wouldn’t listen. Said he’d only talk to you. Then he hung up. We’ve called back a dozen times, but all he says is, ‘I want Marlin.’”
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“No, sir. Not a good time to kid.”
Marlin glanced around the crowd, noting the worried looks on the deputies’ faces, the excitement in the civilians’ eyes.
He looked back at Garza. “You know I’m not trained for this. I don’t know the first thing about negotiation.”
“I know. But I’m not sure we have any other options.”
Marlin batted the idea around in his head, wondering how much guilt he’d feel if the deal went sour. On the other hand, what if he refused to act, and Wylie-or Corey, for that matter-wound up dead? Either way, he was taking a gamble. “Well, hell,” he finally said. “Where’s the phone?”
“That’s the other thing,” Garza said, giving Marlin a smile that said,
Marlin opened his mouth, but Garza shook his head and said, “I know…one of the first rules of hostage negotiation is, don’t send in other potential hostages. You should know that straight-out. I’m not gonna lie to you. But you seem to have a pretty good rapport with Corey, and since Wylie might be wounded in there, I thought I’d at least run it past you. I’m willing to give it a try.”
Garza shrugged. “You know what I mean.” He lowered his voice. “Look, John, don’t get me wrong here. I’ll understand completely if you tell me to screw off. It’s not your job, and the guy’s probably killed one man already….”
Marlin let out a snort. “Boy, that’s a pep talk. You and Knute Rockne, two of a kind.”
Garza grinned at him, but there wasn’t much behind it.
“No weapons, right?” Marlin asked.
“No, you leave your belt out here. We can get you a vest.”
Marlin rubbed the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat back there. He made his decision quickly, because he knew if he mulled it over too long, he’d never go in. “Wylie is gonna owe me a damn six-pack for this one.”
Garza placed a hand on Marlin’s shoulder, an attempt at emotional support. “I hear ya.”
The office of the Sheriff’s Department occupied roughly two thousand square feet, and that included a recent expansion. The county jail occupied the other half of the stone building, with no interior doorway leading between the two sides. It was a hassle for officers to shuttle prisoners back and forth, but in this instance it made things simpler. There was only one way in and one way out, and that was through the glass door on which Marlin’s hand currently rested.
Looking through the door, Marlin saw that everything looked quiet inside. Plenty of lights on. Desks stacked high with paperwork. But it looked odd without any people in it. Down the left wall-what used to be an exterior wall-Marlin could see two wooden doors. The first was a small coffee room, and that door stood open. The second was the door to the interview room, which was closed. The small eye-level window was dark. Marlin eased the glass door open and yelled, “Corey? Can you hear me? It’s Marlin. I’m coming in.” He waited, but there was no answer.
He glanced back at the crowd, which had been pushed back now by about fifty yards. Marlin could see a couple of news-station vans from Austin or San Antonio already setting up shop, bright lights shining on reporters who were covering the breaking story.
Garza, a handful of deputies, and the two DPS troopers stood about thirty yards away.
Marlin took a step into the office and let the glass door close behind him. He glanced toward the dispatcher’s cubicle, a small partitioned area in the right-hand rear corner of the large main room. “Darrell, you back there?” he called out.
“I’m here.”
“Just stay put, you hear me?”
“Ten-four.”
A little louder, Marlin repeated, “Corey! Can you hear me?”
After a beat, a muffled response: “I hear you.”
“I’m coming in, Jack. I have no weapon and I’m all alone.”
“I’ve been waitin’ on ya, John. Come on back and join the party!” Corey sounded on edge, kind of hyped-up. Not a good sign.
Marlin walked slowly down the left side of the room past a row of desks until he was outside the closed door to the interview room. In a softer voice, Marlin said, “Okay, I’m here, Corey. All alone, like you asked. Everybody doing all right in there?”
“Oh yeah, we’re all just dandy.” Corey sounded like he was just on the other side of the door.
“Jack, we need to talk. I need to see Wylie, make sure he’s okay.”
“Sure, we can do that. But no bullshit, all right? I mean, we’re friends and all, but…”
“You got my word. It’s just me out here, and I only came to talk.”
Marlin saw a crack of light appear at the bottom of the door as Corey turned the interior light on. He heard Corey’s voice again, addressing Wylie: “You don’t move a damn muscle, you hear me?”
Then the door opened about an inch and Marlin could see Corey eyeing him through the vertical crack.
Corey said, “Grab a roll of tape offa one of those desks.”
Marlin found a Scotch-tape dispenser and slipped it to Corey.
The door swung open and Corey stood to the side, Wylie’s handgun held at his hip. “Hurry up, now.”
Marlin entered the room and Corey quickly closed the door. The small table that normally sat in the middle of the room had been pushed against one wall, along with the four chairs that went with it. Along the opposite wall was the only other piece of furniture in the room-a ratty sofa one of the deputies had hauled to the station one weekend. On that sofa sat Wylie Smith, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. He was clutching his bloody right hand, which looked like any other hand-except that the thumb had been blown off by a high-powered handgun. There was nothing left but a mangled stump.
“Oh, Jesus,” Marlin said. Judging from the front of Wylie’s uniform, the thumb had bled a great deal. But the bleeding appeared to have stopped.
“Yeah,” Corey said. “Wylie won’t be hitching rides anytime soon.”
The deputy’s face was extremely pale, either from fright or blood loss. “Wylie, you all right?”
Wylie began to speak, but Corey interrupted. “No! You don’t say a word,” waving the gun in Wylie’s direction. “That’s our only rule in here, John. He can’t speak. Nothing but horseshit comes outta his mouth anyway. Now, you go have a seat along that wall.”
Marlin eased himself to the floor opposite the door. He wasn’t sure what the experts would advise in a situation like this. Was he supposed to comply with Corey’s every demand? Do exactly what he said? Or try to resist, dole out the commands himself? He decided he needed to control the room as best he could. “All right, so tell me: What the hell happened in here, Jack?”
Corey was busy taping a few pages of newspaper over the small window in the door. Marlin noticed that Corey had already jammed one of the sofa cushions in the frame of the exterior window, blocking the view from the outside. Corey got the newspaper in place, then leaned with his back against the door. Marlin thought:
Corey glared at Wylie. “It’s all his fault. He pulled me from my cell and drug me in here again. Started in with the same ol’ shit-how I was gonna end up on Death Row, him tryin’ to be all big and mean. I told him he could go to hell, and that’s when he pulled his gun and jammed it against the back of my head.”
Marlin was mortified. Could Wylie possibly be that stupid? He looked at the deputy, who gave a slight shake
