Building 500's demise reflects BP's candor

It's an interesting dichotomy. In this age of overwhelming interactivity and connectivity, there still is a lot of furtiveness going on. Or maybe a wish to be left alone.

And that's just among some of the government officials we cover, who ought to be used to some scrutiny. For example, a reporter was met with underwhelming enthusiasm when she attended a local board meeting not long ago. She asked for a reason for the cool reception and was told her presence would stifle candid discussion.

Imagine, then, if governments behave that way, how it might be when you are dealing with private businesses, especially under difficult conditions. They're not bound by the Open Meetings and Freedom of Information acts. If they wish to be secretive and noncommunicative, that's their call. Some do operate that way. Or, they'll lobby us hard for coverage when it suits their purpose but clam up if we're asking about layoffs, losses or other bad news.

That's why it's noteworthy when a big business tells us its business, especially when the business isn't particularly good. One good example came to mind this week when the razing of the infamous Building 500 at BP Amoco in Naperville became obvious to anyone driving along I-88.

The notoriety started two decades ago after workers, exposed for long periods to various chemicals in a specific wing of the building, developed a form of brain cancer known as glioma. Ultimately, more than 20 lawsuits on behalf of about 30 workers were filed, alleging brain cancers and other illnesses were caused by the workplace.

Rather than close ranks, BP acknowledged the scary problem. The company sought help from the University of Illinois at Chicago, Mayo Clinic and Chicago Institute of Neurosurgery and Neuroresearch. Among those groups, the building was deemed "clean" and no link was found between the workplace and the cancers. Yet employees continued to get sick. Five more developed schwannomas, a benign auditory nerve tumor. BP announced the hiring of more researchers, University of Alabama at Birmingham and Johns Hopkins University, and revealed their findings: The rate of glioma in the area the employees worked was seven times that of the general population.

Despite the bad news, BP didn't hesitate in letting those findings be known.

"We take the safety of our people very seriously," BP spokesman Scott Dean said. "We thought bringing in independent experts and having them publish their findings so all industry and the community could benefit from our findings was the right thing to do."

Aside from the settling of lawsuits, the media's fascination with BP's problems might have ended there.

But then along came Hubble Middle School. When it was announced that the school would be rebuilt on Herrick Road in Warrenville, not a mile from BP, fears erupted anew of what damage could be wrought from the chemicals, fuels and gases stored at the site. A mostly Wheaton-based residents group surfaced in opposition.

Again, rather than hide, BP offered the residents a tour of the facility, led by the man who led the brain cancer investigation for BP. He acknowledged the possibility of a chemical spill and fire, but also pointed out there had been only one significant fire at BP in its 30-year history. Further, far less fuel and such was being stored on site than in the '70s and '80s. The tour didn't assuage all the residents' fears.

But then again, Hubble Middle School sits there today, coexisting not far from BP without a second thought.

jdavis@dailyherald.com