by Dane Hartman
Somebody else should be handling this, thought Bressler. But it was summer and the Commissioner and several of his immediate superiors were in Washington attending a police officers convention. Washington, he thought ruefully, they should be here where crime was going on, not in the nation’s capital talking about it.
If Bressler looked mournful, Connelly evinced no emotion at all. Neither the grisly aspect of his surroundings, nor the noxious odors seemed to bother him.
“This is going to get a lot bigger,” Connelly said quite unexpectedly. “It’ll get bigger, then it’ll get out of hand.”
“And that doesn’t disturb you?”
“Sure it disturbs me, sure it does. But I am not certain there’s much we can do about it.”
“You don’t sound optimistic.” Bressler didn’t have much faith in the FBI. In this instance, however, he wouldn’t mind if the agency got the credit. Just so long as the burden of this case was lifted from him.
“I’m not. I’ve handled similar things before. The Omega people, the FALN, the Weathermen in the Sixties . . . I can spot professionals. The only thing that surprises me is that we haven’t gotten any calls yet claiming responsibility. With something like this you generally find half a dozen organizations—some you figure are made up on the spur of the moment—saying that the bomb was theirs and if you don’t look out, they’ll strike again.”
“There’ll be calls,” Bressler said. “You wait and see.”
“I suppose so. They might not be to your people though. In my experience, these terrorists prefer to work the media. The Simbionese Liberation Front—the one that inducted Patty Hearst—they knew how to play the media. They get better at it all the time. So the calls might be coming into your newspapers, your t.v. stations especially.”
“That reminds me, what do we tell the press? They’re outside clamoring for news.”
Connelly’s view was that one should say as little to the press as possible. “In this case that shouldn’t be hard. What do you know about this bombing?”
Bressler conceded that it wasn’t much.
“So there’s your answer.”
Bressler would ordinarily have relied on the official police department spokesman. But this was not the sort of thing that could be left to a spokesman.
Corralled into a roped-off area established by the police, the representatives of the media were dismayed that so far they’d been denied access to the site of the blast. Moreover, the official news bulletins had been both stale and evasive. If these reporters were not placated soon, they were liable to start a revolt of their own.
While the majority of the reporters and photographers seemed unwilling to defy the police, there was one who had absolutely no intention of waiting any longer.
Suddenly, the rope was down and a woman, followed by a soundman and a cameraman, was striding resolutely toward the devastated terminal.
The woman was very good looking and wearing a skirt that slit provocatively along its bias. She was something of a local celebrity too, having anchored the evening news for KCVO-TV, on and off for the last three years. The officer who attempted to stop her, called to her by name, which was something he couldn’t have done with any of the other restless members of the press gathered in front of him.
“Miss Winston, please, you’re not allowed beyond this point!”
If Ellie Winston heard him, and she probably did, it was clear that she was not about to obey him.
There was only one other officer assigned to keeping the newspeople quarantined and he rushed toward her. How he intended to block her and the pair of men behind her was not immediately apparent. In any case, it was too late.
Seeing that Ellie had broken free, the others followed, flailing their cameras and cassette recorders as though they were weapons. They looked like settlers starting out on the Oklahoma land rush.
Connelly, with Bressler at his side, was just emerging from the terminal when the army of reporters came marching down on them.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Bressler muttered. “I gave orders that this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Connelly was his usual imperturbable self. “Handle it,” he said and slipped away, intent on avoiding any embarrassing questions.
Now additional officers moved to halt the invasion, forming a protective ring about the terminal. But Ellie Winston kept right on going.
“Miss Winston, please,” one of them pleaded. “We can’t let anyone in there until the preliminary investigation is completed.”
As he spoke, he did not realize that the cameras had turned on him and were in the process of filming. When he looked up into the glare of their lights, his words grew halting and suddenly he fell silent altogether. Ellie thrust a microphone toward him.
“Is there anything else you care to add?”
“Not my job,” he mumbled and retreated from the camera’s intimidating eye.
So Ellie searched for another victim and found him in the person of Lieutenant Bressler. Bressler glanced uneasily about, hoping for relief, but there was no help in sight. He had to do this one on his own.
“Lieutenant, do you have any idea who might be responsible for this carnage?”
“Miss Winston, I am prepared to make a statement to the press. I am not prepared to take individual questions.”
“Is the police department taking any special measures to make certain something like this does not happen again?” Ellie found that by ignoring hostile responses she was often able to get her point across—if not to the interviewee at least to her audience.
“Miss Winston . . .” Bressler’s voice betrayed his exhaustion.
Others were now shouting out their questions and Bressler turned to confront them. As he did so, Ellie took advantage of his distraction and slipped behind the police barricade, which consisted only of a few hastily positioned wooden props. The sound and camera men followed in her footsteps.
Once inside the airport proper, she was not halted, mainly because everyone assumed that she had permission to be there. And that was how Ellie Winston obtained her exclusive.
When Bressler learned of what she’d done, he was helpless to put a stop to it. By the time he’d issued orders to oust her from the premises she was already gone. Apart from trying to get a court injunction to halt the showing of her footage on that evening’s news or subpoenaing the tape, legal maneuvers of doubtful constitutionality, there was not much that he could do.
He considered denying her a press pass in the future or cancelling the one she now possessed. He pondered ways of making sure KCVO would be the last station to know of late-breaking developments in this case, or in any other for that matter. He even toyed with the idea of harassing her with parking tickets and tickets for moving violations and tickets for littering and loitering, even crossing the street against the light. But none of these stratagems seemed fully satisfying to him. None quite had the right measure of revenge he wanted. Finally, it came to him. He began by placing a call to her.
“KCVO-TV, please hold.”
The operator’s voice sounded like a robot programmed to suggest that it was a sweet Southern belle. When she came back on the line, he asked for Ellie Winston.
“She’s in editing. I’ll put you through.”
When the call came through Ellie was watching herself on a video screen as she had appeared an hour and a half previously, describing the damage inflicted on the airport terminal. No explanation was really necessary because the cameras had clearly recorded the enormity of the destruction. Her commentary was surely not intended to please the police department. “Given their noncommittal responses and ambiguous statements,” she had said, “it is fair to say that it will be some time before the perpetrators of this outrage are brought to justice.”
She stopped the tape to pick up the phone. She was surprised to hear from Bressler but she kept her voice even.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
Expecting a vehement deno
uncement, she was not at all prepared for what followed.
“Actually, Miss Winston, it’s what I can do for you. Since you seem so eager to keep abreast of our investigation, I am going to give you an unprecedented opportunity.”
“Oh?” she said suspiciously.
“I am ready to grant you permission to ride with one of our most competent inspectors. You can take along your crew if you’d like and record whatever you see. The only stipulation is that you are in no way to interfere with the performance of his duties.”
Ellie was stunned by the offer. There had to be a hitch, she was thinking, but it was not at all apparent. “Why are you doing this?” Might as well be out front, she thought, even if he isn’t going to be.
“Miss Winston, we want the public to see that we are doing everything possible to solve this case. The best way this can be accomplished is for you to get to know how our men operate in the field. It’s as simple as that.”
“All right, your offer is accepted. Now tell me, who is the lucky gentleman?”
“He’s a homicide detective. Inspector Callahan. Harry Callahan.”
“And how do I find him?”
“I’ll get back to you by this afternoon and give you all the necessary details.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Any time, Miss Winston.”
What’s the hitch?, she continued to wonder as she put down the phone. There’s got to be a hitch. After what she’d pulled that morning, the last thing she’d anticipated from the SFPD were unsolicited favors. She had the distinct impression that she was getting in way over her head. Who was Callahan anyway?
C H A P T E R
T w o
The three men were impeccably dressed in black dinner jackets. They had no difficulty fitting in with the other fashionably attired guests who circulated through the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The only reason one would notice them was because of the masks pulled over their faces, with only slits for the eyes to show through, and because of the automatics they produced as they drew up to the reservations desk.
No one could say exactly where they’d come from, whether they’d walked right in through the front door or whether they’d been in the lobby for a while—a more likely possibility—waiting for the opportune moment to don their masks and strike.
True to the formal nature of their attire, they acted deferential, almost as if in apology for the mischief they were about to commit.
Two of the masked men turned their guns on the guests who were in the lobby at the time. They must have numbered at least thirty-five. It was a busy evening hour and several parties were on their way up to the Top of the Mark for cocktails and dinner and an unsurpassed panorama of the city at sunset. The way things were developing, they would not make it in time to view this particular sunset.
The third member of the group remained with his back to the lobby, his interest focused solely on the astonished reservations clerk who stood behind the desk.
It was this man who addressed the assembled captives.
“Now, no one make a sound, please, there’s no necessity for panic. I assure you, we have no intention of harming anyone, so long as you offer us your full cooperation. If you will throw all your valuables on the floor in front of you, your wallets, your watches, your jewelry, we will be able to get this over with quickly and you can be on your way. We would rather not have to personally search each of you, but of course, if you don’t comply we will be compelled to do so.”
His declaration was delivered in calm, measured tones. He seemed to be an articulate and well-educated man and one very much in control of himself.
There was a faint murmur of protest that rose from among the victims, but that was all. No one doubted the effectiveness of the weapons directed at them.
Now to the clerk facing him at the desk, the third man said, “Please, would you mind opening the safe and relieving it of its contents for me?”
The clerk was a middle-aged man with an air of scrupulousness about him. He drew himself erect and glowered at the masked thief in front of him.
“I do not have the combination, sir,” he announced with great dignity.
“In that case, you will have to obtain it, won’t you? And do so immediately.”
The clerk was deliberating. The robber sensed that he was procrastinating for a definite reason, probably thinking that it could not be too much longer before the robbery was discovered and the police alerted. It was likely that there was a silent alarm underneath the desk, just within the clerk’s reach, which he was prepared to trigger. All he needed was the opportunity—a moment’s distraction in which to move—but the robber meant to deny him that opportunity.
A few seconds passed. The only sound came from the wallets falling to the floor and jewelry clinking as frightened women removed necklaces, rings, and bracelets.
“I am waiting,” said the third man, “and I am becoming impatient.”
The clerk took hold of the phone. “I have to call for the combination,” he explained.
The third man refused to believe this was necessary. Even if it was, he wasn’t going to risk it. He tore the phone from the clerk, ripping the cord out in the process.
He then raised his gun so that the tip of it was resting against the clerk’s neck. “Open the safe, please.”
The clerk’s eyes moved from side to side in desperation.
Reluctantly he turned, yet he was keeping close to the edge of the counter. His right hand was out of sight, but the robber caught a sudden movement, the slight jerk of his shoulder suggesting he’d triggered the alarm.
“You set off the alarm, didn’t you?” he said, his voice ominously calm.
He then seized the clerk by his jacket lapels and pulled him toward him.
With a great show of indignation, the clerk insisted that he had not, but the confidence was gone from his voice.
“I am afraid that I must contradict you.”
The clerk seemed prepared to assert his innocence anew but the robber gave him no time, slamming the butt-end of his gun against his jaw. The blow resulted in a large gash that extended nearly all around the victim’s neck. In response, the clerk staggered back, and crumpled in pain.
The suddenness of violence shocked those who might not have believed that the robbers had actually intended to use force. Several people screamed, but the sight of the robbers’ guns caused them to fall silent almost immediately.
Up until this point, two of the men had experienced no resistance whatsoever. With admirable efficiency, they had circulated through the lobby, dropping assorted valuables into a white laundry bag. Whenever they suspected that someone might not have been completely forthcoming, they would frisk him—or her, for they weren’t bound by propriety if there was a chance of discovering a diamond ring concealed inside a brassiere. Usually, this was unnecessary. Rather than suffer any such indignity, people were voluntarily relieving themselves of items like money clips and silver lighters that might at first have escaped detection.
Whenever a newcomer would enter the hotel, he too would be forced to join the others and drop his portable wealth into the ever-burgeoning laundry bag. Once inside, there was no chance to reconsider and back out. From the outside, however, there was no way for the unsuspecting to realize what was transpiring in the lobby. It looked as though there were a large number of people milling about.
But now that the alarm had been triggered, there was no doubt that it was necessary to speed up the operation. The robbers were loathe to leave anything behind in haste and they displayed no panic in their movements, especially since they did not want to do anything to encourage mutiny among the ranks of their victims.
There was no way for the dispatcher to know, of course, what was happening at the Mark Hopkins. He simply alerted all units in the Nob Hill area to exercise caution in answering the alarm.
Two cruisers were immediately on the scene. They pulled up quietly, careful to avoid use of their sirens. As add
itional insurance, they parked their black and whites a short distance away from the twenty-floor hotel so that they wouldn’t be seen from the lobby entrance.
With their Smith & Wesson .356 Magnums drawn, the four officers approached the hotel, but relaxed as they came within sight of the entrance. There was no evidence of commotion, of disarray, or violence that might signal an emergency situation. There were still people going inside. What the police did not instantly pick up on was that no one was coming out.
It was possible that the alarm had been tripped by accident or that some malfunction had occurred that had set it off. This sort of thing was not at all uncommon.
The first thing that the police saw when they entered the hotel lobby, was a crowd of people standing frozen in place. Their faces reflected their terror and one old man was actually sobbing. No one was saying a word.
There was no question that something was wrong, but in those first few seconds, none of the policemen could say what exactly it was for there were no gunmen in sight. They had dropped down behind the counter, but not so low they couldn’t keep an eye on their victims or would-be rescuers.
“What’s happening here?” one of the officers cried out.
At which point, the robber who was most obviously in charge of this operation rose from behind the counter, his gun trained on the man who’d just spoken.
“I would suggest, officer, that you throw down your weapon,” he said politely, but with a conviction that he would most certainly be obeyed.
Before any of the police could bring themselves to respond, the robber spoke again. “My friends are here with me and should you attempt to use any force, we will be obliged to make these innocent people here suffer for your stupidity.”
This threat caused several of the guests to gasp. It was bad enough being robbed; it was far worse to be caught in the middle of a cross fire.
One officer looked to the other, each hoping that the other would produce an inspired solution to extricate them from this stalemated situation. But no one had an inspiration and they realized they had no alternative but to comply with the demand of the gunmen.
