John Orr: The Firefighter Turned Serial Arsonist

Picture a calm October evening in 1984 at an O’s Home Center in Pasadena, California. A grandmother and her young grandson wander the aisles, picking out Halloween treats. Suddenly, flames burst out, trapping them in a nightmare of smoke and heat. Four people died that night, including a toddler. Officials called it an accident. However, one expert disagreed: John Leonard Orr, a top arson investigator who showed up too soon. In fact, Orr wasn’t just solving fires—he was causing them. For over a decade, this trusted firefighter set dozens of blazes across California. Consequently, he earned the nickname “Pillow Pyro” for hiding his devices in foam displays. This post breaks down Orr’s dark journey from hero to killer, based on trial records and witness stories.

The Deadly Blaze at O’s: A Family’s Last Moments

On October 10, 1984, Billy and Ada Deal stepped into the Pasadena O’s with their 2-year-old grandson, Matthew. They promised him ice cream if he stayed quiet. Billy shopped alone, while Ada held Matthew’s hand near the pillows.

At 7:45 p.m., an alarm rang out: “Leave now!” Smoke filled the air fast. An employee grabbed Ada’s arm and led her toward safety. But suddenly, fire roared behind them, blocking the way. Ada and Matthew disappeared in the haze. Meanwhile, Billy ran blindly through the dark store, his lungs burning. He barely escaped via a back exit, collapsing outside with bad burns.

Soon, firefighters from 11 stations arrived to fight the massive fire. It destroyed the 18,000-square-foot building and caused $3 million in damage. Inside, teen worker Jimmy Satina, 17, and mom Carolyn Kraus, 26, lost their lives while helping others. Police blamed faulty wiring. Yet, two small fires—one in a store’s chip display seven miles away, the other half a mile off—seemed odd. They pulled crews away just as the big one started.

All the while, Orr watched from the crowd, taking photos. He said he was nearby, chasing a “chip fire bandit.” In reality, those distractions let him plant his tool: a cigarette tied to matches with paper and a rubber band. It burned slowly for about 15 minutes, giving him time to flee and enjoy the show.

From Fire Fan to Trusted Investigator

John Orr was born on April 26, 1949, in Glendale, California. As a kid, he loved fires. Strange blazes popped up near his home, and he shot off illegal fireworks into dry hills, starting wildfires. He’d sit back with a soda and watch the trucks roll in. After 2.5 years in the Air Force as a firefighter, Orr came home in 1970. He wed his high school love, Judy, and aimed for the LAPD.

He passed the tests but failed a mind exam. Doctors called him “passive and resentful,” with hidden issues that made him unfit for police work. So, Orr switched to firefighting. He tried LA but failed the fitness check. Instead, Glendale hired him in 1973. He climbed ranks quickly, though he hated taking orders. At home, things fell apart. He emptied their bank account, left Judy and their girls, and tried a short second marriage to Sheila.

By the late 1970s, Orr became an arson investigator—a mix of cop and firefighter that fed his thrill-seeking side. He carried a big gun, chased bad guys, and roughed them up, earning warnings for going too far. Meanwhile, Glendale stores kept burning, costing millions. Orr learned tricks from small crooks he caught. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.

The Pillow Pyro’s Spree: Fires Near and Far

Orr’s attacks ramped up in the 1980s. He hit stores, stashing devices in pillow foam—thus, “Pillow Pyro.” He’d light the fuse, slip out, and get a rush from the flames. From 1984 to 1991, he sparked over 2,000 fires, by ATF counts, though he owned up to just 20.

The O’s fire kicked it off. Days later, a North Hollywood store smoked the same way—no deaths, but red flags rose. Then, months later, another O’s pillow area caught fire. A worker smelled it and put it out quickly. Orr waved off links, blaming his “chip bandit.”

Fires often hit near meetings Orr joined. In January 1987, at Fresno’s arson conference—where he spoke—six shops burned nearby: drugstores, fabric spots, craft stores. All used their fuse; some went up an hour apart. Departments didn’t talk then, so no connections formed. But one shop left a gift: a full device with paper. Prints? No hits on crooks.

In March 1989, at Morro Bay’s event, five more fires struck roadside towns like Atascadero. All near highways, pointing to a traveler. Matching attendee lists from both meetups gave 10 names—all pros. Still, no print matches.

Next, 18 months brought two dozen LA fires, like the 1990 College Hills blaze that hurt 67 homes. Witnesses saw a khaki-wearing guy with dark hair—Orr’s look. But he slacked on clues, confusing his team.

Meetups, Hints, and the Big Reveal

By 1990, a team hunted the Pillow Pyro. Fires matched: same tools, store hits, LA base spreading north. Fresno and Bakersfield shared stories of like blazes near their events. It hit hard—this was no small-timer; it was a roamer. That lone 1987 print? Local gear missed it, but ATF’s top tech? They grabbed it, fearing a mole. “Gloves next time,” the tech quipped on the call. The print was Glendale’s John Orr.

Read more: How a Korean TV Show Exposed a Serial Husband Killer

Panic set in. Orr skipped those sites. Yet he hit both conferences, lived by the highway, and drove from LA. Tails started at a San Luis Obispo talk. Agents followed his car, saw him buy smokes (he quit years back), and stayed close. Orr sped wild, spotting one tracker but buying a “prank bomb” story for the next.

Folks picked him from photos. Then, Orr’s boss dropped gold: his book draft, Points of Origin. It starred arsonist Aaron Stiles—a fireman hooked on flames and rough play. Stiles’s tools matched Orr’s; attacks grew near “talks.” Chapter 6? A clear O’s rip-off, with Ada and Matthew as “Meline and Terren,” gasping in 800°F hell. “Nobody will catch me,” Stiles mutters—Orr’s dream.

Bust, Court, and Life in Chains

By late 1991, Orr beat teams to scenes, like a Burbank studio fire where he “guessed” the spot right. Trackers lit up fires in his path. On December 4, ATF nabbed him. Raids turned up fuses, fake smokes, and pre-burn pics—” for classes,” he said.

He denied five arsons at first, drawing 50 straight years. In 1994, four O’s murder charges hit; he copped to three more fires. The 1998 trial crushed him: the book, tools, and lies exposed. Death penalty? Jury split. Judge Robert Perry gave four life sentences, no parole. “Bad rubbish gone,” a coworker sneered. Victims’ kin raged: “He breathes; they don’t.”

Orr claims a frame job over the book’s “true bits.” Fires stopped cold after his bust. At 76, he sits in Mule Creek Prison, his spark snuffed by words, not heat.