flak; the O.P. wouldn’t think of reminding the chief or the C.M., but we could all see the headlines if that happened.
The canyon was black as a well now. Fog cloaked the trees. The wind rustled oak leaves and scraped branches of bay trees against each other. It had been nearly half an hour since I’d seen the light flash down there. The hostage taker could be gone by now. And the hostage dead.
Doyle put down the phone and motioned Grayson over. “Tac Team’ll set up a diversion and go in.”
“No! Not with a perp we know nothing about and a victim who … we can’t take that chance.”
Doyle stared at me. “Smith, you’re the one—”
“Sir,” I said, lowering my voice. The press was too far away to hear, but still I didn’t want to take the chance. “There’s only one kind of diversion that’ll work.”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed. He knew what I was going to say. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t object.
“The only thing we can count on to hold his attention and not spook him is what he’s used to: the negotiation. From here we don’t know how much he can hear down there. We need to be down there to be sure.” I waited till he gave his nod of reluctant agreement. “I’ll take the loudspeaker and go down there.”
CHAPTER 2
I T WAS AGAINST ALL our procedure. The rule is the negotiator makes sure that when the perp surrenders, he gives up to weaponry. He emerges not face-to-face with the negotiator, but face-to-barrel with the Tac Team’s guns. The negotiator never gives up her gun, never gives up herself, never puts herself in the immediate danger zone.
But when you’re dealing with an armed perp and a hostage in as bad shape as our victim could be, you don’t have the luxury of following regulations. Besides, breaking the rule is the rule in the city of Berkeley.
The level footing of the canyon rim fell off by the live oaks above the streambed. From there it would be a matter of my hanging on to branches and bracing on rocks, maneuvering down the crevice.
Berkeley is striped with streams, but most have been covered over. This one, Cerrito Creek, runs under the Arlington and out for a while before it goes back underground at the other end of the canyon. In November there isn’t much water down there. Just enough to make the rocks slippery. The local kids didn’t call this the chute for nothing.
An icy Pacific wind was blowing up the canyon, rustling live oak leaves and teasing us all with the homey smell of bay leaves. End-of-the-weekend traffic had subsided; the Arlington had shifted back from main thoroughfare to mere hillside conduit. Cars still squealed to halts spewing out off-duty sworn officers, crisis groupies, and a Super Bowl’s worth of camcorders, toted by a passel of news photographers and three or four passels’ worth of civilians. My descent into the canyon would be better documented than The Catch that gave the 49ers the 1981 championship. By midnight I’d be a star in living rooms, family rooms, entertainment centers, and bedrooms all over Berkeley.
Doyle and Murakawa came up behind me. I glanced at Murakawa. He was one of the patrol officers I felt most at ease with, a tall, thin guy, with a spray of brown hair that fell boyishly over his wide forehead. With minimal provocation he’d tell you he was just doing police work till he applied to chiropractic school. But we’d all heard that tale for five years; now Murakawa was the only one left who believed it. In Berkeley few of us want to admit that whatever we’re doing is our ultimate job; most of us secretly believe there’s something more on the horizon, for when we grow up. So we can’t afford not to be gentle with the chimeras of our friends. Whatever Murakawa’s future, now he was thorough and almost compulsively reliable—just the guy I wanted to back me up in the canyon. As primary negotiator I’d do the talking, bond with the hostage taker. As my secondary, he’d be in my ear every moment,
The canyon was black as a well now. Fog cloaked the trees. The wind rustled oak leaves and scraped branches of bay trees against each other. It had been nearly half an hour since I’d seen the light flash down there. The hostage taker could be gone by now. And the hostage dead.
Doyle put down the phone and motioned Grayson over. “Tac Team’ll set up a diversion and go in.”
“No! Not with a perp we know nothing about and a victim who … we can’t take that chance.”
Doyle stared at me. “Smith, you’re the one—”
“Sir,” I said, lowering my voice. The press was too far away to hear, but still I didn’t want to take the chance. “There’s only one kind of diversion that’ll work.”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed. He knew what I was going to say. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t object.
“The only thing we can count on to hold his attention and not spook him is what he’s used to: the negotiation. From here we don’t know how much he can hear down there. We need to be down there to be sure.” I waited till he gave his nod of reluctant agreement. “I’ll take the loudspeaker and go down there.”
CHAPTER 2
I T WAS AGAINST ALL our procedure. The rule is the negotiator makes sure that when the perp surrenders, he gives up to weaponry. He emerges not face-to-face with the negotiator, but face-to-barrel with the Tac Team’s guns. The negotiator never gives up her gun, never gives up herself, never puts herself in the immediate danger zone.
But when you’re dealing with an armed perp and a hostage in as bad shape as our victim could be, you don’t have the luxury of following regulations. Besides, breaking the rule is the rule in the city of Berkeley.
The level footing of the canyon rim fell off by the live oaks above the streambed. From there it would be a matter of my hanging on to branches and bracing on rocks, maneuvering down the crevice.
Berkeley is striped with streams, but most have been covered over. This one, Cerrito Creek, runs under the Arlington and out for a while before it goes back underground at the other end of the canyon. In November there isn’t much water down there. Just enough to make the rocks slippery. The local kids didn’t call this the chute for nothing.
An icy Pacific wind was blowing up the canyon, rustling live oak leaves and teasing us all with the homey smell of bay leaves. End-of-the-weekend traffic had subsided; the Arlington had shifted back from main thoroughfare to mere hillside conduit. Cars still squealed to halts spewing out off-duty sworn officers, crisis groupies, and a Super Bowl’s worth of camcorders, toted by a passel of news photographers and three or four passels’ worth of civilians. My descent into the canyon would be better documented than The Catch that gave the 49ers the 1981 championship. By midnight I’d be a star in living rooms, family rooms, entertainment centers, and bedrooms all over Berkeley.
Doyle and Murakawa came up behind me. I glanced at Murakawa. He was one of the patrol officers I felt most at ease with, a tall, thin guy, with a spray of brown hair that fell boyishly over his wide forehead. With minimal provocation he’d tell you he was just doing police work till he applied to chiropractic school. But we’d all heard that tale for five years; now Murakawa was the only one left who believed it. In Berkeley few of us want to admit that whatever we’re doing is our ultimate job; most of us secretly believe there’s something more on the horizon, for when we grow up. So we can’t afford not to be gentle with the chimeras of our friends. Whatever Murakawa’s future, now he was thorough and almost compulsively reliable—just the guy I wanted to back me up in the canyon. As primary negotiator I’d do the talking, bond with the hostage taker. As my secondary, he’d be in my ear every moment,
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