They weren't using flashlights. The moon supplied enough light to see by, and they didn't want to stir up the man in the trailer in case he was looking out.
Kinney lowered his voice as he drew abreast of the tree. "There it is."
Klesczewski peered into the gloom. Looking slightly deflated, like a small grounded blimp needing air, the trailer sat alone in the middle of a narrow hardscrabble yard. To one side of it was a blank rectangle showing where a similar home had once stood. To the other was a second trailer, some twenty feet away, lights blazing from every window. In the distance, a row of trees and a hill blocked off the scene like a set piece on a stage. A swaybacked pickup and a rusty compact were parked next to the home they were interested in.
"Jerry's out behind?" Ron asked, pointing at the trailer.
"Right, and Henry's alongside the other one."
"Why're all the lights on in there? Are the neighbors still inside?"
Kinney answered more emphatically than the question deserved, making Ron think he might have addressed this problem later than he should have. "No, no. We got them out. And I talked to them, too. Got some good information. I guess we forgot about the lights."
"We can turn them off after the tac team gets here," Ron placated him, noticing that the primary trailer had only one lighted window, its curtains drawn. "How did this go down?"
"Neighbors complained," Kinney explained. "Said they were screaming at each other next door and breaking things. That's sure what they were doing when I arrived."
"We know who 'they' are yet?"
"Linda Purvis is the owner of record, and according to the neighbors, the man sounds like her ex, Matthew. That matches the two vehicle registrations and the physical descriptions I got."
"Any kids?"
Kinney's face turned toward him in the half light, looking blank. "I don't know," he stammered. "I didn't ask."
"So, there may be others in there." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," the younger man admitted. "I guess so. If it helps," he added, "Dispatch said this wasn't the first time. Purvis is in the computer for prior domestics here, complete with a restraining order issued yesterday."
Which was probably what triggered this, Ron thought. One of the hallmarks of these kinds of situations, taught during his negotiator's training, was the so-called precipitating event. Almost without fail, it was lurking somewhere, usually acting as the proverbial one straw too many. In the worst cases, you got what they called the triple-three cataclysms striking virtually at once, like a freakish planetary alignment.
"You smell liquor on his breath?" he asked.
Kinney nodded. "Big-time."
Such as a drinking binge, Ron thought. He turned away and looked down the rutted road leaving the park. He saw the twinkle of blue strobes approaching in the distance.
"Get on the radio and tell everyone to respond Code Two. I don't want to crank this guy any tighter than he is."
Kinney did as asked, and they both watched the strobes wink out moments later, while the headlights kept bouncing toward them over the uneven ground.
Klesczewski didn't look at Kinney as he continued, "As soon as everyone gets here, I want those smaller tire spike kits quietly placed under both Purvis cars, all other trailers within easy shooting range evacuated, and a perimeter established and sealed."
"Who's the shift commander tonight?" he finally asked.
"Captain Washburn. It was supposed to be Lieutenant Capullo but he's out sick."
Ron looked up at the night sky, dread settling in. That made Washburn top dog for the duration, since the chief and his second in command, Manierre, were out of town. Negotiation by its nature was tough enough, especially when you had as little experience as Ron had. Adding Washburn's built-in animosity for him wasn't going to make it easier.
The only missing stressor now was a gung ho tac team, champing at the bit to turn that trailer into the Alamo. And that much was a given with the team's new leadership-a transplanted Boston cop named Wayne Kazak. Ron smiled at the irony. Now he had his own triple to deal with.
He sighed softly and said, "Okay, let's get the van down here and set up a command post. Better count on this taking a while."
Chapter 2
Two hours later, Ron Klesczewski was sitting in an airless van, headphones binding his ears, his eyes half closed in concentration, listening to Matthew Purvis ranting on the other end of a dedicated line. This last detail was actually the PD's "throw phone," which Ron had managed to get him to accept after forty-five minutes of persuasion, using the ruse that Ron's cell, which he wasn't actually using, was running low on power.
The advantage of the throw phone over a standard line was being revealed right now, since Purvis wasn't actually talking to Ron, but yelling yet again at his estranged wife. Since the unit was unfamiliar to him, he'd merely put it down instead of hanging it up as he might have normally.
Which in turn was helping to enhance one of the pillars of good negotiation: information gathering. Anything the negotiator could learn about the subject, using all available methods, gave him something extra with which to defuse the situation.
"It's sounding like Linda thought Matt was cheating on her with her own sister," Ron murmured, still eavesdropping. "Either that or she's deliberately heating him up." Directly across from him, a whiteboard was mounted on the van wall, attended by a patrolman who now carefully wrote down, "Matt slept with Linda's sis?" and added the exact time.
Already there was quite a lot on the board, acquired from Ron's observations; computer searches; interviews with neighbors, friends, and family; and anecdotal tidbits from any officers who'd dealt with either Linda or Matthew Purvis in the past. Despite the hour, all across town, Ron had people digging for more. Even the town clerk was awakened for access to any records she might have.
Ron waited for a pause in the argument before punching the button on his console that made the throw phone ring whether it was off or not, noting in the back of his mind that Linda was standing her ground, giving as good as she got.
The phone rang twice before Matt picked it up.
"What?"
"It's Ron, Matt. I was a little confused when you put me down just then. I thought we were working a few things out."
"Like what? Like how you're going to blow me away as soon as I shoot this bitch?"
"That's not what I was hearing," Ron said quietly, knowing that the man's emotions needed to resettle after his last screaming match. "Before we were interrupted, we were talking about what you've just been through-how we might be able to put your life back together."
There was a third man in the van with Ron: an official liaison with the incident command post outside, equipped with a pair of headphones connected to the ICP, and assigned the task of passing notes to and from the negotiator as directed. The notes were color coded according to their urgency. The one he placed before Ron now was purely informational. Klesczewski glanced at it and passed it along to the officer at the board, who wrote, "Fired from job two days ago." With this morning's restraining order and his by now admitted alcohol dependence, that earned Matt Purvis the "triple" designation Ron had mused about earlier.
"There's nothing left to put together," Purvis was yelling. "Don't you get it? I'm not fucking around here. I will kill this bitch because she's world-class evil, and then I'll kill myself to save you the trouble."
"Jeez, Matt. I'm hearing a lot of frustration."
"No shit, Sherlock. You'd be frustrated, too, all the crap I have on my plate."
"Maybe you'd like to get some of that out of your system."