality of the refugees’ experiences,” Ms. Callahan said. “If people have been cooking on the ground, you can’t just say, ‘No, this is wrong, use the stove.’ You have to really connect with people.”

The fire department started going to community events and talking to people about fire safety. “The goal is to help them understand the things we take for granted—how to use a stove, how to use a smoke detector,” Chef Ingersoll said. The firefighters give out free smoke detectors.

In 2014, the city received a $250,000 grant from FEMA to install almost 1,000 safety burners on stoves in Municipal Housing Authority apartments, where many refugees live. These flat, cast-iron elements were designed to prevent cooking fires. The refugee center received almost $100,000 to provide community education and outreach about fire safety.

There is progress: The use of hibachis seems to be waning, Chief Ingersoll said. The citywide number of fires is the lowest it has ever been: In 2019, there were only 26 structure fires.

The fire department—predominately Italian, Irish, and Polish men—is slowly starting to change.

In recent years, the department has been trying to recruit refugees and other minorities, to better reflect the community. Currently, 11 out of 124 members are from diverse backgrounds: a Russian, a Belarusian, a Bosnian, a Karen, two Ukrainians, and two Puerto Ricans. There are only two African Americans, and one firefighter of mixed race. Four firefighters are women.

Since 2017, Pathways to Justice Careers—part of a national job training network—has been helping Utica teenagers gain experience in the fields of criminal justice and emergency services. They go on ride-alongs, attend classes, and participate in a junior version of the police and fire academies. More than a third of the 276 young participants are African American; less than a third are Karen and Burmese refugees. So far, they are too young to take the civil service exam; you must be 21.

There are lots of barriers: “You have to fight and scratch to get it,” Captain Zumpano said about getting hired. There are only two or three openings a year, and candidates must get high scores on the written test and pass an arduous physical endurance test.

Captain Zumpano is frank about the role of legacies: Fire and police departments function as clans. Jobs tend to stay within families that have served for generations. “A lot of people are grooming their kids from the start,” he said. “I’ve seen 2-year-olds running around in fire department T-shirts and hats.”

Cultural change needs to happen slowly, Dr. Stam said. And to be reinforced by community leaders and young people: “You don’t go from 0 to 100.” She was referring to how the Somali Bantus are adapting to city life. But it is also true for how the fire department—initially blind to the newcomers—is adapting to them.

Sometimes, even a small cultural change can take years: In many Somali Bantu homes, there is the constant beeping of a smoke alarm needing a new battery.

If you point this out, you get a perplexed look. Nobody had noticed; the beeping is just part of the background. Conversation continues.