He hoped Jim would send someone in to help soon.
Negotiation trainers always talked about “crisis negotiation teams.” A primary negotiator, a secondary, a team leader, an on-scene commander to make the ultimate decisions, the tactical team leader. Never, never should a negotiator also be commander, Vince had heard many times. For numerous reasons. Good negotiators weren’t always good decision makers. An on-scene commander couldn’t split his time between commanding and negotiating. A negotiator often needed to stall for time by “passing the buck” — telling the subject he couldn’t proceed with some compromise until a commander gave him the go-ahead.
All well and good for big city departments. But Vince was working with a minimum number of people, even with ISP’s help. He couldn’t pull numerous officers off containment. Fact was, big-city experts had no idea how small towns had to make do.
He stared at Wicksell’s last message, then typed his answer.
>> No, Kent, I don’t want another body. I have to check some things out about this blog, though. I do want a form of communication we both can rely on.
Vince posted his message and wiped his forehead. Man, it was hot in here. He reached for the desk phone, held it up with dial tone buzzing as he refreshed the comments box.
>> What do you have to check out?
Vince put the phone back down.
>> Kent, sometimes these comments don’t work right. The letter verifications often have to be typed in more than once before they’ll “take.” And sometimes the system goes down for maintenance and then you can’t access the blogs at all. I need to call Google, make sure nothing’s going to be shut down on us.
Vince posted the comment, then called Jim at the Lakeshore site. “How’s it looking down there?”
“I’m handling it.” Jim sounded distracted. “Al reports we’ve got a few volunteer firemen gathering at the media site, wondering what they can do. Is it okay if one of them comes up and helps Roger?”
“Yeah. Actually, we need two people. Roger needs help now, and if I can move off this blog, I’m going to need a scribe.” The scribe would take notes on communications over the telephone. “If Justin Black’s down there, he’d be my first choice.” In his younger days Justin had been on a SWAT team in Nevada and done some negotiating.
“He’s not here, but I’ll try to reach him. How about Larry to help Roger?”
Larry Emmet was sixty-seven, a retired teacher and avid outdoorsman who exuded energy. “Fine. Send them both over as soon as you can.”
Vince hung up the phone and clicked the mouse.
>> I don’t believe you, Edwards! I’m sick of you trying to get me off this blog!!
Vince’s throat ran dry. So much anger. Gave him a bad feeling in his gut.
Roger appeared. “Found the Spokane Review article for you online. I’ll let you read it, then I’ll tack it up.” He laid it on the desk. “The judge is in Spokane. I’m trying to reach his cell phone. Also working on the prosecutor and defense attorney.”
Vince glanced at the article. He’d get to it as soon as he could. “Thanks. While you’re in here, would you get me some water? And call John Truitt immediately — ask if there’s an easy way to hide this blog from the public. If not, we’re going to have to work with Google.”
“Right-o.” Roger left the office.
There was another issue, one Vince hoped he wouldn’t have to mention to Kent. Blogs were a form of national public communications. If one was being used in a crime, the FBI would become involved. Jurisdiction could get sticky. Vince didn’t need to be slowed down by fights over who did what.
Roger brought Vince a cup of water and hurried back to his phone.
Vince guzzled a drink, then focused on the keyboard.
>> Kent, most of the time the blogs are fine. But you can’t always rely on them. What if I’m about to tell you something about T.J., and suddenly everything goes blank? Since you want to use this blog, I have to make sure it will be reliable for us. I am making some phone calls right now. Please give me a minute to do that. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
Lying in negotiations was a real gamble. Vince wasn’t happy he’d resorted to it so soon. Sometimes a negotiator had to stretch the truth. But he’d doggone well better not be caught, or he’d lose all credibility with Kent.
Within minutes Roger hustled back, a pad of paper in his hands. “First of all, no surprise — John wants to come down here and help. He does know all about this blog. Says he’s the one who puts up a lot of the posts. Even though it looks like they’re posted at 7:00 a.m., he actually puts them up the night before from home.”
Vince was already shaking his head. “No, can’t have him here. He’s too close to the situation. Just… thank him and have him stand by his phone. But what’d he tell you?”
“He gave me the user name and password. Here.” Roger tore off the top piece of paper from his notepad and laid it on the desk. “I’ll put it on the board too. He also said taking the blog private is easy, but he questioned whether you could do it without them knowing. You go to “Setting,” then “Permissions” to make it private for just blog authors. First you’d have to sign in under Bailey’s user name and password so you wouldn’t be blocked. The question is what it does to the blog. Will some message about the new restriction come up that they’ll see on their end? John didn’t know.”
Not what he wanted to hear. Vince rubbed his forehead. “Okay, call Google. If we can’t go private the normal way, maybe they can do it on their end. But stress that I need it done without the other party knowing about it. And I need their answer soon as you can get it.”
Which may not be very fast, thought Vince as Roger walked to the situation board and started writing. It was Saturday. Techs worked 24/7, but online, not by phone. An online answer could take days, and besides, no techie would have the authority to take some public blog private. They’d need a decision maker in the company.
Vince positioned his forefingers over the keys. One important rule in negotiating: Never give something without getting something back. If he agreed to use the blog, he wanted a concession in return. And it wouldn’t be a small one. But first he needed some time.
>> Kent, we’re having trouble contacting Google to make sure they’ll take care of us. It’s not helping that this is Saturday. I will keep trying.
The answer shot back.
>> Stop talking about it and just do it! You’ve got five minutes.
Five minutes. Hardly. But Vince couldn’t afford to be silent for long. Talking — about anything — was good. As long as they were talking, Kent’s attention was on him, not on harming the hostages.
But for now, he’d take the five minutes. It was important to learn a little more about the man he was dealing with.
Vince picked up the Spokane Review article.
TWENTY-NINE
Bailey listened to the clock tick.
Kent waited for Vince’s response impatiently, scratching his arm, tapping a foot. He was beginning to mirror Mitch. Bailey clasped her hands in her lap, nerves pinging. She felt Kent looking at her, as if he sought distraction. She slid him a glance.
He smirked. “Bet you never thought your blog would be used for such a great purpose, huh?”
She made no response.
“Make you proud?”
Bailey licked her lips. “You want me to be proud that you’ve used Scenes and Beans to take my friends hostage?” Her voice wavered, and she worked to steady it. “To shoot Frank?”
Kent shrugged. “He was a cop.”
“He was twenty-six years old.”
“Yeah? If you’re so worried about him, why aren’t you worried about a kid who’s only eighteen in prison with a bunch of grown men? A kid who’s found guilty of murder, when he’s innocent? And now he’s been beat up.”
Wicksell. The name suddenly triggered. That awful murder case in Hayden… This was the family of that cold-blooded killer.
Dear Lord, he
lp us all.
Bailey forced herself not to look away. “Yes. That would worry me.”
“Then be worried.” Vindictiveness twisted Kent’s mouth. “We chose Kanner Lake because of you, you know.”
Because of me? Bailey stared him, coldness seeping through her body.
“That’s right. When we heard about T.J. getting beat up, that was it. Mr. Smart One over there” — he pointed at Brad, tone tinged with sarcasm — “says he’s got an idea. Takes me down to the library so we can read your… posts — ain’t that what you call ’em? There was one said you’d be having a party today ‘cause of the writer.” He threw a look at S-Man. “Even gave us the time. Seven thirty.”
Bailey’s veins iced over. For a moment she couldn’t speak. “You planned this — today — because you knew we’d all be here?”
“Yup.”
Bailey’s hands tightened in her lap. Frank. His body crumpling. The way he’d been dragged like some sack across the café, shoved out the door. And she was to blame? The thought turned her heart inside out. Now others might die. Who would be next? Pastor Hank? Jared? Carla?
Brittany or Ali?
Bailey slumped away from Kent Wicksell and covered her eyes with one hand. Hot tears began to fall.
“Don’t listen to him, Bailey.” Leslie’s voice trembled with anger. “This is nobody’s fault but theirs.”
“Oh, Know-It-All Reporter finally speaks up.” Kent’s chair squeaked. “And I’ll just bet you know everything about my son’s case too, don’t you? Musta wrote a hundred articles about how guilty he is.”
“I don’t give my opinion in the news; I just report it.”
“Yeah? And what did you ‘report’?”
“What I saw in the courtroom.”
“Which means the same lies everybody else heard.” Kent shoved to his feet. “T.J. didn’t kill that girl. Your favorite cop Vince Edwards gets him out of prison, you all get to go home. If he don’t… too bad for you.”
“If that’s —”
“Shut up!” Kent jerked his gun from the floor, strode two steps to Leslie and shook her chair furiously with one hand. “Turn back around! I don’t need any lip from you.”
Leslie melted into Ted. He put an arm around her shoulders.
Bailey hitched a breath. Her tears wouldn’t stop.
Kent clomped back to his chair and sat down hard. Set his gun on the floor. “Where is that stupid cop?” He grabbed the mouse, started clicking.
“He’s making us wait.” Mitch was back to pacing. “Thinks if he takes too long answering, you’ll get tired and say okay to a telephone.”
“Shut up your cryin’!” Kent slapped the table. Bailey jumped, fought to stifle her tears. Pulled in a long, stuttering breath and sat up.
Kent clicked on the comments box. “There! Finally.”
Bailey focused her burning eyes on the screen.
>> What’s going on here? Kent and Vince, you two lost or something? — Fred Meyer
Kent read it aloud and cursed. “It’s not even him.”
“Bet it is.” Brad pushed off Wilbur’s stool and stood. His gun aimed straight at Pastor Hank. “Posing as someone else to prove his point about interruptions.”
“I’ll handle this, Brad. Back off!” Kent glared at the monitor, his broad chest expanding as he breathed.
“Type this — no, wait.” He leaned back to gaze at the tables of hostages. “Any other good typists in here — raise your hand.”
Jared, Bev, Angie, Hank, Leslie, Ted, and Carla raised their hands.
“Well, now, that’s quite a bunch.” Kent focused on Bailey. “Evidently you’re replaceable. So here’s the deal, now that five minutes is up. You talk to Edwards. Tell him I’ve got T.J.’s story written out for you to post.” He patted the left pocket of his jacket. “Tell him I want the world to see it. That’s why we keep using this blog. Edwards answers right quick and agrees — you get to live. He don’t — I got plenty more typists.”
He leaned back, folded his arms. “If I were you, I’d make it good.”
THIRTY
Spokane Review, April 13, 2008
ONE CRIME, TWO CONVICTIONS
By Robert Maxey
By mere appearance, no one would think of eighteen-year-old T.J. Wicksell as violent. His short blond hair — “My parents don’t like hippies,” he’s quoted as saying — frames rounded cheeks dusted with freckles and a large mouth with an easy smile. T.J. stands only five-foot-seven, with a slight build. With his light features, he looks nothing like his brown-haired, dark-eyed father, Kent Wicksell, fifty-two. He favors his mother, Lenora Wicksell. Like her, he has a friendly face. A face you can trust, one might think. In fact, many people have. Friends and teachers alike are apt to mention T.J.’s “charm.” How he could talk to anybody.
But appearance can be misleading. In the last few weeks the world has learned the truth about T.J. Wicksell: he is a cold-blooded, sociopathic killer.
Testimony in his trial, which ended Friday, laid out the grim details. In late afternoon on Saturday, October 13, 2007, T.J. drove his beat-up Chevy down Highway 95 into Hayden. The Wicksells live on a five-acre parcel cut from the forest to the east of 95, four miles north of town. The drive was typical for T.J., who often made the trip to the convenience store at the edge of Hayden city limits.
“He’d be in here two, maybe three times a week,” store owner Ralph Kranck said. “Buying milk, bread, things like that. He’d always talk to me and anybody else in the store. Made me laugh. I always thought he was such a nice kid.”
Which is why Kranck thought nothing of the conversation T.J. struck up with Marya Whitbey the first time he saw her in the store. As well as Kranck can remember, it was June or July. Marya was another regular customer, a well-liked twenty-three-year-old single mother with a little girl named Keisha, eighteen months. Marya, with bitter childhood memories of moving from foster home to foster home, was known in the community for her determination to better her life — for herself and her child. She’d been on her own since graduating high school, going to work in a bank and saving her money for future nursing school. Neighbors and friends considered her a “wonderful” mother, attentive and patient with her highly active daughter. Kranck had privately thought she’d be a good match for his son — if he could ever “get the kid back home to Hayden for a look at her.”
As Kranck recalls, T.J. first asked Marya how old her daughter was. He teased with the little girl, who giggled at his tickling fingers and peeked out at him from behind her mother’s legs. T.J. then asked Marya’s name… where she worked… did she come to the store often? Funny, he said, how he’d never seen her before. Marya answered his questions, mentioning she’d walked from her apartment just a few blocks down. She asked him about his family, what he did. “I work at my dad’s auto wreckage place,” he told her. “Up the highway. You need any car part, come see us.”
“Wish I could, but I don’t have a car. Someday.”
After that, Kranck says, T.J. and Marya spoke whenever they met in the store. Sometimes when she wasn’t there, T.J. would ask if Kranck had seen her. “I got the feeling he liked her, but he was never pushy with her or anything like that,” Kranck noted. “I never saw the slightest reason for concern.”
On that fateful day in October, T.J. and Marya ran into each other once again. They talked, and T.J. teased with Keisha until Marya said she needed to finish her shopping. She ended up with a heavier bag than usual since she’d bought a gallon of milk. T.J. picked up some lasagna noodles and sauce.
Kranck checked Marya out first, then T.J. It was nippy outside.
“Let me drive you home,” T.J. offered. “It’s too cold, and you have a heavy bag plus Keisha.”
Marya looked to Kranck, as if questioning whether she should. He nodded. “Let T.J. take you. He’s right; it’s cold.”
During the trial, when Kranck testified regarding his statement, his voice caught. A moment passed before he could go on.
“I’ll regret those words till the day I die,” he told the court.
Kranck watched them leave. T.J. was a gentleman, carrying Marya’s bag and opening his passenger door for her. She held Keisha in her lap.
That was the last time Kranck would see Marya.
What happened next is now public record. But while the facts are known, understanding is still slow to come for many. T.J. was an easygoing young man with no priors, although he’d been in numerous fights at school when he was younger. Kranck saw nothing in his behavior that day to cause concern. Yet T.J. Wicksell took Marya Whitbey the few blocks to her apartment, drove away, then soon returned. When she let him in, he stabbed her sixteen times and left her eighteen-month-old daughter to toddle through her blood. The body was discovered an hour later by neighbors alerted by the little girl’s cries.
Only after that gruesome discovery would Fred Banst, a car mechanic who lives in the building, realize he should have listened to his gut instincts when he saw a young man running out the front door of the building and down the driveway toward the back parking lot. Charles Griffin, a retiree in his seventies, pulled into a parking space next to T.J.’s Chevy just in time to get a look at T.J. as he jumped into the car. Griffin saw what appeared to be blood smears on the front of T.J.’s shirt. After Marya’s body was discovered, Griffin and Banst gave descriptions of the running young man to the police, and a composite was drawn of the suspect. That drawing was a ringer for T.J.’s “friendly” face.
The knife left at the scene, taken from Marya’s own kitchen, bore T.J.’s fingerprints.
Friday’s conviction of second-degree murder for T.J. Wicksell came as no surprise to those who followed the case. Although the exact motive for the crime remains unknown, the prosecutor presented the likelihood that T.J. had made sexual advances that were rebuffed. But his family’s conviction is far different. They still insist he’s innocent. Socio-path? They scoff at the word.
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