The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [159]
In this case, a domestic barricade with hostages, all thirty-two guys had been activated and all thirty-two would arrive. Some would take three to four hours to get here. Others, like Bobby, made it in less than fifteen minutes. Either way, Bobby’s lieutenant prided their team on being able to get at least five officers anywhere in the state in under an hour.
Looking around now, Bobby figured he was one of those first five officers. Which meant he needed to hustle.
Most SWAT units were comprised of three teams—an entry team, a perimeter team, and snipers. The perimeter team had the primary job of securing and controlling the inner perimeter. Then came the snipers, who took up position outside the inner perimeter and served as reconnaissance—appraising the situation through their scopes or binoculars, and radioing in details on the building as well as all people and movement inside. Finally, the entry team would prepare for last resort action—if the hostage negotiator couldn’t convince the suspects to come out, the entry team would storm in. Entries were messy; you prayed it didn’t come to that, but sometimes it did.
Bobby’s STOP team brought all those bells and whistles to the table, but they didn’t specialize. Instead, given that they arrived piecemeal, they were cross-trained on all positions so they could get up and running the moment boots hit the ground. In other words, while Bobby was one of the team’s eight designated snipers, he wasn’t looking at taking up sniping position just yet.
First goal—establish the inner perimeter. The inner perimeter was the area looking in at the scene. Establishing a good inner perimeter solved 90 percent of any tactical unit’s headaches. You controlled and contained. It took at least two guys to form a perimeter, each standing on opposing corners, monitoring the diagonals.
Bobby was one guy. Now he was looking for a second. He spotted two other state police cruisers parked across the way, then noticed the white van set up as command center. He hefted his rucksack on his shoulder and resumed running.
Bobby climbed into the command center. “Trooper Bobby Dodge,” he announced, setting down his gear and thrusting out a hand.
“Lieutenant Jachrimo.” The CO took his hand, handshake tight but quick. The thin-faced lieutenant wasn’t from the state police, but from BPD. That didn’t surprise Bobby; the scene was technically BPD jurisdiction, plus his own state police commander was probably still two hours away. The state police often assisted other jurisdictions, and secretly prided themselves on playing well with others.
Jachrimo already had a white board up in front of him and was making a Gant chart in the upper left-hand corner. “Position?” the man barked.
“Sniper.”
“Can you hold a perimeter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great, great, great.” A Boston uniform was walking by. Lieutenant Jachrimo broke away from the white board long enough to stick his head out of the van and yell, “Hey, hey you.” Jachrimo flagged down the uniform. “I need the phone company. Understand? Use your radio, call into dispatch, and get the goddamn phone company, ’cause nothing in this van is working, and you can’t really have a command post if it doesn’t command. Got it?”
The uniform went flying, and Jachrimo returned his harried attention to Bobby. “Okay, so what do you know?”
“Domestic barricade, male subject believed armed with a gun, wife and child also on the premises.” Bobby repeated the message he’d received on his pager.
“Suspect’s name is James ‘Jimmy’ Gagnon. Mean anything to you?”
Bobby shook his head.
“Just as well.” Jachrimo finished his Gant chart, then started an overhead sketch of the neighborhood on the lower part of the white board. “So here’s where we’re at. Woman called nine-one-one shortly after eleven-thirty. Claimed to be Catherine Gagnon, Jimmy’s wife. Said her husband