The story so far:

Hamilton has a reputation as a “firetown,” where arson has always been a problem. Bob Shaw, brave and physically fit, is one firefighter who seems made for the job. Having just watched a favourite movie about fire, the arsonist leaves his home in the North End of Hamilton.

Harry and Lily Shaw’s only son was born in Hamilton on February 1, 1949. They lived on the mountain near Concession Street at 44 East 21st Street. Harry was a veteran, served in the air force and was stationed in Egypt for a time during the Second World War. He was a quiet, understated man who used to bowl with young Bob and his friends, did some coaching. Great guy.

Lily was a tiny woman with a big heart. Any visit to the Shaws’ place meant playing in the back yard with the latest blind dog that Lily had taken in from the humane society to look after.

So much was common about Bob Shaw. And so much was unusual. See little Bobby, six years old, every time it poured rain, outside, walking through puddles, barefoot, all by himself. See him at the edge of the Mountain, alone, watching storms rolling over Lake Ontario into the lower city. He does not run, he is not afraid. He is drawn to the storm. He feels a spiritual connection and peace with the outdoors, nature, from the beginning.

See Bob and buddy Paul Anderson living a Huck Finn existence, hiking down along the stream that ran through fields and farmland farther south, where one day a huge mall and suburbia would rule.

See them jumping on and off trains at the base of the escarpment. One day the train picked up speed, they couldn’t dismount until they hit Albion Falls and walked an hour home again.

Another day, Bob and Paul bounced along a path on the side of the Mountain, when they heard gunshots. They heard later that a Hamilton Psychiatric Hospital patient had stolen a .22 rifle and ammunition from Nick’s Sport and Cycle on Concession Street, was taking pot shots over the edge of the escarpment. A bullet grazed Bob, but he had a thick sweater on, was not seriously hurt. He wanted to get up and circle around the shooter.

“You’re crazy, Shawzie! Stay down!” Another shot, the boys hit the deck. Perhaps it was coincidence that Bob landed on top of Paul with his arm in a protective embrace. Or maybe it was Bob’s instinct. Paul never felt safer with anyone than his friend, could trust no one else quite the same.

As a teenager, Bob Shaw didn’t look for trouble, but if a buddy was in need, or he was pushed far enough, he was right in there. He was always among the smallest of his age, just like his fellow bowling ace Ricky Morton, but was tough as nails.

In those days, Hamilton was all ends: north end, east end, west end, and the Mountain. Bob and his buddies were known as Mountain boys. You didn’t show your face in the north or east end, unless you were ready to scrap.

When Bob was still in public school, the Shaws moved farther south to Burkholder Drive. His father was making a decent living, he could afford a new house, a bigger one. The neighbourhood where they moved was nicknamed Little Chicago. Bob was the new kid on the block. He had to fight every day his first week at his new school. It’s just the way it was. “Zero tolerance” was decades away from existing. You stood up for yourself or were bullied.

They were great times. As teens, they formed a gang called the Continentals, hung out at Inch Park pool in the summer, went to dances at the outdoor hockey rink beside it.

Ricky Morton was Bob’s bowling buddy, but also a couple of years younger than those in the group. At the summer dances, Ricky stood outside the rink boards and peered through the wire screen to watch Bob, Paul and the rest of the Continentals holding court, the prettiest girls floating around them. They were the coolest thing going.

Bob and the boys caused havoc during a show at a movie theatre once. Got booted out. With the gall only a teenager can muster, they tried to get “their” money back, even though they had snuck in.

“OK,” said a manager, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Let’s have your names.”

The first boy, Paul’s twin brother, used his middle name for his first, and made up a last name .“Name’s Tom. Tom — Trout.” Next came Bob. “My name’s Mark Marlin.” And Paul. “Dan. Dan Dolphin.” “Get outta here!” snarled the manager. As Bob moved through his teens, he worked every chance he got. Went downtown to the market, battled to get on one of the trucks that took you out to a farm to pick beans, fruit, tobacco. Got a job with Paul at the CNR unloading trucks onto the cars. Got so they worked full time, after school. Get there for 4 p.m., work to 11 p.m. Bob would do anything asked of him. That was the way he was. “For sure” was his catchphrase.

In winter, the foreman at CNR, guy named Romeo, needed truckloads of frozen chickens hauled onto a train car. It was freezing cold, the wind whipping off the bay. For sure. Bob did it. They loved him, gave him extra hours, he stashed away more money, saved for a sports car, an MGB.

He thought about what the future held, because that’s how Bob Shaw’s mind worked. But he didn’t talk about his reflections. Didn’t talk much about his father’s work, either, although everyone in the neighbourhood knew what he did.

Harry Shaw was a firefighter. His start date had been April 12, 1947. He was a good one, too. Quietly went about his job, did what needed to be done.

Harry ultimately decided that, one day, down the road, for his retirement, he would love to bring his boy Bob to the station on his last day of work, let him hang at the station all day, help out, ride on the back of a rig.

***

Wednesday morning July 9, 1997

The arsonist had risen at 7 a.m. to find his world wrapped in grey fog, the air heavy and wet from a steady drizzle. Later, at about noon, the sun burned off the fog, clouds moved out, and all was clear. It had instantly become a beautiful summer day.

The arsonist had lit fires before. There had been the one right in the neighbour’s back yard. Another one in an alley across the street. How had they happened? As time went on he thought of them all as accidents.

Why did he do it? He wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t the liquor. He drank on occasion, yes. Downed a 40-ouncer once, all by himself. Couldn’t walk after that. Just lay there on his back in a park, staring at the sky, contemplating the notion of heaven before passing out. Much later, he couldn’t even remember exactly what had been in the bottle. Something clear. Maybe gin? Not a good experience. Didn’t want to repeat that.

The psychologists could talk about family roots. But the arsonist didn’t feel his upbringing was all that unusual. Thought he came from a normal family. He remembered as a kid walking through a mall, and literally pointing in window after window. He’d point at that, and that, and that, and mom bought them all.

So why? Why light the fires? Was it a release, was it anger? Might be. But also, he just liked fire, found it attractive to look at.

That’s why he never, ever tired of seeing the explosions on ‘Backdraft,’ the raging flames, billowing smoke. He kept thinking about the movie after he had left his apartment building, walking north, towards Hamilton Harbour.