“Can I kick it off?” asked Coleman.
“Rock the negotiation!”
“Rog, you know any weed guys?”
“Coleman!” said Serge. “What’s it always with you and the weed guys?”
“I’m putting out feelers. Mine’s become unreliable.”
“Of course he’s unreliable,” said Serge. “He’s a weed guy. That’s his job.”
“To a point,” said Coleman. “But there are certain pot etiquettes, like don’t show up, toke and split; or if it’s offered to you free, don’t bad-mouth the stash no matter how stale; or if you’ve made your weed guy a bundle of money, he shouldn’t refuse your phone calls just because you dropped his favorite ceramic dragon bong through his glass coffee table—”
“Enough!” said Serge. “It’s obvious that I need to pick the category again. Pet peeves for a hundred, Alex. I hate it when I’m watching another action movie, and for the thousandth time during the climax they cut to the gun slipping out of the hero’s hand and skittering away on a catwalk. I hate that the heroes in the same movies are avenging the murder of a partner two days before his retirement. I hate the driver in front of me who thinks a right turn on red is optional. I hate complaints about first-world problems: ‘The Cheesecake Factory isn’t open late enough.’ I hate that there’s now such a thing as a ‘social media butler.’ I hate the perversion of the English language: incentive-ize, pre-planning, optics, face time, at the end of the day, using up all the oxygen in the room, saying literally when you mean figuratively . . .”
Coleman raised his hand. “So I shouldn’t say, ‘I literally shit myself’?”
“You’re the exception that proves the rule,” said Serge. “But you know what I really hate? The public’s insulting definition of ‘serial killer’! . . . Rog, chime in at any time.”
A wild stare.
“That’s why I can’t just walk out of here. Who knows what they’ve figured out? This is my whole point. It’s so unfair that there’s no distinction between ‘serial killer’ and what I’d like to coin ‘sequential killer.’ . . . Rog, again, feel free to buzz in.”
“W-w-what’s the difference?”
“Serial killers are sick, obsessive losers who will never stop until they die or get arrested. Sequential killers, on the other hand, just happen to be the only person around when action is required. You know how some people avoid getting involved at all costs? Not me! It’s about character, Rog. A sequential killer never intends to kill again—it’s just that the cosmic hand of responsibility sometimes keeps picking the same person. If I don’t act, I’m selfishly leaving work for the next person. That’s not how I was raised. You agree? . . . A simple nod will do.”
Rog’s head trembled as it rose up and down.
“That’s a complex nod,” said Serge. “But what really muddies the water is the term ‘psychopath.’ People think it’s synonymous with the Zodiac, the Night Stalker, Jack the Ripper, but that’s more cruel injustice . . . Rog, take slow, deep breaths . . .”
. . . Meanwhile, secure phone calls began crisscrossing South Florida.
“Cargill, this is Special Agent Braun.”
“What can the CIA do for you today?”
“Police have cornered an international terror suspect in Sarasota County, but his name’s not on any of our watch lists.”
“Give it to me.”
“Rogelio Martinez.”
“I’ll run it through. Who’s on scene besides local?”
“A pair of hostage negotiators.”
“Hope you don’t mind me asking, but if he’s not on your watch list, how’d you know to send your negotiators instead of leaving it to the county?”
“That’s the thing,” said Braun. “Uh, you didn’t happen to send any negotiators?”
“You mean you don’t have any idea who’s in the house?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” said Braun. “It’s just that the situation is very fluid at the moment, and a lot of jurisdictions are involved. In case the negotiators are part of a joint task force, I wanted to give a heads-up so you didn’t think we were stepping on your toes.”
“Appreciate the professional courtesy,” said Agent Cargill. “You’ll be the first person I call as soon as I find out anything.” He hung up.
An aide was standing next to him. “You’re really going to call the FBI back?”
“Hell no! If that asshole Braun doesn’t have a clue who’s negotiating the surrender, I’ll be damned if he’s going to grab the headlines all for himself . . . Get Homeland Security on the line. I’ll find out who’s really inside that house . . .”
Inside that house: “. . . A psychopath could be sitting right next to you, Rog, or the person at the top of a company where you can never get a live person on the phone. Need a prime example? This one’s from the file marked ‘Just when you already thought corporate America couldn’t stoop any lower.’ Sometimes family members will suffer a sudden loss and need to fly to a funeral in a big hurry. But booking a flight at the last minute can get expensive, so in the airline industry there’s something known as a ‘compassion’ or ‘bereavement’ rate designed especially for relatives of the recently deceased. But one particular airline calculated that most people wouldn’t be thinking straight in their grief, and when they call to get the special fare, they’re quoted a price much higher than everyone else is receiving at that very minute. A psychopath thought of that.” Serge gritted his teeth. “I’m not naming names, but I could literally kill someone at that airline! . . . Rog, where are you wandering off to? I meant figuratively.” Serge got up and guided the sobbing man away from the front door and back to his chair. “You need to sit down. You’re getting light-headed waiting for that pizza . . .”
Back to the phones:
“. . . What can Homeland Security do for you today, Agent Cargill?”
“. . . We’ve uncovered a sleeper cell near the Sarasota-Charlotte county line, and I just wanted to keep you in the loop because our joint task force has two men inside, and I’m expecting a lot of positive press out of this. The kingpin is Rogelio ‘The Scorpion’ Martinez. It’s such a sensitive operation that he’s not on our regular watch lists.”
“And how can I help?”
“Did we have some negotiators on loan to you? We’re working up the press releases and wanted to make sure you receive proper credit.”
“I’ll check it out and get back to you, but thanks for the call.”
Another aide. “But you’re not calling him back?”
“Hell no!” He dialed the NSA. “Agent Cooper? This is Maxwell at Homeland . . .”
Minutes later, Agent Cooper hung up.
“What is it?” asked his aide.
Cooper grabbed his coat off a rack. “Looks like a plot against the airlines, the ports and Amtrak. They have the head of the entire network cornered in Sarasota. Rogelio ‘The Fighting Desert Scorpion’ Martinez . . . Get the chopper ready . . .”