Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [62]
‘‘I intend to try to convince him to surrender tomorrow,’’ said Roger. ‘‘I think we have a chance here. This Herman isn’t really . . . well, quick, you know? Not dumb, but not too sharp. Certainly not a career violent criminal, that’s obvious.’’
‘‘You’ve got him to a T,’’ I said. ‘‘Although you do have to start somewhere with any career . . .’’
‘‘If he stays sober, we should have him pretty soon.’’ Roger tapped a six-inch ring binder that was filled to overflowing. ‘‘Everything we need.’’
‘‘Good,’’ I said. ‘‘Good.’’
Hester, Al, and I left the Winnebago a few seconds later. We’d gotten about ten steps when I said, ‘‘Roger’s new at this, isn’t he?’’
Well, yes, Roger was. It seemed that the state of Iowa had three trained negotiators. One was in Florida at school, one had been rather severely injured in a car wreck about two weeks ago, and Roger had just gotten out of negotiator’s school last week.
‘‘Well,’’ I said, knowing it was a foolish question, ‘‘how about the FBI? I’m sure they’ve got somebody they’d be more than happy to lend us . . .’’
They probably had. The Iowa Attorney General’s office, however, had decided that Iowa would handle it. All of it. Period. They’d mentioned something to the Feds about screwing up a couple of cases. No names. But they seemed to have burned my bridge before I ever knew I’d crossed it.
‘‘Well,’’ said Al. ‘‘We said we’d have a statement for the press before they went to bed, and here it is almost 0215.’’
The three of us squished through the mud to the press area, which consisted of an impromptu site made from storm fencing and patrol cars, where the members of the local fourth estate had gathered. Most of them were waiting, hoping somebody else would get killed. Another cop or two would be all right, but what they really wanted was to see a TAC team go in. What bothered me the most, I guess, was that another Waco would be just fine with most of this group. I picked out Nancy Mitchell and Phil Rumsford right away, sitting in their little gray car. Maybe knowing them made a difference. But I was sort of glad they were there.
All we could tell any of them was pretty much what we had told them before.
‘‘Are you going in to get them tonight?’’ That was from WUNR-TV’s roving correspondent from Des Moines. Known to one and all as ‘‘Wunner Boy.’’
‘‘Negotiations,’’ I said, ‘‘are being conducted. We have no intention of ‘going in’ and ‘getting’ anybody. We’re simply going to take our time, and convince the suspect to surrender.’’ Yeah, right.
‘‘Any evidence of a possible suicide pact?’’ asked a woman reporter with some other TV outfit.
‘‘A what?’’
‘‘A suicide pact. You know, when they . . .’’
‘‘I know what one is,’’ I said loudly, cutting her off. ‘‘What on earth makes you think there might be a suicide pact?’’
She didn’t answer, but a reporter for a newspaper shouted in my face, ‘‘Is this a headquarters for a militia group?’’
‘‘Beats me. I don’t think so, though.’’ I held up my hand. ‘‘You’ll be getting a written handout in about ten minutes.’’ I lie pretty well under pressure.
‘‘Are there any more than just one known dead?’’
There was that term again.
‘‘One officer, whom I knew for better than twenty years, is dead. That seems like enough to me. You want more?’’
With that, I turned around and headed back to the tent. Babble behind me, and Hester caught up. ‘‘Hey?’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You need a little sleep.’’
I slowed down. ‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Actually, you need a lot of sleep. Why don’t you go home, or catch a nap in the tent.’’
‘‘Or just sleep in my car . . .’’
‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘But just get some sleep before you talk to the press again.’’
I stopped completely, and began to let myself run down. ‘‘It was that term, the known dead bit. It always strikes me that they really mean, do they know them, like are they important or meaningful, you know? And it reminds me of the body count shit from years ago. Keeping score. You know? I mean, I know I’m misunderstanding it. It’s just a thing, that’s all.’’ I yawned. ‘‘Just pisses me off. They just yip, yip, yip about