06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  ‘All I’m asking is for –’

  ‘I know what you’re asking, and the answer is no, I can’t discuss any case details with you even if the client is deceased.’

  ‘How about a client named Levine?’

  ‘I’m assuming that’s the last name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Darby heard the click of keys on the other end of the line.

  ‘There’s no one in our database with that name,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t mean to be curt, but I need to get back to work – the phones are ringing off the hook. Call me back with any additional questions, and I’ll help you in any way I can.’

  The beauty of working with people for a long time was that you developed your own rhythm and shorthand; you didn’t have to waste time explaining what and what not to do, what you needed. When Coop nodded and walked away, Darby knew he was going to take care of obtaining all the case information on Sean Ellis without alerting Donnelly or BPD.

  With Coop out of earshot, Darby turned to Gelfand and said, ‘Send me.’

  ‘Send you where?’

  ‘Back inside the lobby. He won’t kill me.’

  ‘He’ll have to deliver on his threat or he’ll appear weak. Groves was emphatic on that point.’

  ‘He can’t kill me if I make myself part of the story.’ Darby told him what she wanted to say to the reporters gathered at Mercy Park.

  ‘That’s a solid idea. Clever,’ Gelfand said after she finished. ‘Still, it’s a gamble. And I’ll need to involve the media people, get them to sign off on it.’

  ‘You want to waste time running this up the flagpole?’

  ‘Those two cases you were going to consult on, those cops who were murdered last year, whatstheirnames?’

  ‘Frank Ventura and Ethan Owen. I haven’t read the case files.’

  ‘But the governor asked you specifically if you had.’

  ‘I noticed that too, which is why I asked Coop to very quietly see what he could find out without tipping our hand to BPD.’

  ‘Nothing much slips past you, does it?’

  ‘Ventura, Owen and Trey Warren were all retired – and lived alone. Ventura and Owen, before they were suffocated, someone worked them over with a blunt object. You torture someone for one of two reasons: to obtain information or because you enjoy it. I was told there wasn’t a sexual nature involved in the killings, and because both victims were males – and former cops – it falls squarely in the camp of a revenge killing.’

  Gelfand rubbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, thinking. ‘So we’ve got two dead cops connected to the gunman – Hill and Warren. Ventura and Owen from last year may or may not play a part, we don’t know yet, and we’ve got a dead child and a guy placed in prison and possibly convicted by wrong fingerprint evidence.’

  ‘And represented by Rosemary Shapiro, whom Anita Barnes was supposed to meet inside the lobby this morning.’

  ‘And Big Red, who is white, is out for revenge based on the death of a black kid and a black guy wrongly convicted? This isn’t just some racial thing, there’s got to be another connection here – something to do with Warren and Hill, maybe even those two cops from last year.’

  ‘I’ll be sure and ask him when I’m inside the lobby.’ She saw the doubt flicker across his face. ‘We’ve got a chance to go in and gain leverage, get him to release at least one of the hostages and stop the second bomb, maybe all of those things.’

  ‘And what if he decides to kill one of the hostages? Have you thought of that?’

  She had.

  ‘Then we’ll both regret it for the rest of our lives,’ Darby said.

  34

  +05.19

  Gelfand insisted she go in wearing a bomb suit. The bomb squad units for the BPD, state police and the officers inside the Bureau’s Boston field office all used the same top-of-the-line suit that had saved the lives of more than one EOD military officer in Iraq and Afghanistan. The suit was also made of bullet-resistant Kevlar, and the helmet and face shield offered similar protection against gunfire.

  Darby insisted she go in wearing her civilian clothes. The suit, she reminded him, was bullet-resistant, not bulletproof. It also weighed eighty pounds and would require two men and a half an hour’s worth of time to put on her. Because of its bulk, the suit would prevent her from running – and if the lobby bombs went off, it wouldn’t protect her from the blast’s pressure waves. If the gunman wanted to kill her, he would. Better to go in looking strong and confident. Appearances were important. She wanted the man to know she wasn’t afraid.

  Gelfand tried to convince her to wear SWAT tactical armour: a Kevlar vest and trousers with thigh and shin inserts containing ceramic plating. It was a prudent move, she agreed, but ultimately useless; the gunman could always go for the headshot. She compromised by agreeing to wear a tactical vest.

  A federal SWAT officer led her to the ‘Bearcat’, an Armoured Response Vehicle equipped with night-vision optics, a gas-injection system and a battering ram. The tiny windows were tinted to prevent anyone from seeing inside, and a black matte finish covered the ballistic plating.

  After Darby hopped into the back, the agent shut the door and then pounded a fist twice against the side, the signal for the driver to go. She gripped the grab-handles then opened one of the overhead aluminium-finish cabinets and rooted through the vests until she found her size.

  Carrying the vest, she made her way to the front of the ARV, passing the ladder leading up to the turret, and entered the area right behind the driver – the place where the hostage negotiator sat on a mounted swivel chair at a counter packed with communication equipment. It was cold in here; she could see her breath. She could also see out the front window: another BPD caravan of flashing lights and sirens was waiting for her beyond the entrance of the parking lot.

  The vest was too bulky to fit underneath her leather jacket. She’d have to leave it here.

  As she began to click the vest straps into place, a random memory flashed through her mind: her father sitting beside her in the roller-coaster car at Canobie Lake Amusement Park in Salem, New Hampshire. She was eight or so, and it was her first time on a roller coaster. She remembered the metallic click of the bar that locked them against the seat, and she remembered the sickening and sinking feeling in her stomach as the car crawled its way up to the first drop, clank-clank-clank. She remembered looking behind her, back at the platform, back where it was safe.

  Everything will be fine, her father had told her. If it gets too scary, just shut your eyes.

  She wasn’t eight any more, and she couldn’t shut her eyes.

  The Bearcat picking up speed and the outside sirens piercing the ARV’s protective walls, Darby searched for something to hold her attention. The wall-mounted whiteboards were bare, and all the communications and tactical equipment was bolted and strapped down to the counters and wall-compartments. The view out the tiny window above the scuffed counter showed nothing but traffic. It was only early afternoon and the sky was dark. She could see the snowflakes swirling in all the headlights.

  The voice of the gunman’s parting words came to her: Come in here again without Briggs and the only way you’ll leave here is in a body bag.

  She had made a will not that long ago. With no husband, children or surviving family, she had named Coop as the sole beneficiary of her life insurance policies, savings and investments. The will was filed with a Boston lawyer who, oddly, had been recommended to her by Rosemary Shapiro. She had told Coop the name of the lawyer, but what if he forgot? She needed to remind him.

  The counter where she sat had drawers on the right secured by locking clips so they wouldn’t open during transport. Darby unlocked one and pulled it open, hoping to find a paper and pen. She found them, along with a small microcassette recorder.

  The gunman’s jamming unit had scrambled the BPD lobby cameras and prevented her conversation with him from being recorded on the FBI’s FBIRD. The FBIRD was a digital record
er; the microcassette was analogue, a totally different – and much older – technology. Most jamming units didn’t cover analogue.

  When she pressed the PLAY button, a tiny light turned green and she saw the cassette wheels go round and round. She pressed STOP and then slid the recorder with the microphone sticking outwards into an empty breast pocket on her vest. She tucked the flap underneath it so there wouldn’t be any interference.

  Darby was writing her last will and testament along with the contact information for where Coop could find her will when the driver called out. His voice startled her.

  She didn’t hear what he’d said. She finished writing, then ripped the piece of paper from the pad, folded it and then pushed herself out of her seat.

  Holding on to a grip bar, she knelt behind the driver. She had to yell over the sirens.

  ‘Can you repeat that? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I said Gelfand just called.’ The driver had a thick moustache and long black hair flecked with grey, and he smelled of cigars, like her father had. She pegged his age somewhere in his mid to late fifties. ‘He wanted me to tell you they located Rosemary Shapiro and that she’s okay.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘House down the Cape. That’s all I know. He didn’t get into any details.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘Mercy Park is gonna be a feeding frenzy, like sharks circling a bleeding seal. I were you, I’d address them from the turret. That way they can’t claw at you.’

  It was a good idea, strategic, but a bad image on TV, her poking her head out of an armoured vehicle and addressing the crowd like she was George Patton with breasts. She wanted to look into all those TV cameras and show the gunman she wasn’t afraid of him – of anyone.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Darby said.

  ‘Your funeral.’ The driver meant it as a joke. Then he remembered where he was taking her after the press conference and added, ‘Sorry, bad choice of words.’

  ‘In case I don’t come out of the lobby, I want you to give this to Special Agent Jackson Cooper.’ Darby reached across the man’s shoulder, and handed him a folded piece of paper. ‘SAC Gelfand knows who he is, you can give it to him.’

  She returned to her seat, feeling as though she was strapped inside another roller coaster – only she couldn’t see where she was heading.

  There was no way to stop it now. All she could do was hang on and hope and pray that her instincts were right, that the gunman would let her live long enough to see his final destination.

  35

  +05.24

  Darby had given her fair share of press conferences over the years, but when she looked through the ARV’s tinted window and saw the media crowd gathered behind the sawhorses on the dead winter grass at Mercy Park, the limbs above them stripped of leaves, she understood why the driver suggested she speak from the turret.

  The ARV pulled up against the kerb along with the pair of BPD cruisers that had escorted them. A dozen or so blue uniforms were already standing on the sidewalk, their breath steaming in the cold air, snow dusting the brims of their caps. She went out through the back doors, alone, and the moment the patrolmen saw her they formed a protective barrier between her and the sawhorses sitting on the edge of the park.

  The flashing blue-and-whites and the sight of the armoured truck shaped like a tank had drawn the crowd’s attention; some reporters and cameramen were already running towards her. Others quickly followed suit and within seconds she saw a tornado of limbs and bright camera lights scrambling in her direction. For some reason it triggered a memory of a story her father had once told her about his father, Michael, who had grown up during the Great Depression. He had been standing in a government bread line when the news got out that there wouldn’t be enough to feed everyone. Fights broke out, everyone clawing at each other, including women and children, to get their hands on the food scraps.

  Darby braced herself, squinting against the combined glare from all the camera lights and wishing it was still daylight out so she could wear her sunglasses; she felt exposed and vulnerable, like she was about to undergo the psychological equivalent of a rectal exam. She couldn’t hide behind sunglasses; she couldn’t hide at all. She had to look into the cameras when she made her statement; the gunman might be watching the live coverage on his satellite phone.

  The shouting began at once, everyone jockeying for position behind the sawhorses:

  ‘Why has the gunman requested to see former mayor Briggs – and why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Why is the gunman referring to himself as Big Red, the nickname of your father, Thomas McCormick?’

  ‘Is it true the gunman contacted Globe reporter David Carlson?’

  ‘How many bombs has Big Red planted in the city?’

  ‘Why did Big Red choose you as his spokesman – and what were you doing inside the lobby this morning?’

  ‘Is it true the gunman deliberately left evidence with your name on it this morning in Dorchester?’

  Hearing that, Darby flinched internally but kept the surprise from reaching her face. Someone had already leaked the information – not all that surprising. What did surprise her was how fast the press had found out. She wondered if Commissioner Donnelly or the governor or current mayor had slipped that to the press, the first step in their campaign to shift blame for what was happening and whatever was about to happen to her.

  Darby motioned for everyone to be silent and still.

  Then, when the uproar died down: ‘I have a statement to make,’ she said. Flashbulbs exploded in her face and everywhere she looked she saw microphones and recorders and smartphones and TV cameras aimed at her. ‘The gunman, who identified himself as “Big Red” to Mr Carlson, a Boston Globe reporter, has released one hostage, and I believe he is about to release another. I’m about to head back into the lobby to speak with him. He has promised me my safety and the safety of the hostages. He has requested an audience with former mayor Edward Briggs, who is currently en route to Boston from upstate Vermont where he was skiing with his family.

  ‘At the present time we don’t know why the gunman wants to talk to Mr Briggs, but the gunman has assured us that he will surrender himself and also disarm and give us the locations of the remaining explosive devices after he has aired his grievance with Mr Briggs. As a show of good faith, he has agreed not to detonate the second and third explosive devices.’

  Those were the words she had rehearsed with Gelfand and Alan Grove. Darby decided to add a few of her own.

  ‘Mr Briggs has agreed to speak with the gunman when he arrives. I’ll accompany him inside the lobby. I’ll have more information for you when I return from the police station. Thank you.’

  Darby turned her back to the crowd and darted to the ARV as reporters shouted questions.

  Their voices were mercifully silenced when she slammed the heavy steel doors shut.

  Now the ARV was moving away from the kerb, the engine rumbling beneath her boots, on her way to see the man who had promised to kill her if she didn’t return without the former mayor.

  Her parting statement had ensured that Briggs wouldn’t be able to slither away. Hopefully.

  Thinking about Donnelly, Mayor Finch and Governor Vaughan screaming at their TV screens made her smile. Gelfand would catch heat but she would make it a point to tell the Boston trio it had been her idea and not Gelfand’s.

  Now she wondered about her current course of action concerning the gunman.

  What if her instincts were wrong this time?

  What if the gunman carried through on his promise to kill her?

  In her mind’s eye she saw herself writhing in pain on the lobby’s cold marble floor, clutching a bullet wound on her stomach as she bled out, choking to death on her own blood, dying alone in the place where she had given fifteen years of her life; dying inside the belly of the same institution that had given the orders to murder her father. What a fitting and ironic end.

  Darby
closed her eyes and leaned back on the bench where dozens of SWAT officers had sat before her, praying and preparing, about to risk their lives. She didn’t think about the gunman, or Briggs, or Coop or anyone else. Who she thought about, who she always thought about in these situations, was her father, and it was always the same question: If he was alive and in her position, what would he do?

  There was no pause or need to think. The answer came swiftly and smoothly, like the lapping of a wave against the shore: Her father would go back into the lobby and use every last scrap of his God-given and hard-won talents to try to save a life. To get at the truth. No matter what happened, he’d go down swinging. Better to go out fighting for what you believed in than to fade away.

  36

  +05.31

  Darby used the short walk from the ARV to the station to fortify her courage. The snow danced across her face and vision, but she could make out the SWAT officer crouched by the corner not far from the front door, waiting for her. The sky was getting darker and again from high overhead came the thumping of two, possibly three news copters.

  The lobby doors were growing larger, her legs were fluttering with anxiety, but there was some hope there too, she was hopeful, and she saw the SWAT agent holding a suitcase phone. He leaned in close to her ear to speak.

  The unit was already hooked up, he told her. All she had to do was deliver it. He handed her the receiver.

  Standing at the front doors now, she gripped the handle, the steel cold against her calloused fingers and palm, and took in a deep breath. The vest was snug and she could feel her heart beating against the ceramic plating.

  The agent, crouching, held the door open an inch or two as she walked inside, the wire connected to the receiver unspooling behind her. The right part of the lobby near the bevelled windows was partially lit up by the streetlights. No windows past the checkpoint, in the heart of the lobby; it was black in there, the power turned off. No sounds coming from there either. No breathing or crying, just the roar of blood pounding in her ears.