by Gary Noesner
Chief Heineman’s frustration was growing, along with the pressure on him. He was in command of all of the personnel on hand, a job that included making sure that officers on the perimeter protected the scene from unwanted intrusion. He had to coordinate all of the assisting agency representatives, ensure that sniper/observers were relieved and allowed to get food and rest, speak to the press, and try to come up with a strategy to resolve this situation without loss of life.
At 11:00 a.m., Heineman brought in a medical doctor to try to assess the condition of the children, based on the sounds they were or were not making. During the evening it had gotten very cold, but temperatures rose again during the day, which must have made the compartment hot, stuffy, and uncomfortable. Officers attached a better listening device, almost like a large-scale stethoscope, outside the compartment door so that the doctor could listen in. He heard Julie asking her mother to wake up, but nothing else that would indicate the child’s own condition or that of her baby brother.
At 11:37 a.m., two shots were fired in a rapid burst, the first indication that Mario had a machine gun—yet another fact weighing against a tactical assault.
At 1:00 p.m., Mario shouted out again, threatening to kill himself and the children. He also demanded that orange juice and matches be sent in. Jorge offered water, but only if Mario would let the children go. Through the listening device, the officers on hand could hear Julie saying, “Agua, agua.” Then they heard Mario telling her to be quiet. Jorge continued to offer food and water, but Mario’s only response was to yell obscenities at the police.
It was a Saturday and I was at home in Virginia when I received a call from Fred Lanceley, my primary negotiation instructor at Quantico, who had become a good friend. Fred told me he had been asked to help with an incident on an Amtrak train; some shots had been fired and they were trying to negotiate with the guy, but he spoke only Spanish. Did I have someone on my team at WFO who spoke Spanish? I thought immediately of Ray Arras, a thirty-nine-year-old El Paso native who had just recently completed the FBI hostage-negotiation training course. He had come to the FBI at a relatively late age after running the El Paso Zoo. I had been impressed by his confidence and easygoing manner; he would be great in a tense situation like this. Fred told me to have Ray come to Davidson Army Airfield, located at nearby Fort Belvoir, where he would be picked up by an FBI plane and flown directly to Raleigh.
This sounded like the kind of challenging case I had been hoping to be involved in. I had handled other crisis situations—someone holed up and threatening suicide, domestic disturbances that turned into barricades—but this was a chance to work a major standoff. And so I asked Fred if he could use my help in Raleigh. He agreed and told me to meet him and Ray at Fort Belvoir.
In a couple of hours a four-seat Cessna took the three of us from Virginia to the Raleigh airport, where an FBI sedan ferried us directly to the Amtrak station. Just as we were arriving, at around 6:00 p.m., Mario fired two more shots through the compartment door. Tactical officers had been attempting to deliver the matches that Mario had asked for earlier, and apparently this movement had spooked him.
The station in Raleigh is about the size of a typical suburban home, ranch style, with a portico out front facing a small parking lot. Fred, Ray, and I found Chief Heineman inside, looking understandably tired and beleaguered. He was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache; he wore a tie and tweed jacket.
I had talked to my share of southern sheriffs over the previous couple of years, and I’d noticed that when meeting an FBI agent, they usually spent time on the slow exchange of pleasantries before getting down to business. In all likelihood they were meeting the federal agent for the first time, and they wanted to get a sense of whom they were dealing with. Heineman, though, got right down to business. His accent told me that he was a New Yorker, and it was obvious that he had a big problem on his hands and needed our help.
“Thanks for coming down,” he said, directing us to the station manager’s office behind a snack bar. He and a couple of other officers briefed us on the situation, focusing on Mario’s actions up to this point. Heineman told us that he thought Mario’s sister, Maria, was dead. The listening devices were picking up only the voices of Mario, Julie, and the crying baby, Juan. The implications of those three people trapped inside a small train compartment with a decaying corpse under the hot North Carolina sun were not pleasant to think about. He told us about their inability to get Mario to respond, and asked our advice.
Fred and I described a strategy to get him to start talking with us. The key in situations of this kind is to vocalize the fears and concerns likely driving the perpetrator’s refusal to talk. “I know you’re afraid and concerned that we want to hurt you,” the negotiator might say. “I want to assure you that no one out here wishes to harm you in any way.” Or “I know you’re confused about what to say or do. I want you to know that I’m here to help you get safely out of this situation, but I need to be able to speak with you in order to help.” We told Chief Heineman that even if the communication is all one-way, the calm and controlled voice of the negotiator can lower tension and create a more comfortable environment that encourages the subject to speak. Even though Mario might not be talking, he was probably listening.
Chief Heineman responded that he viewed us as the experts; he would follow our advice. We suggested that Ray be the primary contact with Mario and that we have him take over as soon as possible. I would assist him as a coach, using Jorge to translate what was being said to me so I could in turn provide Ray with suggestions in real time. Fred would be nearby to provide strategic guidance, concentrating most of his efforts on gathering more of a criminal and psychological history on Mario in hopes of uncovering important personality clues that would help us get him to communicate.
Also assisting would be FBI agent Lathell Thomas, from the Charlotte FBI Field Office. He was fluent in Spanish—previously he had been assigned to the field office in San Juan, Puerto Rico—and he would be able to help Jorge provide me with instantaneous interpretation of the dialogue between Ray and Mario so I could coach.
While we were still inside the station, we received confirmation of what we had dreaded all along: Mario shouted out that his sister Maria was dead.
We knew that when one person dies in an incident, the chances of there being additional loss of life greatly increase. What had been the worst-case scenario all along was now more likely than ever: facing a homicide conviction, Mario might decide to kill the children and then kill himself rather than surrender.
Ray, Fred, and I walked back out the station’s front door, on the side opposite the platform, then circled around through the parking lot, coming back to the rail lines at a point just beyond where Mario’s compartment was stranded. We took up a position behind a steel girder supporting the roof over the platform. This put us about a hundred feet from Mario’s compartment, just alongside one of the other cars attached to it. The only problem with this location was that Mario stood between us and the command post, back inside the train station proper. This meant that anytime we needed to consult with the chief, or even use the restrooms, we had to follow the same circuitous route through the parking lot to stay outside the potential range of Mario’s weapons. Fred in particular made many, many trips, serving as liaison and information source. Still, sniper/observer teams were there, hidden from view, both to protect us and to use force if Mario suddenly came out with guns blazing.
As darkness fell, the warmer daytime temperatures dropped precipitously, and Ray and I appropriated blankets from the passenger car sitting on the track next to us. Even wrapped in a blanket, I was still standing on the cold cement train platform in loafers. Then it began to rain, a steady drizzle that would continue through the night.
The SWAT team had set up transmitters with microphones and speakers that would allow us to hear Mario and him to hear us. We now put on headphones, and Ray took a deep breath and purposefully picked up the microphone.
/>
Ray’s an incredibly affable and outgoing guy, one of the more upbeat people I’ve ever met. As he launched into his monologue he projected a sense of calm and kindness. “Este es Ray,” he said. Then, continuing in Spanish, he said, “I’m here to help you. How are the children?”
No answer. Ray continued along the lines we’d suggested to Heineman. No one wanted to hurt Mario; he should speak with us so that we could help him. Again, no response, but Ray kept up the patter, which is more difficult than you might imagine. It can be counterproductive to keep saying the same things over and over—as well as torturous for both speaker and listener alike—so I tried to help Ray come up with fresh ways to make the representations that we thought would be most effective. “Think about the children. You don’t want them to suffer.” “Let us get you some food and some drinks. Those kids need to eat.” “Think about yourself. Life is still worth living.”
I was struck by Ray’s ability to come off as entirely genuine, speaking to Mario as if they were brothers. He carefully avoided the stereotypical “voice of authority” so often associated with law enforcement personnel. The cold monotone of Sergeant Joe Friday from Dragnet is not what you need when you’re trying to convey empathy and establish rapport. It’s also true that individuals likely to engage in a standoff usually have a negative view of the police already. They expect law enforcement to be autocratic, demanding, and stern, so when someone like Ray projects real understanding, it disarms the subject and can help win his cooperation. As my psychologist friend Dr. Mike Webster says, “People want to work with, cooperate with, and trust people that they like.” It’s hard to like someone who is threatening you or challenging you.
Ray had attended the FBI negotiation course at Quantico fifteen months earlier, and now he was getting his initiation by fire—this was in fact his first negotiation. Knowing this, I tried to help as much as I could, first sorting through the translation of all that was said, then whispering or jotting down my suggestions on a yellow legal pad and holding them up for him to see: “Mario, we know you must be scared, but nobody wants to hurt you.… We’re really concerned about the children and want to make sure that they have something to eat and drink.… Help us to help you.” We soon fell into a comfortable pace that enabled us to keep the monologue going.
After two solid hours, Mario finally responded to a comment about the children. He began to shout at Ray: “You no-good son of a bitch. Stop talking to me. You’re a no-good bastard. You don’t care about the children. You’re lying.” I looked over to Ray to see his reaction to this outburst, but his demeanor hadn’t changed.
We had achieved our initial goal of getting him to respond. But we were aware that time, normally on our side, was less available because of the children. We had to keep Mario talking and listen for clues that would help us quickly determine his psychological state and concerns.
Ray responded quickly that he did in fact care about the children, and he spent the next twenty minutes explaining this and trying to keep Mario engaged. Again, Mario responded.
“If you really want to help the children, I need some IV fluids.” He explained that he wanted us to pass a tube through one of the many bullet holes in the compartment door. Even though officers had been shot at the previous day when trying to deliver matches, we desperately wanted to comply with Mario’s request. We had to demonstrate good faith.
Chief Heineman agreed, and a short time later, he dispatched the SWAT team to undertake the task. We were all incredibly tense as the men entered the train, moving defensively and covering each other as they went. This guy had already fired his gun several times in response to perceived noises. Would he do it again? Ray explained carefully to Mario what we were doing, and as the men drew near Mario’s compartment, the chief and I made our way to the other side of the train. We drew our guns and watched through the open window facing the door to Mario’s compartment as the SWAT team tried to push the tube through the bullet holes, but apparently the outgoing bullets had taken a zigzag course, and the tube would not pass through. Ray explained the problem to Mario and suggested that he try to gouge out the holes to make them larger. Mario didn’t believe us and soon became impatient and agitated, shouting out that we were dishonorable. Then he went silent again.
Twelve of the most bleak and tedious hours I’ve experienced on the job followed. It was freezing cold, and we stood the entire night on the exposed platform, stomping our feet occasionally to try to stay warm. Periodically we heard the kids crying out. Mario’s request for an IV had left us more worried about them than ever. Sandwiches or perhaps baby food is what you ask for to deal with hunger. An IV is what you ask for when a life is at risk. We continued to try to engage him throughout the night, but to no avail.
When dawn arrived, the rain stopped and the sun came out. It was at that point that we began to notice the stench. At first we thought it might be the toilets on the train, but gradually it became clear that this was something different and an indication of what we had feared all along—Mario’s sister was indeed dead and her body was starting to decompose. As the morning progressed the smell got worse. One of the police officers brought us some Vicks VapoRub, which we rubbed under our noses to mask the odor. I could only imagine how bad it must have been inside the compartment. I thought about the young children trapped in that six-by-ten-foot space, their volatile uncle pacing back and forth and firing off weapons, their mother dead on the floor. I quickly pushed those thoughts aside. Finding a way to get them out was a much better use of my time and energy than thinking about what they were going through.
Later that morning we summoned a pediatrician to the scene. He warned us that we were very close to the point where the children might die from dehydration. Baby Juan might last another twelve hours without water, the doctor said. The older sister, Julie, could last perhaps another day.
Now we had our deadline, but that still didn’t give us a plan. We continued to try to get Mario to talk with us, without success.
At 2:40 p.m., a shirtless Mario suddenly pushed back the curtains and threw open the window of the compartment. After a fifty-hour siege, and with the North Carolina sun creating sweltering temperatures inside, that train compartment must have been intolerable. Was Mario finally weakening? He stuck his head out and waved, then quickly ducked back in. Moments later, he strung a bedsheet out of the still-open compartment window. He told Ray that he wanted containers of food and water tied to it so that he could pull them in.
According to the protocols described earlier, a negotiator typically would demand the release of a hostage in exchange. In this case, I knew that we simply had to seize any opportunity we had to keep the children alive.
We conveyed the request to Chief Heineman, and within an hour, police officers had brought doughnuts, sandwiches, and drinks to the station. With Mario’s window now open, exposing them to fire, the SWAT team members crawled under the train from the far side and tied the drinks and food up in the sheet. We watched as Mario hauled the sheet up through the window and into the compartment.
We had finally been able to demonstrate our desire to take care of him and the children, and Ray immediately emphasized this. “Eat. Drink. Feed the children.” He continued with this theme, using what negotiators refer to as “positive police actions,” in which we reiterate all the good things we’ve done. The list also includes all the threatening things we purposely haven’t done. For example, he reminded Mario that we had not fired at him when he opened the window.
We could hear some movement in the cabin, and after a while Mario spoke up again. “Gracias, Ray.” Ray continued to do most of the talking, asking about Julie, the little girl, and about the baby, Juan. Mario now opened up slightly; he gave only brief, noncommittal responses, but he seemed less agitated. He also began to call Ray “señor,” a sign of respect. This felt like a major breakthrough after the events of the previous day.
Ray continued to develop his rapport with Mario, and early that evening
convinced him to surrender one of his weapons in exchange for some cigarettes and soft drinks. Mario wrapped the handgun in the sheet that had been used to deliver the food and lowered it to the ground. It turned out to be a 9 mm automatic pistol that was jammed and unworkable. Still, it represented a step in the right direction.
We decided that this was the moment to press Mario to surrender. Ray told Mario that it was time for him and the kids to come out.
Mario responded, “Only if my padrino is here.”
Ray glanced at me and translated, “Godfather.”
“Who is your godfather, Mario?”
He gave us the name of Paul E. Warburgh, a New York attorney who had defended Mario in a prior drug-smuggling case. He wanted Warburgh on the scene to guarantee his safety.
The FBI office in New York quickly located Warburgh and spoke with him, and he agreed to help. Even so, I knew it would take time to fly the lawyer down to North Carolina on an FBI plane. We continued to press Mario to release the children.
“Señor, what about Julie and the baby? Let’s get them out of there, yes?”
No response. Ray continued. “Send the kids out now and you can come when your lawyer arrives.” He continued along these lines periodically over the next hour. Suddenly I heard Mario speak again, his tone matter-of-fact.
I listened for the translation.
“The baby is dead. Don’t worry about the baby, Ray.”
Nothing in the way he uttered this sentence could have prepared me for the translation. He spoke as if telling us to get over something, with no hint of remorse. I looked at Ray and saw pure anguish. Mario continued. “I woke up this morning and he was blue and stiff.” He blamed us for not having delivered the IV through the holes in the door, as he had demanded earlier.
I looked again at Ray and could tell he was devastated. He turned and walked farther down the train platform. Then he knelt down and prayed.