identity.”
“That remains to be seen,” she returned. “As well as you did, however, I would question the wisdom of that last ploy.”
“You mean when I told him I was going to kill him?”
“Yes sir,” she acknowledged.
I glanced over at her as we walked, and I spoke with absolute sincerity, “Who says it was a ploy?”
“I know this is an unpleasant situation for you to be in, but we need to ask you for some more help,” Agent Kavanaugh told me.
We were sitting in the back of a large panel van, the inside of which looked like a compact conference room, communications center, and armory all rolled into one. I was holding a thermos cup that was half-filled with coffee. I had accepted it when it was offered but after a couple of sips, came to the conclusion that I didn’t really want it. Not that it was bad or anything, I was just far too wired to even think about drinking it.
As it was, the only reason I was still holding the container was that I didn’t seem to be able to find a place to put it down. Any space that appeared like it would fit the cup was already supporting something else far more important looking and in the case of the electronics, far more expensive.
“Forgive me for asking then,” I replied, fighting to keep the shortness from my voice, “but if you need my help, shouldn’t I be out there instead of in here?”
The entire day, right up to a very few moments ago, seemed to have been built around an ever-increasing urgency. Now, suddenly that imperative had slammed face first into an invisible wall. That barrier had presented itself in the form of the standard operating procedures for hostage negotiation.
“There’s no rush,” she told me. “This is standard procedure. It takes several hours at least before Stockholm Syndrome starts taking hold.”
“I already told you this wacko doesn’t care about her identity,” I remarked. “You aren’t going to get any Stockholm Syndrome. He doesn’t play by your pat psychological profile.”
“We know what we are doing, Mister Gant.”
“I’m sure you do under most circumstances, but you’re wrong this time.”
“How do you know that?”
“Long story. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She looked back at me and frowned then absently drummed the end of a ballpoint pen on the notepad she was holding.
“Be that as it may, you’re safer in here,” she finally replied.
“From what, Agent Kavanaugh?” I asked as I motioned in what I thought was the general direction of the warehouse. “He’s hiding out in the building. What’s he going to do to me?”
She pointed toward the opposite corner of the van. “The building is that way.”
“Sorry,” I snapped. “It’s been a really freaking long day.”
“I understand that.” She nodded sympathetically. “But as I told you earlier, we don’t know for sure what Porter has in there with him, and now that the urgency of the moment has passed, we want you to stay out of sight.”
“Unless you expect him to throw loose bricks at me, I doubt you have anything to worry about.”
“Mister Gant,” she said. “Apparently, I am not making myself clear. While we do not know this for a fact, we do have every reason to believe that Porter is armed.”
“You mean with a gun?” I shook my head and asked the question with an overabundance of incredulity in my voice. “No way. That’s not his style.”
“Style or not, Mister Gant,” she contended. “The second victim this morning was shot once in the back of the head. That tells us he has a gun.”
It took a moment for what she had said to register. When it did, I’m sure the look of confusion on my face had to be textbook.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I waved my free hand at her. “Back up for a second. What second victim? What are you talking about?”
“At the scene on Locust where Mister Harper was found, a second body was discovered. The victim was male, approximately mid-sixties and apparently homeless. The current theory is that he entered the warehouse in search of shelter and stumbled upon Porter in the act of… Well, you know.”
“How do you know it was Porter who killed him?”
“Fingerprints on the body,” she returned matter-of-factly. “Porter apparently had Mister Harper’s blood on his hands already.”
The image of Randy’s corpse imprinted itself on my retinas, dancing in the air before me like a three- dimensional movie. I stopped for a moment and fought back a wave of nausea.
I shook my head again when the feeling passed. “No way. This doesn’t add up. Porter doesn’t use a gun, and besides he kills Witches not homeless people.”
“What about Mister Kasprzykowski?” she asked, stumbling over the name. “He wasn’t a Witch.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” I replied. “But even then, he killed him with a blow to the back of the head with a hammer.”
“Yes, and he killed this homeless man with a gunshot to the back of the head. I’m certain you know that Porter has a criminal history, Mister Gant,” she continued. “Several of his earlier crimes involved handguns.”
I closed my eyes and started rubbing my forehead. My perpetual headache was working its way around the inside of my skull. The pain was thick and just the other side of normal. As usual, I couldn’t put my finger on the cause other than to say that it was coming from a source beyond the physical realm.
“No. No way,” I said. “Porter doesn’t have a gun.”
“Mister Gant.” Agent Kavanaugh took on a concerned tone. “I really don’t understand why you are having such a problem with this.”
“Twilight Zone,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Twilight Zone,” I said a bit more clearly as I re-opened my eyes and looked up at her.
She shook her head as a mask of obfuscation passed over her features. “I don’t understand.”
“Ask the big Indian outside,” I told her. “He’ll explain it to you.”
CHAPTER 35:
“What did he say to you during the first conversation this morning?” Agent Kavanaugh asked.
We had been sequestered in the back of the panel van for something close to half an hour by now. She had all but dismissed my objection to the idea that Eldon Porter was using any type of firearm, as well as my suggestion that she talk to Ben for an explanation as to how I could be so certain. Of course, I don’t suppose that his answer would have been any more convincing than mine.
“Which part?” I asked, still trying to temper my impatience at the “hurry up and wait” overtone of the current situation.
The order of the moment was taking the form of an in-depth interview of yours truly. The questions that comprised the Q amp; A ranged from the expected to the seemingly non sequitur. She had already made several queries that appeared to come from far left and well over the horizon, leading me at times to simply stare back at her with a dumbstruck gaze.
She gave me a quick shake of her head. “Any details you can remember. Any at all.”
“Let’s see,” I sighed heavily. “He quoted a few Bible verses to me, then informed me that he intended to rape my wife. Is that what you want to know?”
The abruptness in my voice was unmistakable. Any attempt at disguising my anxiety was effectively rendered null and void by my rapidly hardening attitude.
