In an act of mild desperation, still driving toward the impending crisis and thinking about what he faced, Nicky took the rotating bulb and its base from the dash with his left hand and reached out his driver’s side window and affixed it to the roof of the police car right over his head. Ah, that’s better, he thought as he traveled over the final mile to Hoggatt Lane. Looking around, he made a quick left then a right and he arrived before his estimated time; it was only about 5:20 p.m.
The cloudy night made the sky particularly dark as Nick turned off his headlights and approached the scene. He had a lot to think about. First he had to determine if the Command Post bus—a large, long, marked vehicle equipped with radios, telephones, and a cache of special weapons, office space, medical supplies and paperwork—had arrived in the area.
On the special frequency assigned for emergencies such as this, Nick immediately got on the air: “Headquarters, has the command bus given its location?”
“Headquarters to Command Post bus, what is your 10-20?”
“Headquarters, we are approaching the scene and about one mile out.”
“Command Post, this is HNT supervisor, as you approach Hoggatt Lane immediately before the right, I don’t know the street name, there is a large vacant lot on the left, please park the vehicle at that location, advise headquarters of the specific street location and establish telephone communications forthwith.”
“Okay, command post acknowledges receipt of message,” the post operator responded.
“Headquarters, please advise detectives, PFT, all the marked units at scene, and any other responding units of the location of the command post and please request a supervisor to establish an outer perimeter away from the command post,” Nick continued.
“Okay, HNT, after the command post location is established, will do.”
As Brennan got out of his car, perhaps three hundred feet from the inner perimeter surrounding the large, gray, colonial-style building established by the marked precinct units, he walked on the far sidewalk away from the house and stopped behind each tree he encountered. All of the officers surrounding the dwelling were ducked down behind the police car tires for the safety that the tires provided. Well-trained and well-supervised, Nicky thought. Nick’s overcoat was a dark blue and was useful in a situation like this. He decided he would put on his blue reflectorized hostage team windbreaker later.
Brennan studied the front of the big house before he approached the supervisor in charge of the perimeter units. There were no lights on in the house, which probably gave the gunman a pretty good view of the surrounding area even though the cops had all the area lights extinguished and essentially sat in the still darkness. But Nicky knew the cloudy sky favored the good guys. Had the moon been full, Nick’s task might be more troublesome.
Nick got down low and almost crawled toward the supervisory unit on the perimeter. Gotta watch my ass, he thought. He pulled up behind the car tire next to an overweight sergeant looking directly at the top floor—a great vantage point for a gunman. Wisely, the sergeant had removed his police cap and directed the officers to do the same so as to avoid a reflection off the cap device that might give away an officer’s location and provide a perfect target for a headshot.
Nick didn’t immediately recognize Sergeant Riccio but did a double take when he remembered his old boss from back in his uniformed precinct days. He actually gained weight, Nicky noticed.
Nick approached from behind and said, “Sergeant I’m the HNT Lieutenant. Where the hell is your goddamn hat, you know, your lid? You can’t come to a hostage situation without a hat, no exceptions. You need to wear it at all times, Sergeant.”
Not recognizing his old subordinate at first, Riccio nervously answered, “Boss, I took off the hat because the gunman might—oh shit, it’s you, Lieutenant Brennan?”
“Yeah, Riccio. So, then, you will finally concede that it is possible to catch a crook without a departmentally issued hat on your head, right? Okay, now we are even— as they say in Washington DC, let’s move on. So what’s up?”
“The guy has a rifle, the neighbors say he is drunk, he is holding three or four— maybe more—friends.”
“Former friends, no?” Nick added as he smiled and looked up at the window.
“The captor has fired a couple of rounds out the window, but no one has been injured as far as we know, Lieutenant.”
“Anyone in the surrounding houses?”
“Yes, sir, but we have them away from the windows and most moved down to the basement of the house. I didn’t want to take a chance moving them.”
“Good thought…how many units surrounding the building?”
“Six marked radio motor patrol units and six cops, Lieutenant. One in front, one in back, and one unit at each corner of the house. I’ve got everybody about forty to sixty feet from the dwelling. I’m nervous if the bad guy is up high, he might have a shooter’s vantage on the cops, but we can’t let him escape either.”
“Keep the cops low. Did they have a chance to turn off all the automatic interior lights in the cars?”
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant, but nobody is going to open the police car door unless it is absolutely necessary.”
“Stand by, Sergeant, I’ll be back.”
At the command post everyone was assembling and preparing for a long night. About ten detectives were set up to start to collect some intelligence on the madman. They would interview neighbors, check criminal records, contact known friends, connect up with any agency related to the subject in any way. The firearms team was setting up a game plan if it was determined that a “green light is given.” The green light is the authorization to take out—shoot—the target, and it is based on the captor representing an imminent threat of death or serious injury to anyone, generally the hostages.
Brennan, while running his arm into his windbreaker, sought out the lead detective on the caper—the primary detective assigned to the hostage case. Roger Mohr was a young investigator perhaps thirty years old, thin and dressed in a dark suit with a bright red power tie. His short dark hair and piercing green eyes set him apart. Nicky deduced that the detective was a military veteran and liked the way he presented and carried himself. He had military bearing, confident but not cocky.
“What do you know so far, Mohr?”
“Well, Lieutenant, we know he is armed, we know he has hostages. We believe five or maybe six, based on the neighborhood canvas. The woman across the street saw the whole group on the lawn earlier. They were all drinking. Based on their demeanor, they all seem to be friends, or at least acquainted.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“One of the cops described it to me after he caught a glimpse of it out the window before the lights went out. I’d say an AK 47 with a banana magazine. Maybe a souvenir, or maybe this guy is just a gun nut.”
“Are you familiar with the AK?”
“Just from when I was in the Army, Lieutenant. We studied them a bit. 7.62 millimeter I think, air-cooled, gas operated and magazine fed. Real reliable good range a real antipersonnel weapon.”
“Yeah, used by every revolutionary in the world, but I don’t think we have a Marxist up in that window, or at least I certainly hope not. You guys have to find out for me.”
Nick walked over to the hostage-negotiator cubicle in the command post bus. Seated by the phone at the desk was Detective Vince Thomas. Vince was an experienced cop who had many of these type of cases before, but more commonly the crisis involved a barricaded subject without hostages, usually a guy threatening to kill himself.
“Vincent, any contact yet?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant, the landline is listed to an Edna Sawyers. I cold-called and the alleged gunman got on the line, he calls himself Peter Sawyers and claims he is going to kill all of them, then kill himself.”
“What’s his beef?”
“I don’t know. I’ll wait a few minutes and call him back, maybe the detectives will have something on him I can use.”
Hostage negotiation involved a lot of principles. The first was to establish some rapport with the captor. The negotiator usually ignored the captives unless absolutely necessary. Like a student learned in law school, when facing an adversary, the skilled negotiator always learned to listen carefully and try to discern the opponent’s currency: what was important. Don’t give up your last bargaining chip; always get something for something you give up; try to figure out the other guy’s real goal; be persuasive, fair and truthful and let your adversary save face. You might see him again.
The operational textbook on police hostage negotiation had been written by NYC police captain Frank Bolz. His approach could be boiled down to this: slow down the situation by initiating communications, buy time, set up the perimeter, listen carefully, and trade almost anything (save guns or more hostages) to save lives. Time gave the negotiator the ability to wear down the captor and perhaps emphasize the consequences of the captor’s actions. Generally, a tactical assault was a last resort used only to save lives in imminent threat of death.
“Here’s what I have, Lieutenant,” Mohr said as he entered the command post a half hour later.
“We believe the guy is indeed Peter Sawyers, a Marine veteran who was honorably discharged, but according to a preliminary reading of the Department of the Navy computer records by the feds, he may have been discharged because of a drinking problem. We are not sure, but we also believe he had some combat experience. I’m getting this by telephone as it is being read off the computer screen. There are federal privacy rules we are dealing with too. We are working on the hostages’ angle.”
“Okay, Mohr, keep at it, and please let the PF Team leader know what you just told me about our gunman.” Brennan walked back over to the HNT station.
“Lieutenant, the guy hung up on me again.” “Vinny, the detective squad believes the guy is a Marine veteran, maybe a drunk, and maybe we can figure he is just acting out. Try to raise him again and use some sweet talk. He may be a combat soldier, a hero.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant, that gets me started. By the way, George Lyons is my backup, so he will be listening in. If this guy isn’t falling in love with me, George will pick him up.”
“Okay, Vin.”
After a few minutes Detective Roger Mohr came to the back of the bus and approached Nick. “Lieutenant, Edna Sawyers got stopped on her way home at the outer perimeter a few minutes ago. Her son was scheduled to have a bunch of local friends over for drinks this afternoon. Even though she doesn’t know everyone who was going to attend, she confirms that they are all indeed friends.”
“What’s your first name, Roger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Roger, try to find out what this guy did before his little party today, why he is pissed off, if he has a girlfriend in there—maybe he had a fight with her recently. And where’d the gun come from? What are his hobbies? Why today? What did he do since he got out of bed this morning?”
“Okay, Boss, we are all over it.”
Within forty-five minutes Roger returned with an update for the hostage team. “Nothing remarkable about this guy, Lieutenant. He served in the Marines, came home about two years ago, no prior arrests, he lives with his mother in the house. Neighbors have known him for a long time and describe him as a quiet guy, a heavy drinker, not a hunter or a sports shooter of any kind, no hobbies except working on his car and no job. He reportedly has lots of friends and enjoys a good time. Every once in a while he has a little meltdown on the front lawn, his mom says that’s how he reacts when he gets frustrated.”
“Where does he get his money?”
“Mommy.”
“Anything political about him, and did you find out where he got the rifle?”
“No, sir, he is not political. I don’t know where he got the gun, but his mother said sometimes when he and his friends—local kids a little younger than him—get together and the binge sometimes ends in an argument. Maybe he is reacting to verbal confrontation.”
Nicky knew there were several different types of hostage takers, some infinitely more dangerous than others. A bank robber was only a criminal after some money and a possible escape. A distraught husband was often despondent and emotionally bruised; his wife might have found someone new and he couldn’t allow that. Maybe she and he had to go to eternity to find final justice; sometimes the kids would join them. A terrorist similarly was extremely dangerous. The terrorist was prepared to die for the cause and take anyone he could with him. There was also the guy who wanted his few minutes of fame—a nut on a power trip—not prepared to die but not prepared to give up either.
It was bad form to categorize the gunman too early, but there were obvious markers. A drunk, while intoxicated, was living in a bit of a dream world. Like an adolescent speeding around town recklessly in his car, this character was the star of his own movie—a movie being played in his own head. While a bit erratic, Nick liked the guy without a real cause—easier to deal with, he believed.
“Lieutenant, I had to get off the line—no connection with our target—but George Lyons picked him up and is making some progress,” Vince reported.
“Like what?”
“The guy is low on beer and is demanding more.”
This was good news for Brennan. The cops had a bad guy holding six hostages and his first demand wasn’t a car, a plane, money, the release of a political prisoner, no sir—he wanted beer.
“Vince, that is encouraging news. Play our regular game and have George tell Mister Sawyers he has to check with the boss. Go slow.”
Ten minutes later, Lyons began the negotiation, “Peter I spoke to my boss and he told me we are not allowed to give alcohol in situations like this.”
“Well, you better tell him to change the goddamn rules. If I don’t get beer, you guys aren’t going to like what happens!”
After he waited another ten minutes, Lyons got back on the line, “Listen, Peter, it took a lot of work, but I got the boss to give you one can of Budweiser if you will release just one hostage. That’s the best I could do, and let me tell you, the boss is not happy with me.”
“I’ll let you know,” said the captor.
Within a minute, Sawyers called back and said, “Okay, one beer, one hostage, but if you guys screw me I’m going to hurt the others.”
“Hey, Peter, I told you I would be honest with you if you were with me. Let a hostage out the front and I will have someone throw a can of beer to the front door.”
“Okay.”
Peters Sawyers took a low position behind the door and opened it. Out came a small-boned female wearing a short-sleeved abbreviated tank top and dark, tight slacks, with her long light hair in a ponytail. She ran first to her left, then to her right toward Riccio’s car but then suddenly stopped. The sergeant called out to the woman and she ran in his direction once again and quickly ducked behind his police cruiser. Within a few seconds Nicky threw a can of Bud in a small paper bag at the front door. A shadowy figure quickly retrieved it and returned to the house through the open entrance. After tossing the container overhand, Nick momentarily stopped and considered the shaken can and thought, Gee, I hope that guy likes foam.
“Okay, Boss, one down and five to go,” George Lyons announced when the lieutenant returned.
“Lyons, are you talking about the hostages or the six pack I just bought?”
George laughed as he discerned the strategy that he and Brennan had cooked up to get this crazy man out of the house.
“George, give Sawyers about twenty minutes, and when he needs another brew, I think we can make another deal.” It was now easy to capture his currency—he would drink his way through the crisis and look for an honorable surrender, probably one that worked for everybody.
The use of alcohol as a bargaining chip wasn’t ideal—a drunken gunman wasn’t a perfect situation—but each time a hostage was released the odds were improved by almost 17 percent. You can’t get those odds at a racetrack or that interest at a
bank, Brennan knew. But Nick also knew there was a serious element of unpredictability involved, and the PFT stood by ready if needed.
The negotiation went as planned. Each time Peter needed another beer he traded a hostage for a can of the liquid gold. Finally, he was left with no hostages and just him, his rifle, and an impeding hangover.
“Pete I think it is all over now. The boss says you have to come on out. You won’t be hurt in any way, that’s my deal with you.”
“Okay, George, I’ll come out, but I want a pack of cigarettes, and the boss is to be the one to arrest me. I know I’m getting locked up, and I want to meet this guy, the boss.”
Lyons went to Lieutenant Brennan and said, “Lieutenant, Sawyers wants a pack of smokes and you to arrest him. In my view he has done what he said he would do all along, and this isn’t a bad outcome.”
“Why is he doing this whole thing, George?”
“He said his friends just pissed him off. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone, he just lost it after the girl who came out first called him ‘a bar fly’ and everyone laughed and agreed.”
“Ah, just like the old adage ‘and the truth will set you free,’” Nicky said, smiling.
“Okay, I bought the beer. You get the cigarettes and I’ll do this, but remember hero is not in my job description. Tell our new friend Peter, when the light truck opens up on the front of the house he is to come out without the AK-47 walking backward with his hands above his head.” Stopping for a moment to think through his plan, Nick continued, “We have done what we said all along and he can have a cigarette after I cuff him. Tell the PFT to take positions around the house and to watch him as I approach after he exits the front door; no drama, just the end of a long day.”
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 10