The cockpit radio spits and crackles as a deskbound FBI agent with a university map guides the pilots toward their LZ. The helicopter drops fast enough to make my stomach roll, and I wonder if John and Baxter are flashing back to Vietnam as we auger in. Parked at the center of one grassy quadrangle are two police cars with their lights flashing, while beside them an olive-drab Huey helicopter sits like a harbinger of battle, its main rotor slowly turning. I saw several Hueys on the National Guard base contiguous to the FBI field office lot; the FBI SWAT team has probably deployed from that chopper.
As I search the quad for armed men, we dip forward and bore in, at the last second flaring and coming to rest thirty yards from the lead chopper. John jumps out of his cockpit and runs toward us, while Baxter moves toward the waiting NOPD cops.
“It’s not good!” John yells as I get out and run in a crouch beneath our rotor. “Gaines has a male hostage in a third-floor office. He’s come to the window to show he has a gun to the guy’s head. SWAT has set up a command post under the trees in front of the building.”
Baxter runs over from the squad car. “Let’s get over there, John!”
“Who’s the negotiator?” Dr. Lenz asks, appearing suddenly.
“Ed Davis,” John replies. “He’s good.”
“This isn’t a normal situation,” Lenz says, directing his words to Baxter. “This isn’t a distraught husband or a suicidal cop. This is a probable serial murderer. You know-”
“I know what you want, Arthur,” Baxter says brusquely. “We’ll discuss it with the SWAT commander.”
“Talk to Bowles,” says Lenz. “It’s his call.”
Baxter starts running toward a large building on the north edge of the quad that I now recognize as the Woldenberg Art Center. John and I follow, with Lenz puffing after us. I should have recognized the building from the air, with its three massive skylights over the gallery where Roger Wheaton’s room-sized painting awaits its first public showing. From this angle, the building appears as two three-story brick boxes separated by a one-story section fronted with arches. If I remember correctly, the classical boxes house classrooms, studios, and offices, while the long section houses the art gallery. Gaines must be inside one of the two end sections.
The closer we get to the building, the harder it is to see. Massive spreading oaks line the road in front of it, obscuring most of the windows. Beneath one of the oaks, a knot of men in black body armor with “FBI” stenciled in yellow crouch around what looks like a map. John reaches them first, and immediately begins talking to one of the men on the ground. Baxter takes out his cell phone and dials a number, and Dr. Lenz hovers beside him. I edge in to listen to the SWAT leader briefing John. He’s a tall man in his thirties with a black mustache, and a patch on his flak vest reads “Burnette.”
“Gaines is still on the third floor,” says Burnette. “He’s keeping his gun to the hostage’s head when we can see him, but most of the time, our view is obscured by Venetian blinds. There’s no high ground for snipers, so we’re going to put a man up in the Huey and have the pilot hold a hover. That’s not a good solution, but until we get some scaffolding out here, it’s the only way to get a bead on that office. We also have two men on the roof with rappelling gear. They can drop and crash the window, but that’s not my call. We’ve rescued about forty students and faculty so far, but there may be twenty or so still on the floor with Gaines, some in small private studios. He’s barricaded the main access door. Those kids could be completely ignorant of the danger or completely under Gaines’s control.”
“Have you established contact with Gaines?” John asks.
“A secretary just gave Ed the number of the office. He’s talking now.”
As Burnette points across the lane, a man dressed in civilian clothes pockets a cell phone and runs toward us.
“He wants one of our helicopters to take him to the airport,” says the negotiator. “He wants a plane waiting there to take him to Mexico. I tried opening a dialogue, but he hung up. The guy sounds like a hard case. Streetwise, prison-tempered. This could take a while.”
Baxter steps up to Burnette and says, “SAC Bowles just designated Doctor Lenz the hostage negotiator for this event. He also put me in tactical command on the ground. I’ve got no problem if you want to verify that.”
The SWAT leader shakes his head. “It’s fine with me. You’re from Quantico, right?”
“That’s right.”
Ed the negotiator looks like he wants to argue, but suddenly someone yells, “There he is!”
Three floors above us, wedged in front of some Venetian blinds, stands Roger Wheaton. His long face is pressed flat against the windowpane, and there’s a large pistol pressed against his ear.
“Goddamn it,” John mutters. “I told him to get out.”
“He’s trying to be a hero,” says Lenz. “Just like he did in Vietnam.”
“Dial that office and give me your phone,” Lenz tells the negotiator. Then he looks at Burnette. “Tell your snipers to stand down.”
“Do it,” says Baxter.
As the former negotiator makes his call, SWAT leader Burnette says, “Mr. Baxter, my sniper can shoot that pistol out of Gaines’s hand. He can do it from here. I’ve seen him do it twice under pressure.”
Baxter shakes his head. “That’s not an option yet. We don’t know how many weapons Gaines has up there.”
“Yes, hello?” says Lenz. “Leon?… This is Dr. Arthur Lenz… I was at your house the other day… Yes. I’m here because I know you need to talk to someone who’s not bound by the normal rules… That’s right. Some cases fall outside the lines, and this is one of them.”
When I look back up at the window, Wheaton is gone.
Lenz lowers his voice. “A helicopter isn’t out of the question, Leon. But everything has a price. You know that. That’s the way the world works… You may seem to hold all the cards. But you’re assuming you know what our priorities are. There are twelve families who care a lot more about you getting a lethal injection than they do about a dying artist whose life you might shorten by a few months.”
Ed the negotiator looks like he wants to snatch his phone from Lenz’s grasp, but Baxter holds up a restraining hand.
“Leon,” Lenz says irritably. “Listen to me. You-”
A dull pop slowly registers in my brain.
“Gunshot!” yells a SWAT agent.
Burnette’s radio crackles. “Rooftop. We heard a gunshot. Please advise, over.”
“Do nothing,” says Baxter.
“Hold position,” says Burnette. “But stay ready.”
“Put a sniper up in the Huey,” orders Baxter. “Get a thermal imaging scope up there with him. We need to see through those blinds.”
As Burnette runs to the next oak tree, a woman screams from the direction of the art center. Then the front door of the studio wing crashes open and a dozen students pour through it like people running from a fire. Behind them, running with an awkward lope, is a tall man wearing white gloves.
“It’s Wheaton!” I yell, starting toward him.
As SWAT agents race forward to help the students, John hobbles past me and takes Wheaton by the arm. The artist’s mouth and nose are covered with blood.
“Are you all right?” John asks. “Were you hit?”
“No,” Wheaton coughs. “We struggled, and Leon hit me with the gun. He could have shot me, but he didn’t. I didn’t think he would. That’s why I tried it.”
“We heard a gunshot,” John says in a taut voice. “Was anyone hit?”
“His gun went off during our struggle, but he didn’t shoot anybody.”
“Is he alone up there now?”
Wheaton shakes his head. “He had two female students barricaded in an adjacent office. There’s a sofa against the door. I knew I couldn’t save them, but I thought I might be able to clear some of the grad students’ studios on my way out.” Wheaton suddenly recognizes me. “Oh – hello.”