The Big Bad Wolf ак-9

by James Patterson

  Training had begun six weeks before, on a Monday morning, with a crew-cut broad-shouldered SSA, or Supervisory Special Agent, Dr Kenneth Horowitz, standing in front of our class trying to tell a joke: ‘The three biggest lies in the world are: “All I want is a kiss”, “The check is in the mail”, and “I’m with the FBI and I’m only here to help you.”’ Everybody in the class laughed, maybe because the joke was so ordinary, but at least Horowitz had tried his best, and maybe that was the point.

  FBI Director Ron Burns had set it up so that my training period would last for only eight weeks. He’d made other allowances for me as well. The maximum age for entrance into the FBI had been thirty-seven years old. I was over forty. Burns had the age requirement waived, and also voiced his opinion that it was discriminatory, and needed to be changed. The more I saw of Ron Burns, the more I sensed that he was something of a rebel, maybe because he was an ex-Philadelphia street cop himself. He had brought me into the FBI as a GS13, the highest I could go as a street agent. I’d also been promised assignments as a consultant, which meant a better salary. Burns had wanted me in the Bureau, and he’d got me. He said that I could have any reasonable resources I needed to get the job done. I hadn’t discussed it with him yet, but I thought I might want two detectives from the Washington P.D. – John Sampson and Jerome Thurman.

  The only thing Burns had been quiet about was my Class Supervisor at Quantico, a Senior Agent named Gordon Nooney. Nooney ran ‘Agent Training’. He had been a profiler before that and, previous to becoming an FBI agent, had been a prison psychologist in New Hampshire. I was finding him to be a bean counter at best.

  That morning, Nooney was standing there waiting when I arrived for my class in Abnormal Psyche, an hour and fifty minutes on understanding psychopathic behavior, something I hadn’t been able to do in nearly fifteen years with the D.C. police force.

  There was gunfire in the air, probably from the nearby marine base. ‘How was traffic from D.C.?’ Nooney asked. I didn’t miss the barb behind the question: I was permitted to go home nights, while the other agents-in-training slept at Quantico.

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Forty-five minutes in moving traffic on 95. I left plenty of extra time.’

  ‘The Bureau isn’t known for breaking rules for individuals,’ Nooney said. Then he offered a tight, thin smile that was awfully close to a frown. ‘Of course, you’re Alex Cross.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ I said. I left it at that.

  ‘I just hope it’s worth the trouble,’ Nooney mumbled as he walked off in the direction of Admin. I shook my head and went into class, which was held in a tiered symposium-style room.

  Dr Horowitz’s lesson this day was interesting to me. It concentrated on the work of Professor Robert Hare who’d done original research on psychopaths by using brain scans. According to Hare’s studies, when healthy people are shown ‘neutral’ and ‘emotional’ words, they respond acutely to emotional words, such as cancer or death. Psychopaths register the words equally. A sentence like ‘I love you’ means nothing more to a psychopath than ‘I’ll have some coffee.’ Maybe less. According to Hare’s analysis of data, attempts to reform psychopaths made them only more manipulative. It certainly was a point of view.

  Even though I was familiar with some of the material, I found myself jotting down Hare’s ‘characteristics’ of psychopathic personality and behavior. There were forty of them. As I wrote them down, I found myself agreeing that most rang true:

  glibness and superficial charm

  need for constant stimulation/prone to boredom

  lack of any remorse or guilt

  shallow emotional response

  complete lack of empathy…

  I was remembering two psychopaths in particular: Gary Soneji and Kyle Craig. I wondered how many of the forty ‘characteristics’ the two of them shared, and started putting G.S. and K.C. next to the appropriate ones.

  Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned away from Dr Horowitz.

  ‘Senior Agent Nooney needs to see you right now in his office,’ said an executive assistant, who then walked away with the full confidence that I would be right on his heels.

  I was.

  I was in the FBI now.

  Chapter Six

  Senior Agent Gordon Nooney was waiting in his small, cramped office in the Administration building. He was obviously upset, which had the desired effect: I wondered what I could have done wrong in the time since we’d talked before class.

  It didn’t take him long to let me know why he was so angry. ‘Don’t bother to sit down. You’ll be out of here in a minute. I just received a highly unusual call from Tony Woods in the Director’s office. There’s a “situation” going down in Baltimore. Apparently, the Director wants you there. It will take precedence over your training classes.’

  Nooney shrugged his broad shoulders. Out the window behind him I could see thick woods, and also Hoover Road where a couple of agents jogged. ‘What the hell, why would you need any training here, Dr Cross? You caught Casanova in North Carolina. You’re the man who brought down Kyle Craig. You’re like Clarice Starling in the movies. You’re already a star.’

  I took a deep breath before responding. ‘I had nothing to do with this. I won’t apologize for catching Casanova, or Kyle Craig.’

  Nooney waved a hand my way. ‘Why should you apologize? You’re dismissed from the day’s classes. There’s a helicopter waiting for you over at HRT. You do know where Hostage Reserve Team is?’

  ‘I know where it is.’

  Class dismissed, I was thinking as I ran to the helipad. I could hear the CRACK, CRACK of weapons being fired at the shooting range. Then I was on board the helicopter and strapping in. Less than twenty minutes later, the Bell helicopter touched down in Baltimore. I still hadn’t gotten over my meeting with SSA Nooney. Did he understand that I hadn’t asked for this assignment? I didn’t even know why I was in Baltimore.

  Two agents in a dark blue sedan were waiting for me. One of them, Jim Heekin, took charge immediately, and also put me in my place. ‘You must be the FNG,’ he said as we shook hands.

  I wasn’t familiar with what the letters stood for, so I asked Heekin what they meant as we got into the car.

  He smiled, and so did his partner. ‘The Fucking New Guy,’ he said.

  ‘What we have so far is a bad deal. And it’s hot,’ Heekin continued. ‘City of Baltimore homicide detective is involved. Probably why they wanted you here. He’s holed up in his own house. Most of his immediate family’s in there with him. We don’t know if he’s suicidal, homicidal, or both, but he’s apparently taken the family hostage. Seems familiar with a situation created by a police officer last year in south Jersey. This officer’s family was gathered together for his father’s birthday party. Some birthday party.’

  ‘Do we know how many are in the house with him?’ I asked.

  Heekin shook his head. ‘Best guess, at least a dozen, including a couple of children. Detective won’t let us talk to any of the family members, and he won’t answer our questions. Most of the people in the neighborhood don’t want us here either.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked as I jotted down a few notes to myself. I couldn’t believe I was about to get involved in a hostage negotiation. It still didn’t make any sense to me – and then it did.

  ‘His name is Dennis Coulter.’

  I looked up in surprise. ‘I know Dennis Coulter. I worked a murder case with him. Shared a bushel of crabs at Obrychi’s once upon a time.’

  ‘We know,’ said Agent Heekin. ‘He asked for you.’

  Chapter Seven

  D etective Coulter had asked for me. What the hell was that all about? I hadn’t known we were so close. Because we weren’t! I’d met him only a couple of times. We were friendly, but not exactly friends. So why did Dennis Coulter want me here?

  A while back, I had worked with Dennis Coulter on an investigation of drug dealers who were trying to connect, and control, the trade in D.C.
and Baltimore and everything in between. I’d found Coulter to be tough, very egotistical, but good at his job. I remembered he was a big Eubie Blake fan, and that Blake was from Baltimore.

  Coulter and his hostages were huddled somewhere inside the house, a gray wood shingle colonial, on Ailsa Avenue in Lauraville, in the northeast part of Baltimore. The Venetian blinds were tightly closed, and what was going on behind the front door was anybody’s guess. Three stone steps climbed to the porch where a rocking chair and a wooden glider sat. The house had been painted recently, which suggested to me that Coulter probably hadn’t been expecting trouble in his life. So what happened?

  Several dozen Baltimore P.D., including SWAT team members, had surrounded the house. Weapons were drawn and, in some cases, aimed at the windows and the front door. The Baltimore police helicopter unit Foxtrot had responded.

  Not good.

  I already had one idea. ‘What do you think about everybody lowering their guns for starters?’ I asked the field commander from the Baltimore P.D. ‘He hasn’t fired on anybody, has he?’

  The field commander and SWAT team leader conferred briefly, and then weapons around the perimeter were lowered, at least the ones I could see. Meanwhile, one of the Foxtrot helicopters continued to hover close to the house.

  I turned to the commander again. I needed him on my side. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Have you been talking to him?’

  He pointed to a man crouched behind a cruiser. ‘Detective Fescoe has the honor. He’s been on the horn with Coulter for about an hour.’

  I made a point of walking over to Detective Fescoe and introducing myself. ‘Mick Fescoe,’ he said, but didn’t seem overjoyed to meet me. ‘Heard you were coming. We’re fine here.’

  ‘This intrusion isn’t my idea,’ I told him. ‘I just left the force in D.C. I don’t want to get in anybody’s way.’

  ‘So, don’t,’ Fescoe said. He was a slender, wiry man who looked as if he might have played some ball at one time. He moved like it.

  I rubbed my hand over my chin. ‘Any idea why he asked for me? I don’t know him that well.’

  Fescoe’s eyes drifted toward the house. ‘Says he’s being set up by Internal Affairs. Doesn’t trust anybody connected to the Baltimore P.D. He knew you’d gone over to the FBI recently.’

  ‘Would you tell him I’m here. But also tell him I’m being briefed now. I want to hear how he sounds, before I talk to him.’

  Fescoe nodded, then he called into the house. It rang several times before it was picked up.

  ‘Agent Cross has just arrived, Dennis. He’s being briefed now,’ said Fescoe.

  ‘Like hell he is. Get him on the hook. Don’t make me shoot in here. I’m getting close to creating a real problem. Get him now!’

  Fescoe handed me the phone and I spoke into it. ‘Dennis, this is Alex Cross. I’m here. I did want to be briefed first.’

  ‘This really Alex Cross?’ Coulter asked and sounded surprised.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. I don’t know too many of the details. Except you say you’re being set up by Internal Affairs.’

  ‘I don’t just say it, I am being set up. I can tell you why, too. I’ll brief you. That way you’ll hear it straight.’

  ‘All right,’ I told him. ‘I’m on your side so far. I know you, Dennis. I don’t know Baltimore Internal Affairs.’

  Coulter cut me off. ‘I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk. Just hear me out.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’

  I sat down on the ground behind a Baltimore P.D. cruiser, and I got ready to listen to the armed man who was supposedly holding a dozen of his family members hostage. Jesus, I was back on The Job again.

  ‘They want to kill me,’ Dennis Coulter began. ‘The Baltimore P.D. has me in its crosshairs.’

  Chapter Eight

  P op!

  I jumped. Someone had pulled open a can of soda and tapped me on the shoulder with it.

  I looked up to see none other than Ned Mahoney, from the Hostage Rescue Team at Quantico, handing me a caffeine-free Diet Coke. I had taken a couple of classes from him during orientation. He knew his stuff – in the classroom anyway.

  ‘Welcome to my private hell,’ I said. ‘What am I doing here, by the way?’

  Mahoney winked at me, and dropped down beside me.

  ‘You’re a rising star, or maybe a risen star. You know the drill. Get him talking. Keep him talking,’ said Mahoney. ‘We hear you’re real good at this.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think? Watching, studying your technique. You’re the Director’s boy, right? He thinks you’re gifted.’

  I took a sip of soda, then pressed the cold can to my forehead. Hell of an introduction to the FBI for the FNG.

  ‘Dennis, who wants to kill you?’ I spoke into the cell phone again. ‘Tell me all you can about what’s going on here. I also need to ask about your family. Is everybody all right in there?’

  Coulter bristled. ‘Hey! Let’s not waste time on a lot of bullshit negotiation crap. I’m about to be executed. That’s what this is. Make no mistake. Look around you, man. It’s an execution.’

  I couldn’t see Coulter, but I remembered him. No more than five eight, goatee, hip, always cracking a wise-ass joke, very tough. All in all, a small man’s complex. He began to tell his story, his side of things, and unfortunately, I had no idea what to make of what he was spilling out. According to Coulter, several detectives in the Baltimore P.D. had been involved in large drug pay-offs. Even he didn’t know how many, but the number was high. He’d blown the whistle! The next thing he knew, his house was surrounded by cops.

  Then Coulter dropped the bomb. ‘I was getting kickbacks too. Somebody turned me in to Internal Affairs. One of my partners.’

  ‘Why would a partner do that?’

  He laughed. ‘Because I got greedy. I went for a bigger piece of the pie. Thought I had my partners by the short hairs. They didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘How did you have them by the short hairs?’

  ‘I told my partners that I had copies of records – who had been paid what. A couple of years’ worth of records.’

  Now we were getting somewhere. ‘Do you?’ I asked.

  Coulter hesitated. Why was that? Either he did, or he didn’t.

  ‘I might,’ he finally said. ‘They sure think I do. So now they’re going to put me down. They were coming for me today… I’m not supposed to leave this house alive.’

  I was trying to listen for other voices or sounds in the house while he kept talking. I didn’t hear any. Was anybody else still alive in there? What had Coulter done to his family? How desperate was he?

  I looked at Ned Mahoney and shrugged my shoulders. I really wasn’t sure whether Coulter was telling the truth, or if he was just a street cop who’d gone loco. Mahoney looked skeptical too. He had a don’t ask me look on his face. I had to go somewhere else for guidance.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ I asked Coulter.

  He sniffed out a laugh. ‘I was hoping you’d have an idea. You’re supposed to be the hotshot, right?’

  That’s what everybody keeps saying.

  Chapter Nine

  The situation in Baltimore didn’t get any better during the next couple of hours. If anything, it got worse. It was impossible to keep the neighbors from wandering out on their porches to watch the stand-off in progress. Then the Baltimore P.D. began to evacuate the Coulters’ neighbors, many of whom were also the Coulters’ friends. A temporary shelter had been set up at the nearby Garrett Heights elementary school. It reminded everyone that there were probably children trapped inside Detective Coulter’s house. His family. Jesus!

  I looked around and shook my head in dismay as I saw an awful lot of Baltimore police, including SWAT, and also the Hostage Rescue Team from Quantico. A swarm of crazy-eyed spectators was pushing and shoving outside the barricades, some of them rooting for cops to be shot – any cop would do.
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br />   I stood up and cautiously made my way over to a group of officers waiting behind an Emergency Rescue van. I didn’t need to be told that they didn’t appreciate interference from the Feds. I hadn’t either, when I was on the D.C. police force. I addressed Captain Stockton James Sheehan, whom I’d spoken to briefly when I arrived. ‘What do you think? Where do we go with this?’

  ‘Has he agreed to let anybody out?’ Sheehan asked. ‘That’s the first question.’

  I shook my head. ‘He won’t even talk about his family. Won’t confirm or deny that they’re in the house.’

  Sheehan asked, ‘Well, what is he talking about?’

  I shared some of what I’d been told by Coulter, but not everything. How could I? I left out that he’d sworn Baltimore cops were involved in a large-scale drug scheme – and, more devastating, that he had records that would incriminate them.

  Stockton Sheehan listened, and then he offered, ‘Either he lets go of some of the hostages, or we have to go in and get him. He’s not going to gun down his own family.’

  ‘He says he will. That’s the threat.’

  Sheehan shook his head. ‘I’m willing to take the risk. We go in when it gets dark. You know this should be our call.’

  I shrugged, without agreeing or disagreeing, then I walked away from the others. It looked like we might have another half-hour of light. I didn’t like to think about what would happen once darkness came.

  I got back on the phone with Coulter. He picked up right away.

  ‘I have an idea,’ I told him. ‘I think it’s your best shot.’ I didn’t tell Coulter, but I also thought it was his only shot.

  ‘So tell me what you’re thinking,’ he said.