"Cooked up that pork belly, did he?" a trooper asked.
"Oh, not just bacon," Stillwell explained earnestly. "That's the thing about pigs. You know that expression, don't you? 'You can use everything but the squeal.' "
Two troopers lost it at this point. The negotiator smiled encouragingly.
"Anyway, I get a call that something's going on out at his farm and go out there and find Emma in front of the barn. His wife of ten years. He'd slit her from groin to breastbone with that knife and cut her hands off. Abe had his two sons in there, saying he was going to do the same to them. That'd be Brian, age eight, and Stuart, age four. Sweet youngsters, both of 'em."
The troopers' smiles were gone.
"Was about to cut off little Stu's fingers one by one just as I got there."
"Jesus," the woman trooper whispered.
"What'd you do, Sheriff?"
The lanky shoulders shrugged. "Nothing fancy. In fact, I didn't really know what to do. I just talked him up. I got close but not too close 'cause I've been hunting with Abe and he's a heck of a shot. Hunkered down behind a slop trough. And we just talked. Saw him inside of the barn there, not but fifty feet in front of me. Just sitting there, holding the knife and his boy."
"How long did you talk for?"
"A spell."
"How long a spell?"
"Must've been close to eighteen, twenty hours. We both got hoarse from shouting, so I had one of my boys go out and get a couple of those cellular phones." He laughed. "I had to read the instructions to figure out mine. See, I didn't want to drive the cruiser up and use the radio or a bullhorn. I figured the less he saw of cops, the better."
"You stayed with it the whole time?"
"Sure. In for a penny, in for a pound, is what I say. Well, twice I stepped away for, you know, natural functions. And once to fetch a cup of coffee. Always kept my head down."
"What happened?"
Another shrug. "He came out. Gave himself up."
Potter asked, "The boys?"
"They were okay. Aside from seeing their mother that way, course. But there wasn't much we could do about that."
"Let me ask you one question, Sheriff. Did you ever think of exchanging yourself for the boys?"
Stillwell looked perplexed. "Nope. Never did."
"Why not?"
"Seemed to me that'd draw his attention to the youngsters. I wanted him to forget about them and concentrate just on him and me."
"And you never tried to shoot him? Didn't you have a clear target?"
"Sure I did. Dozens of times. But, I don't know, I just felt that was the last thing I wanted to have happen--anybody to get hurt. Him, or me, or the boys."
"Correct answers, Sheriff. You're my containment officer. Is that all right with you?"
"Well, yessir, whatever I can do to help, I'd be proud to."
Potter glanced at the displeased state commanders. "You and your officers will report to the sheriff here."
"Say, hold up here, sir," Budd began, but didn't quite know where to take it from there. "The sheriff's a fine man. We're friends and everything. We've gone hunting too. But . . . well, it's like a technical thing. See, he's local, municipal, you know. These're mostly state troopers. You can't put them under his command. That'd need, I don't know, authorization or something."
"Well, I'm authorizing it. You can consider Sheriff Stillwell federal now," Potter said reasonably. "He's been deputized."
LeBow looked quizzically at Potter, who shrugged. There was no procedure that either of them knew about for field-deputizing federal agents.
Peter Henderson's face, alone among the crowd at the briefing, was still smiling. Potter said to him, "You too, Pete. I want any agents not involved in intelligence gathering, forensics, or liaising with HRT under Sheriff Stillwell's direction."
Henderson nodded slowly, then said, "Could I talk to you for a minute, Art?"
"We don't have much time."
"Just take a minute."
Potter knew what was coming and understood that it was important for it not to happen in front of the other commanders. He said, "Let's step outside, what do you say?"
In the shadow of the van Henderson said in a harsh whisper, "I'm sorry, Arthur. I know your reputation but I'm not putting my people under some hick."
"Well, Pete, my reputation's irrelevant. What counts is my authority."
Again Henderson nodded reasonably, this man in a white shirt immaculately starched and a gray suit that would gain him entrance into any restaurant within a mile of Capitol Hill.
"Arthur, I ought to be more involved in this thing. I mean, I know Handy. I--"
"How do you know him?" Potter interrupted. This was news to him.
"I had agents on the scene at apprehension. At the S&L. I interviewed him after the collar. I helped the U.S. Attorney make the case. It was our forensics that put him away."
Since Handy'd been caught in the act and there were direct eyewitnesses, forensics would be a mere technicality. On the DomTran flight Potter had read the interview conducted by, apparently, Henderson. The prisoner had said virtually nothing except "Fuck you."
"Anything you can tell us about him would be appreciated," Potter said. "But you don't have the sort of experience we need for containment."
"And Stillwell does?"
"He has a containment officer's temperament. And judgment. He's not a cowboy."
Or, thought Potter, a bureaucrat, which was just as bad, if not worse.
Finally Henderson looked down at the muddy ground. He growled, "No fucking way, Potter. I've been stuck in this hellhole plenty long enough. Not a damn thing happens down here except copping applesauce and Dictaphones from the Air Force base. And Indians pissing into fucking Minuteman silos. I want a piece of this."
"You don't have any barricade experience, Pete. I read your sheet on the way here."
"I have more law enforcement experience than that Gomer Pyle you've picked. For chrissake, I've got a law degree from Georgetown."
"I'm putting you in charge of the rear staging area. Coordinating medical, press liaison, the facilities for the hostages' families, and supplies for the containment troopers and hostage rescue when they get here."
There was a pause as Henderson gazed at his fellow agent--only a few years older--with shocked amusement then, suddenly, pure contempt, which was sealed with an abrupt nod and a chill grin. "Fuck you, Potter. I know the other part of your reputation. Grandstanding."
"It's an important job, rear staging," Potter continued, as if Henderson hadn't spoken. "It's where you'll be the most valuable."
"Fucking holier than thou . . . You've gotta have the limelight, don't you? Afraid somebody a little showier, with a little more class might play better on camera?"
"I think you know that's not my motive."
"Know? What do I know? Except that you breeze into town with the Admiral's blessing, send us off to get your fucking coffee. After the shootout--where, who knows, a dozen troopers and a hostage or two're killed--you give your press conference, take credit for the good stuff, blame us for the fuckups. And then you're gone. Who's left to deal with the shit you leave behind? Me, that's who."
"If there's nothing else--"
Henderson buttoned his suit jacket. "Oh, there'll be something else. Don't you worry." He stalked off, ignoring Potter's matter-of-fact suggestion not to present too much of a target to snipers in the slaughterhouse.
11:31 A.M.
Arthur Potter stepped back into the van, the eyes of the assembled troopers following him cautiously. He wondered if they'd overheard the exchange between him and Henderson.
"Now," the agent continued, "the rules of engagement."
Potter dug a fax from his jacket pocket.
On the jet from Glenview, Potter had spoken via conference call with the Bureau's director, its assistant director of criminal investigations, and Frank D'Angelo, commander of the Bureau's HRT, and had written the rules of engagement for the Crow Ridge bar
ricade. This had taken much of the flight and the result was a single-spaced two-page document that covered every eventuality and gave Potter specific orders about handling the situation. It had been written with much circumspection. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and the FBI had taken serious flak for the handling of the Koresh standoff in Waco and the Bureau itself had been vilified for the Randall Weaver barricade in '92, in which the rules of engagement had been written so broadly that sharpshooters believed that they had orders to shoot any armed adults if they had clear shots. Weaver's wife was mistakenly killed by an FBI sniper.
Potter was looking mostly at Stillwell when he said, "Your job is to contain the HTs. Containment is a tactical function but it's purely passive. There'll be no rescue attempts whatsoever."
"Yessir."
"You'll keep the takers inside whatever perimeter I decide is active. It might be the building itself, it might be a line a hundred yards around the building. Whatever it is, they are not to cross that boundary alive. If any one of them does, whether or not they have a hostage with them, your troops're green-lighted. You know what that means?"
"They're cleared to shoot."
"That's correct. And you shoot to kill. No attempts to wound. No threats. No warning shots. Lethal fire or no fire at all."
"Yessir."
"There are to be no shots through open windows or doorways, even if you see a hostage threatened, without express authorization from someone on the threat management team."
Potter noticed that Budd's face grew dark when he heard this.
"Understood," Stillwell said. The commanders nodded reluctantly.
"If you're fired upon, you'll take defensive positions and wait until you have the okay to return fire. If at any time you or another officer are actually threatened with deadly force, you may use deadly force to protect yourself or that person. But only if you're convinced that there is a true present danger."
"A present danger," a trooper muttered sarcastically.
They're hoping for a turkey shoot, Potter thought. He glanced at the clock on LeBow's computer. "We're going to establish contact in about five minutes. I'm going to warn the takers about the perimeter and I'll let you know, Sheriff, that they've been so notified. From that moment on you're instructed to contain them as I've outlined."
"Yessir," the sheriff answered calmly, and brushed his mop of hair, mussing it further.
"For the time being, the kill zone will be any area outside the building itself. After they send somebody out to get the phone nobody comes outside unless it's under a flag of truce."
Stillwell nodded.
Potter continued. "Henry here will be feeding you data that's tactically relevant. Types of weapons, location of hostage takers and hostages, possible exits, and so on. There's to be no contact directly between you and the HTs. And don't listen in on my conversations with Handy."
"Right. Why not?"
"Because I'm going to be establishing rapport with him and trying to be reasonable. You can't afford to have any sympathy for him. You have to be able to green-light him instantly."
"Fine by me."
"Now, I don't want any accidents," Potter said. "Lieutenant Budd has already told all the troopers to unchamber weapons. That correct? Snipers included?"
Budd nodded. His mouth tightened. Potter wondered just how angry the captain was. Thinking: He'll be angrier yet before this is over.
"My men," one of the troopers said stiffly, "don't have itchy trigger fingers."
"Not now they don't. But they will. In ten hours you'll be drawing down on your own shadow. Now, Dean, you might see reflections from inside. You'll be thinking rifle scopes. But they'll probably just be mirrors, like periscopes. Takers who've done time learned that trick inside prison. So tell your people not to panic if they see a flash."
"Yessir," Stillwell said slowly, the way he seemed to say everything.
Potter said, "Now a few final words. Generally, criminal hostage takers are the easiest to deal with. They're not like terrorists. Their purpose isn't to kill anyone. It's to escape. Given enough time they're going to realize that the hostages are more of a liability than anything and dead hostages mean nothing but trouble. But the psychology of what's going on now is that they're not thinking rationally. They're pumped up on adrenaline. They're scared and confused.
"We have to defuse the situation. Make Handy believe that he'll survive the incident through rational action. Time works in our favor. We don't establish any deadlines. We want to stretch this out longer than any of us can stand. And then longer. And then longer still.
"When HRT gets here we'll prepare for a tactical resolution but that'll still be our last resort. As long as Handy is still talking to us there won't be any rescue attempt. We'll call it the pork belly approach to hostage rescue." Potter smiled toward Stillwell, then continued, "Delay is the name of the game. It wears down the HTs, makes them bored, brings them and the hostages closer together."
"Stockholm syndrome," one of the commanders said.
"Exactly."
"What's that?" another one asked.
Potter nodded to LeBow, who said, "It's the psychoanalytic process of transference as applied to a hostage taking. The term comes from a bank robbery in Stockholm about twenty years ago. The robber forced four employees into the bank vault. They were later joined by a former prison-mate of the taker. They all stayed together for over five days and when they finally gave up, several of the hostages were madly in love with their captors. They'd come to feel that it was the police who were the bad guys. The robber and his cellmate had formed strong feelings of affection for the hostages too and wouldn't think of hurting them."
"Time to get to work," Potter announced. "Sheriff, you'll proceed with containment. I'll make initial contact with the takers."
Bashful Dean Stillwell motioned to the commanders. "If you all'd come outside, maybe we'll move some of those troopers of yours around a bit. If that's all right with you. What do you say?"
"Pork belly" was the only response, but it was said very softly. Potter believed he was the only one who heard.
The water poured like a shower, a silver stream falling through gaps in the ceiling high above them, probably from rank pools of old rainwater on the roof.
It dripped onto rusting meat hooks and chains and rubber conveyor belts and disintegrating machinery, just outside the killing room, where Melanie Charrol sat, looking over the girls. The seven-year-old twins, Anna and Suzie, huddled against her. Beverly Klemper brushed her short blond hair from her face--round with baby fat still, though she was fourteen--and struggled to breathe. The others were clustered together at the far side of the killing room. Ten-year-old Emily Stoddard rubbed frantically at a rust stain on her white tights, tears running down her face.
Melanie glanced at Mrs. Harstrawn and Susan Phillips, crouching together, speaking in abrupt sign. The teenage girl's pale face, framed by her stark hair, was still filled with anger. Her dark eyes were the eyes of a resistance fighter, Melanie thought suddenly. Their conversation had to do with the students.
"I'm worried they'll panic," Susan said to the older teacher. "Have to keep them together. If somebody runs, those assholes will hurt them."
With the audacity of an eight-year-old, Kielle Stone signed, "We have to run! There're more of us than them. We can get away!"
Susan and Mrs. Harstrawn ignored her, and the little girl's gray eyes flashed with anger.
All the while Melanie agonized: I don't know what to do. I don't know.
The men weren't paying much attention to the girls at the moment. Melanie rose and walked to the doorway. She watched them pull clothes out of canvas bags. Brutus stripped off his T-shirt and with a glance at her walked under the stream of water, letting it cascade over him as he gazed up at the murky ceiling, eyes closed. She saw his sinewy muscles, his hairless body, marred by a dozen pink scars. The other two men looked at him uncertainly and continued to change clothes. When they pulled off their workshirts
she could read the names stenciled on their T-shirts. Stoat's said S. Wilcox. Bear's, R. Bonner. But still, seeing Bear's fat, hairy body and Stoat's lean one, his slippery eyes, she thought of them only by the animal names that had instinctively occurred to her.
And, seeing the look of amused malice on his face as he stood under the cascading water, arms outstretched like Christ's, she understood that Brutus was a far better name for him than L. Handy.
He now stepped from the stream of water, dried off with his old shirt, and pulled on a new one, dark green flannel. He picked the pistol up from the oil drum and gazed at his captives, that curious smile on his face. He joined the other men. They looked cautiously out one of the front windows.
This can't be happening, Melanie said to herself. It's impossible. People were expecting her. Her parents. Danny, going into surgery tomorrow. She'd been in her brother's recovery rooms after every one of his half-dozen operations in the past year. She felt the absurd urge to tell these men that they had to let them go; she couldn't disappoint her brother.
Then there was her performance in Topeka.
And of course her plans afterwards.
Go say something to him. Now. Plead with him to release the little girls. The twins, at least. Or Kielle and Shannon. Emily.
Beverly, racked with asthma.
Go. Do it.
Melanie started forward then looked back. The others in the killing room--all nine of them--were staring at her.
Susan held her eyes for a moment then gestured for her to return. She did.
"Don't worry," Susan signed to the girls, then pulled the tiny, chestnut-haired twins to her. Smiling. "They're going to leave soon, let us out. We'll be in Topeka late, that's all. What do you want to do after Melanie's recital? Everybody tell me. Come on!"
Is she crazy? Melanie thought. We're not going to . . . Then realized that Susan was saying this to put them at ease. The girl was right. The truth didn't matter. Keeping the younger girls comforted did. Making sure there was no excuse for the men to get close to them; the memory of Bear gripping Susan's breasts, holding Shannon tight to his fat body came starkly to mind.
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