"Just one more thing," the young captain had continued. He glanced at Potter. "I forgot to say this before. I've been in touch with the attorney general. And he's mobilizing the state Hostage Rescue Unit. So it's our job -"
Keeping an equable face, Potter had stepped forward. "Actually, Charlie, if you don't mind…" He'd nodded toward the assembled officers. Budd had fallen silent and grinned. "There'll be no state HRT involvement here. A federal rescue team is being assembled now and should be here later this afternoon or early this evening."
"Oh," Budd began. "But I think the attorney general -"
Potter glanced at him with a firm smile. "I've already spoken to him and the governor on the plane here."
Budd nodded, still grinning, and the negotiator proceeded with the briefing.
Early that morning, he explained, three men had murdered a guard and escaped from Callana maximum-security federal penitentiary outside Winfield, Kansas, near the Oklahoma border. Louis Jeremiah Handy, Shepard Wilcox, and Ray "Sonny" Bonner. As they drove north their car was struck by a Cadillac. Handy and the escapees murdered the couple inside and got as far as the slaughterhouse before a state trooper caught up with them.
"Handy, thirty-five, was serving a life sentence for robbery, arson, and murder. Seven months ago he, Wilcox, Handy's girlfriend, and another perp robbed the Farmers amp; Merchants S amp;L in Wichita. Handy locked two tellers in the cash cage and set the place on fire. It burned to the ground, killing them both. During the getaway the fourth robber was killed, Handy's girlfriend escaped, and Handy and Wilcox were arrested. Visual aids, Henry?"
With an optical scanner LeBow had digitized mug shots of the three HTs and assembled them onto a single sheet of paper, showing front, side, and three-quarter views, highlighting distinguishing scars and characteristics. These were now spewing out of his laser printer. He distributed stacks to the people assembled in the van.
"Keep one of those and pass them out to the officers under you," Potter said. "I want everybody in the field to get one and memorize those pictures. If it comes down to a surrender things may get confusing and we've got too many plainclothesmen here to risk misidentifica-tion of the HTs. I want everybody to know exactly what the bad guys look like.
"That's Handy on top. The second one is Shep Wilcox. He's the closest thing Handy has to a friend. They've worked together on three or four jobs. The last fellow, the fat one with the beard, is Bonner. Handy apparently's known him for some time but they've never worked together. Bonner's got armed robbery on his sheet but he was in Callana for interstate flight. He's a suspected serial rapist though they only got him for his last assault. Stabbed the victim repeatedly – while he was in flagrante. She lived. She was seventeen years old and had to change her eleventh plastic surgery appointment to testify against him. Henry, what can you tell us about the hostages?"
LeBow said, "Very sketchy so far. Inside we have a total of ten hostages. Eight students, two teachers from the Laurent Clerc School for the Deaf in Hebron, Kansas, about fifteen miles west of here. They were on their way to a Theater of the Deaf performance in Topeka.
They're all female. The students range in age from seven to seventeen. I'll be receiving more data soon. We do know that they're all deaf except the older teacher, who can speak and hear normally."
Potter had arranged for a sign language interpreter but even so he knew the problems they could anticipate; he'd negotiated in foreign countries many times and negotiated with many foreigners in the United States. He knew the danger – and the frustration – of having to translate information precisely and quickly when lives hung in the balance.
He said, "Now, we've established a threat management team, consisting of myself; Henry LeBow, my intelligence officer and record keeper; Tobe Geller, my communications officer, and Captain Budd, who'll serve as a state liaison and my right-hand man. I'm the incident commander. There'll also be a containment officer, who I haven't picked yet.
"The TMT has two jobs. The primary one is to effect the surrender of the HTs and the release of the hostages. The secondary job is to assist in a tactical resolution if an assault is called for. This includes gathering intelligence for the hostage rescue team, distracting the HTs, manipulating them however we can to keep casualties to an acceptable level."
In barricade incidents everybody wants to be the hero and talk the bad guys out with their hands up. But even the most peace-loving negotiator has to keep in mind that sometimes the only solution is to go in shooting. When he taught the FBI's course in hostage negotiation one of the first things Potter told the class was, "Every hostage situation is essentially a homicide in progress."
He saw the looks in the eyes of the men and women in the van, and recalled that "cold fish" was among the kinder terms that had been used to describe him.
"Any information you learn about the takers, the hostages, the premises, anything, is to be delivered immediately to Agent LeBow. Before me if necessary. I mean any information. If you find out one of the HTs has a runny nose, don't assume it isn't important." Potter glanced at two hip young troopers rolling their eyes at one another. Looking directly at them, the agent said, "It might mean, for instance, that we could slip knockout drops in cold medicine. Or it might indicate a cocaine addiction we could use to our advantage."
The young men were above contrition but they reined in their sarcasm.
"Now I need that containment officer. Lieutenant Budd here thought that perhaps some of you have had hostage experience." He looked out over the group of cocky young law enforcers. "Who has?"
The woman state trooper spoke up quickly. "Yessir, I have. I took the NLEA hostage rescue course. And I've had negotiating skills training."
"Have you negotiated a release?"
"No. But I backed up the negotiator in a convenience store robbery a few months ago."
"That's right," Budd said. "Sally led the tactical team. Did a fine job too."
She continued, "We got a sniper inside the store, up in the acoustic tile. He had all of the perps acquired in his sights. They surrendered before we had to drop any of them."
"I've had some experience too," a trooper of about thirty-five offered, his hand on the butt of his service automatic. "And I was part of the team that rescued the teller in the Midwest S amp;L robbery last year in Topeka. We iced the perps, nailed 'em cold, not an injury to a single hostage."
One other trooper had trained in the army and had been part of two successful hostage rescue assault teams. "Saved them without a single shot being fired."
Peter Henderson had been listening with some dismay. He piped up. "Maybe I better take that job, Art. I've had the standard course and the refresher." He grinned. "And I read your book. Couple times. Should've been a best-seller. Like Tom Clancy." His face went somber and he added softly, "I think I really ought to. Being federal and all."
Dean Stillwell lifted his head then glanced at the troopers, decked out in flak jackets and dark gray ammunition belts. The movement of his moplike hair gave Potter the chance to avoid answering Henderson and he asked Stillwell, "You going to say something, Sheriff?"
"Naw, I wasn't really."
"Go ahead," Potter encouraged.
"Well, I never took any courses, or never shot any – what do you call them? – hostage takers. HTs, heh. But I guess we have had us a coupla situations down here in Crow Ridge."
Two of the troopers smiled.
"Tell me," Potter said.
"Well, there was that thing a couple months ago, with Abe Whitman and his wife. Emma. Out on Patchin Lane? Just past Badger Hollow Road?"
The smiles became soft laughter.
Stillwell laughed good-naturedly. "I guess that does sound funny. Not like the terrorists you all are used to."