He kept a smile on his face and nodded with reassurance while the chubby twelve-year-old cried and cried, resting her round, red face in her hands.
The door opened and Stevie Gates stepped inside, pulled off his helmet. Despite the cold his hair was damp with sweat. Potter turned his attention from the girl to the trooper.
"You should stand down for a while, Stevie."
"Yessir, I think I will. Those last couple shots were kind of, well… close."
"Sobered you up pretty fast, did they?"
"Yessir. Sure did."
"Tell me everything you saw when you went up there with the food."
As Potter expected, even with the aid of the videotape from the camera perched over his ear, Gates couldn't provide much detail about the interior of the slaughterhouse.
"Any thoughts on Handy's state of mind?"
"Seemed calm. Wasn't edgy."
Like he was buying a cup of coffee at 7-Eleven.
"Anybody hurt?"
"Not that I could see."
LeBow dutifully typed in the paltry intelligence. Gates could recall nothing else. Potter pointed out to the discouraged officer that it was good news he hadn't seen blood or bodies. Though he knew his own face didn't mask the discouragement he felt; they wouldn't get anything helpful from the twelve-year-old girl, who continued to weep and twine her short dark hair around fingers that ended in chewed nails.
"Thanks, Stevie. That's all for now. Oh, one question. Were you really going to shoot Marks in the leg?"
The young man grew serious for a moment then broke into a cautious grin. "The best way I can put it, sir, is I wasn't going to know until I pulled the trigger. Or didn't pull the trigger. As the case might be."
"Go get some coffee, Trooper," Potter said.
"Yessir."
Potter and Angie turned their attention back to Jocylyn. Her eyes were astonishingly red; she huddled in the blanket one of Stillwell's officers had given her.
Finally the girl was calm enough that Potter could begin to question her through Officer Frances Whiting. The negotiator noted that while Frances 's hands moved elegantly and with compact gestures Jocylyn's were broad and awkward, stilted: the difference, he guessed, between someone speaking smoothly and someone inserting "um"s and "you know"s into their speech. He wondered momentarily how Melanie signed. Staccato? Smooth?
"She isn't answering your questions," Frances said.
"What's she saying?" Angie asked, her quick, dark eyes picking up patterns in the signing.
"That she wants her parents."
"Are they at the motel?" he asked Budd.
The captain made a call and told him, "They should be, within the hour."
Frances relayed that information to her. Without acknowledging that she understood, the girl started another jag of crying.
"You're doing fine," Angie said encouragingly.
The negotiator glanced at his watch. A half-hour to the helicopter deadline. "Tell me about the men, Jocylyn. The bad men."
Frances's hands flew and the girl finally responded. "She says there are three of them. Those three there." The girl was gesturing at the wall. "They're sweaty and smell bad. The one there." Pointing at Handy. "Brutus. He's the leader."
"Brutus?" Potter asked, frowning.
Frances asked the question and watched a lengthy response, during which Jocylyn pointed to each of the takers.
"That's what Melanie calls him," she said. "Handy's 'Brutus.' Wilcox is 'Stoat.' And Bonner is 'Bear.' " The officer added, "Signing's very metaphoric. 'Lamb' is sometimes used for 'gentle,' for instance. The Deaf often think in poetic terms."
"Does she have any idea where they are in the slaughterhouse?" He asked this of Frances, and Angie said, "Talk to her directly, Arthur. It'll be more reassuring, make her feel more like an adult. And don't forget to smile."
He repeated the question, smiling, to the girl, and Frances translated her response as she pointed to several locations near the front of the big room then touched Handy's and Wilcox's pictures. Tobe moved the Post-Its emblazoned with their names. LeBow typed.
Jocylyn shook her head. She rose and placed them more exactly. She signed some words to Frances, who said, "Bear – Bonner – is in the room with her friends."
Jocylyn put Bear's Post-It in a large semicircular room about twenty-five feet from the front of the slaughterhouse. Tobe placed all the hostage markers in there.
Jocylyn rearranged them too, being very precise.
"That's where everyone is, she says. Exactly."
Potter's eye strayed to Melanie's tab.
Jocylyn wiped tears, then signed.
"She says Bear watches them all the time. Especially the little girls."
Bonner. The rapist.
Potter asked, "Are there any other doorways or windows that aren't on the diagram?"
Jocylyn studied it carefully. Shook her head.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Did you see any guns?"
"They all have guns." The girl pointed to Tobe's hip.
He asked, "What kind were they?"
She frowned and pointed to the agent's hip again.
"I mean, were they like this, or did they have cylinders?" He found himself making a circular gesture with his finger. "Revolvers," he said slowly.
Jocylyn shook her head. Her awkward hands spoke again.
"No, she says they were black automatics. Just like that one." Frances smiled. "She asked why don't you believe her."
"You know what an automatic is?"
"She says she watches TV."
Potter laughed and told LeBow to write down that she'd confirmed they were armed with three Glocks or similar weapons.
Jocylyn volunteered that they had two dozen boxes of bullets.
"Boxes?"
"This big," Frances said, as the girl motioned her hands about six inches apart. "Yellow and green."
"Remington," LeBow said.
"And shotguns. Like that. Three of them." Jocylyn pointed to a shotgun on the rack in the van.
"Any rifles?" Potter pointed to an M-16 resting against the wall.
"No."
"They're pretty damn prepared," Budd muttered.
Potter handed off to Angie, who asked, "Is anybody hurt?"
"No."
"Does Handy – Brutus – talk to anybody in particular? Any of the teachers or girls, I mean?"
"No. Mostly he just looks at us." This brought back some memory and, in turn, more tears.
"You're doing great, honey," Angie said, squeezing the girl's shoulder. "Have you been able to tell what the three men are talking about?"
"No. I'm sorry. I can't lip-read good."
"Is Beverly all right?"
"She can't breathe well. But she's had worse attacks. The worst problem is Mrs. Harstrawn."
"Ask her to explain."
Frances watched her hands and said, "It sounds like she's having a breakdown. She was fine until Susan was shot. All she does now is lie on her back and cry."
Potter thought: They're leaderless. The worst situation. They could panic and run. Unless Melanie has taken over.
"How's Melanie?"
"She just sits and stares. Sometimes closes her eyes." Frances added to Potter, "That's not good. The deaf never close their eyes in a tense situation. Their vision is the only warning system they have."
Angie asked, "Do the men fight among themselves?"
Jocylyn didn't know.
"Do they seem nervous? Happy? Scared? Sad?"
"They're not scared. Sometimes they laugh."
LeBow typed this into his computer.
"Okay," Potter said. "You're a very brave girl. You can go to the hotel now. Your parents will be there soon."
The twelve-year-old wiped her nose on her sleeve but didn't leave. She signed awkwardly.
"Is that all you want to ask me?" Frances translated.
"Yes. You can go."
But the girl signed some more. "She asked, 'Don't you want to know about the TV? And the other stuff?' "
Tobe, LeBow, and Budd turned their heads to Potter.
"They have a TV in there?" he whispered, dismayed. Frances translated and Jocylyn nodded.
"Where did they get it?"
"In the bags with the guns. They brought it in with them. It's a little one."