06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  Pointed it at the ceiling.

  Fired.

  3

  – 00.15

  Cops were trained to duck and seek cover the moment they saw a weapon or heard gunfire. Civilians ran. A handful might freeze for a second or two, but they always ended up running like frightened cattle and didn’t think twice about pushing or shoving whoever was standing between them and their safety. Children, an old lady using a walker, a litter of puppies – it didn’t matter. They would be knocked down and walked over and trampled because a shooting took on the exact same frenzy and chaos of a Black Friday sale at a Wal-Mart, only the most-sought-after item in this scenario was reaching the exit without getting shot and killed.

  The first gunshot was still ringing in Darby’s ears when she saw the gunman grip the pregnant woman in a chokehold and then push her past the metal detector, triggering its subtle but noticeable alarm – a brief trill followed by flashing orange lights.

  Then the stampede started.

  Darby dropped to the floor beside the conveyor belt, her hand already pulling the SIG from her shoulder holster. A pot-bellied man dressed in a cheap suit and looking like some ambulance-chasing lawyer seen on late-night commercials roughly pushed aside an older, heavy-set Hispanic woman with bleach-blonde hair bundled inside a puffer jacket. He didn’t stop to help her – didn’t so much as even pause. No one did.

  A howling typhoon of denim and polyester legs stormed past Darby, towards the building’s revolving front doors. The woman, now lying on her side, brought up her arms to try to protect her face from the boots and shoes kicking at her, and she screamed when someone dropped a steaming cup of coffee on her thighs. Darby scrambled to her feet and fought her way past the tide of bodies. As she grabbed the woman underneath the arms and lifted, from the corner of her eye she saw Coop inching his way along the side of the conveyor belt, heading for the metal detector so he could get a better tactical view.

  Once the woman got to her feet, she brushed past Darby and was immediately swept inside the current of bodies. Darby clicked off the safety and inched forward to the main lobby, a long cavernous space maybe half the size of a football field, the walls, floor and ceiling lined with tile that magnified every sound. Underneath the handful of canister lights, she saw maybe a dozen or more cops, a mix of plainclothes and blue uniforms, all of them armed. Some were set in tactical positions behind the raised marble planters and columns. Handfuls were dragging civilians out the line of fire, and she saw a small group tucked inside the lobby for the elevators. Several cops were barking police codes into their chest radios, a few others were on their cell phones. No one appeared to have been shot. The floor was littered with abandoned briefcases and backpacks, spilled coffee cups and cans of soda and bags of food. She didn’t see any blood.

  A thread of relief swam underneath the hurricane of adrenaline pounding through her limbs. The gunman hadn’t shot anyone – and he hadn’t wandered in and started firing at random. He had waited in line and, it appeared, as far as she could tell, that he had fired all his shots into the ceiling, all of which suggested he wasn’t some crazed gunman or terrorist looking to rack up a high body count. He wanted something – and he had taken a hostage.

  The gunman stood behind the pregnant woman in the far northeast corner, near the end of the long podium of lacquered dark walnut that served as the front desk where, at any given time of day, three to five blue unis worked the phones and handled the check-in process for all visitors. There were three people behind it right now – all men, all of them white-haired and pale and looking like they had lived well beyond their expiration date – and they had their sidearms pointed at the balaclava-covered face nestled behind the woman’s head. The black fabric was cut only to reveal the eyes.

  The gunman pressed the muzzle of what looked like a Glock 40 with an extended mag against the woman’s right temple. His arm didn’t shake, and his eyes didn’t jump around the room. Twenty, maybe thirty seconds had passed since the first gunshot, and during that time police had secured the two exits – the one behind Darby, the alcove holding the security checkpoint that led back to the main front doors; and, on the west side of the main lobby, a glass door secured by a keycard that led into the first-floor suite of offices for the Missing Persons Unit. Two cops there. Three cops behind the front desk and six, maybe seven, inside the small lobby for the elevators. A cop behind each of the six marble columns and a half dozen or so cops standing fifteen, maybe twenty feet away from the gunman. The man was boxed in and had twenty or so weapons pointed at him and he didn’t shake and his eyes didn’t move, just stared straight ahead at some fixed point in space, watching a movie only he could see. He seemed too calm, too still.

  The same wasn’t true of his hostage. Her legs kept giving out, the red-painted nails desperately clutching at the dark wool fabric of the coat arm wrapped firmly around her throat, her mouth opening and closing, trying to gulp in air as her frightened gaze darted across the sea of weapons and strange and angry faces, all of which seemed to be aimed directly at her.

  No one had stepped up to take charge of the situation, and someone needed to. Darby holstered her weapon, about to speak when she saw a tall, doughy man with perfectly combed black hair and fake teeth as white as a toilet lower his Glock and step forward. Darby recognized him: Bob Murphy, a middling detective from Kenmore’s D-3 district.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ Murphy said in a booming voice. He holstered his weapon, and as he stepped over a puddle of coffee, Darby felt a collective and palpable relief sweep through the lobby. While every cop in here was justifiably afraid of saying or doing something that would cause the hostage situation to rapidly deteriorate, their real terror had to do with the security cameras posted throughout the lobby, recording their every movement, spoken word, and action (or lack thereof), all of which would be reviewed down the road, Monday-morning quarterback-style, by a taskforce or panel of bureaucratic career climbers and pencil-lickers that had never found themselves in the heat of combat. Cops now lived in a world where their best efforts were reviewed, criticized and often vilified. The world wasn’t looking for heroes. It wanted scapegoats.

  And now Detective Robert Murphy had stepped up to the plate, putting his career on the line. Whatever happened next, good, bad, or indifferent, would fall on him.

  ‘My name’s Bobby. You’ve got my attention, so talk. Tell me what you want.’

  The gunman didn’t speak. Murphy’s too intimidating, Darby thought. And he’s not speaking the right way. Rule one in hostage negotiation was to develop a rapport. You didn’t bark out commands.

  Murphy broke rule two – no yes or no questions – when he said, ‘How about you let everyone out of here so you and I can talk? How’s that sound?’

  The gunman grabbed the woman in a chokehold.

  ‘Easy,’ Murphy said. ‘No need to hurt anyone, okay? Nobody here is going to hurt you.’

  Then, to the lobby: ‘Everyone put your weapons away right now. Go on. Do it.’

  Murphy turned and watched as people, some begrudgingly, holstered their weapons. Darby kept her attention on the gunman. His calmness set off alarms inside her, making her think, for some reason, of the stillness of a suicide bomber, a man who had already surrendered to dying.

  The last weapon holstered, Murphy turned back to the gunman and said, ‘Now everyone is gonna leave so you and me can talk.’ Then, louder to the room: ‘Everyone go ahead and leave, nice and slow out through the front doors.’

  The gunman slid the Glock away from the woman’s head.

  Dug the muzzle into her swollen belly.

  Murphy put up his hands near his shoulders, and Darby saw a slight bulge underneath his jacket, near the back waistband – the sort of bulge a handgun would make. Was Murphy packing a second piece?

  ‘Everyone keep walking nice and slow,’ Murphy said.

  Darby zipped up her jacket to hide her sidearm. Murphy had the best of intentions, but he was out of his depth. Winging it. She
had to diffuse the tension and try to gain some control. Now.

  ‘They killed my father,’ Darby called out.

  The gunman’s eyes darted around the crowded lobby to see who had spoken.

  ‘He was a good man. Honest,’ Darby said. ‘That’s what got him killed.’

  Then she moved past a wall of cops and stepped into the gunman’s line of sight.

  ‘Detective Murphy can’t help you, has no interest in helping you. No one in here does.’

  On the periphery of her vision Darby could see more than one angry and reproachful gaze aimed at her. Traitor, their expressions said. Bitch. Liar.

  Darby raised her hands to her shoulders and took a few steps forward. ‘Whatever your agenda is, your grievance, I want to hear it. I don’t answer to these people. I know how they think, how they operate. I’ll listen to you and I’ll help you any way I can.’

  You don’t belong here, their expressions said. You’re not one of us any more. You never were.

  ‘We can talk now, or we can talk privately,’ Darby said. ‘Which would you prefer?’

  Silence. The lobby, packed with the sharp odours of gun smoke, the warm air crackling with police radios and ringing telephones, felt eerily still.

  The gunman’s blue eyes appraised her. They reminded her of Coop, his eyes: large and expressive and bordering on feminine, with the kind of thick lashes generally only seen on women.

  He’s too calm, Darby thought. Only someone who had mentally rehearsed this exact moment thousands of times and surrendered to whatever fate would hand him would appear this relaxed.

  But what does he want?

  The gunman turned his head slightly, towards his hostage, as though he wanted to whisper a secret. The pregnant woman closed her eyes, and her lips trembled when she said, ‘He asks that you come closer.’

  Smart, Darby thought, making her way around the items and puddles. Real smart. Using the hostage as his spokeswoman automatically engendered sympathy. It was simple biology and evolution: there wasn’t a single person in here who could stand the thought of seeing a woman, let alone a pregnant one, get hurt. Using her as his mouthpiece forced everyone to take his threats and demands seriously.

  That would change if Darby could convince him of her real plan: exchange the hostage for her. If that happened, with the exception of Coop, no one would shed a tear if she became collateral damage. BPD will probably hold a parade, she thought.

  ‘Stop,’ the hostage said, still gripping her captor’s arm.

  Darby, now standing less than ten feet away, got a good, close look at the pregnant woman. She appeared to be somewhere in her early to mid-thirties and had the kind of pale and freckled Irish skin that always burned and never tanned. Boston accent. Shoulder-length blonde hair that was tangled around part of her face and mouth. No make-up or rings on any of her fingers. Her clothing – sneakers and maternity jeans with a red top worn underneath a long and baggy grey hoodie with a ripped right-front pocket – were well-worn, thrift-store purchases or items donated to her by her girlfriends.

  The hostage said, ‘He asks that you please put your hands behind your head.’

  Darby complied. For some reason, the woman triggered memories of her mother. After her father died (no, murdered, he was murdered by people who once worked in this very building, his so-called brothers-in-blue) they had lived on a shoestring budget. Sheila McCormick clipping coupons and only buying store-brand groceries and clothes from yard sales and department-store clearance racks – and only when it was completely and absolutely necessary.

  The gunman trained his weapon on Darby.

  ‘Get on your knees,’ the hostage said.

  4

  – 00.10

  Darby didn’t move.

  ‘Down on your knees, hands behind your head,’ the hostage said, her voice trembling. ‘He won’t ask you again.’

  Seeing the raw terror in the woman’s eyes, how it was eating its way through her, quickly transforming her into a shell of a person who, if she survived this, would be for ever scarred and mistrusting and constantly frightened, made Darby want to lunge for the gunman.

  ‘Please,’ the woman nearly screamed. ‘Do what he says …’

  ‘You got it,’ Darby replied. Her voice didn’t tremble. She breathed deeply and slowly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Laura –’

  The gunman tightened his chokehold, cutting off her words.

  Locked back the Glock’s hammer.

  He won’t kill me, Darby told herself as she dropped to one knee, then another. Shoot me or anyone else and he’ll lose all of his negotiation power. He’s smart enough to know that.

  Was he? She had no way of knowing. For all she knew, the gunman was mentally unstable and had some personal death wish. Maybe he was going to splatter her brains across the cold marble floor to demonstrate his power. Maybe he was going to make some proclamation and start firing wildly. Right now anything was possible because she knew next to nothing about the man and his intentions. Right now she was operating solely on gut instincts and experience, both of which told her he needed to voice some grievance before listing his demands. Right now all she could do was wait for him to speak. When he did, she would listen with trained empathy. Give him her full attention and build a rapport with him.

  You’re making a helluva lot of assumptions, an inner voice countered. Let’s hope to God you’re right.

  The hostage let go of her captor’s arm. The woman fought like hell to keep her legs from buckling, and her arms shook as she reached around, behind her back. Then her gaze cut sideways, to a civilian: an older black woman with grey dreadlocks and thick-rimmed eyeglasses who was sitting on the floor with her back resting up against the reception desk, her mouth working rapidly in silent prayer.

  ‘You. Yes, you,’ the hostage said. Darby could see the woman’s fingers fumbling at the buttons of the man’s overcoat but kept her attention focused on the gunman, studying him, trying to commit his every gesture and movement to memory. ‘That cane lying on the floor, is it yours?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A pause as the gunman spoke to the hostage.

  ‘You’re to remain seated,’ the hostage said. ‘Nod if you understand … good.’

  Now the pregnant woman turned her attention to the centre of the room.

  Then, louder: ‘You, the woman with the white curly hair standing in the back. Please come forward.’

  Over her left shoulder Darby saw a bull of a woman with a round face thread her way past a pair of armed blue uniforms: Caucasian, somewhere in her late fifties, stocky and thick, about five foot five inches. She had a slight overbite and wore a forest green L. L. Bean winter parka that had a hood lined with fur.

  Another pause as the gunman spoke to his hostage.

  ‘Face down on the floor, please,’ the pregnant woman stammered. Then, with her left hand, she pulled back the lapel of the gunman’s overcoat and held it open.

  Darby had seen suicide vests in photographs and on the news, but never one up close. The gunman had fashioned his using an olive-coloured military tactical vest which, given its thickness, suggested it was not only bulletproof but held ceramic armour plating. She could only see the left side of the vest, but what she saw was enough: detonator cords running into five bricks of C-4 or some other plastic explosive tucked inside five tactical pockets.

  A wave of terror washed through her before she could catch it. On the periphery of her vision she saw people inch back, fighting the urge to run. She wanted to join them. Bombs were nasty, hateful things, wildly unpredictable and wildly destructive. They ranged from crudely constructed devices using ordinary kitchen items like pressure cookers to the elegantly simple pipe bomb. Assuming the right side of the vest was a mirror image of the left meant the gunman had a total of ten blocks of plastic explosive strapped to his body – nowhere near enough to blow the building but more than enough to destroy the lobby and kill everyone in here – especially if he, like other s
uicide bombers, had packed the vest with ball bearings, screws, bolts, and other metal objects to serve as shrapnel.

  The hostage spoke again: ‘The three women are to stay. Everyone else, clear the lobby.’

  While people filed out, Darby tried to study the gunman, who was still crouched behind the hostage, his body pressed up against the woman’s back. He was about a good five inches taller than the hostage, putting his height around six feet. He wore polished black Oxford shoes and a black suit with a white shirt and a dark tie – funeral attire, she thought.

  But it was the man’s calm demeanor that worried her. It made her think of suicide bombers who had willingly and eagerly surrendered to the belief that their actions would grant them entrance into a paradise of unlimited pleasures.

  Again the gunman whispered against the hostage’s ear. Whatever he said caused the woman to break into tears. Then he released his grip on her throat and with his left hand he reached inside his jacket pocket and came back with a black, circular device that looked like a gasmask filter. He placed it against the black fabric covering his mouth and used the Velcro straps to attach it to his balaclava.

  Not a filter; a voice-altering device. ‘Remove your coats and place them on the floor,’ he said, his voice taking on the robotic quality of a computer. ‘All of you.’

  They complied. The black woman, Darby saw, was having a difficult time. She saw the gunman glaring at her and said, ‘I just had shoulder surgery. I can’t take it off myself.’

  But the gunman was no longer paying attention to her; his attention and weapon were now on the white-haired woman, who wore a hip holster strapped with a nine.

  ‘You’re a cop,’ the gunman said. The voice-altering device didn’t allow for inflection. Darby didn’t know if the man was asking a question or making a statement. ‘Are you a member of the Boston Police Department?’

  The woman nodded. She wore a grey cable-knit sweater with jeans and boots.