Sins of the Fathers

SINS OF THE FATHERS

  A Short Story in the Slice of Life Series

  David Lee Howells

  Copyright 2013

  The day was bright and sunny, with pleasant clouds dotting the sky with clean white vapors that had decided it was much too nice a day to rain upon it. People have no such compunctions when it comes to creating a storm. That was proven by the situation.

  An angry man had barricaded himself and three hostages on the second floor of Penway and Grostic Investments. Anger was an obvious role player in the man’s motivations, judging from the language he used on the borrowed (commandeered) cell phone. This was the situation-awareness contribution from the science of neurolinguistics.

  The scanty facts presented suggested to those whose job it was to profile a criminal target that this stand-off was more planned than spontaneous. There was a sniff that this was all to make a statement of some kind. He may be yet another someone who wanted his fifteen minutes in the sun and was willing to risk an early demise-by-sharpshooter to get it. The younger the perpetrator, though, the less likely they were aware enough to realize the risk they were taking. That was a rule of thumb. In the military, it was called ‘the myth of invulnerability’.

  Planning had to be inherent to his (or their) plot. The emergency exit was not only jammed from within, but it was clearly stated by the hostage-taking spokesperson that any attempt to open said escape hatch would trigger an explosive device sufficiently powerful as to end the conflict completely in less than a second. Trouble was, there’d be collateral damage, not to mention political fall out. Old Man Penway himself was one of the three hostages.

  There was an elevator, originally requested by their liability insurance due to the number of employees and the requirements for handicapped access. It was finally installed when both proprietors found they were getting too old for the stairs. That port was blocked simply by the door being wedged open on the second floor, possibly by a chair. By a body? No one knew.

  The windows were barred most securely. Things of value were kept there in a safe of sufficient caliber (a Mosler, special-edition, walk-in, double-chambered) to warrant the heightened window security. The bars on the windows could be quickly breached for easy exit from the inside in an emergency such as a fire, but there weren’t any, apparently, free to do so today.

  There were no side or back windows. Those had been bricked up long ago by owners who had fears of others who might want to pull a second-story job. People with a lot of assets often became obsessed with protecting their wealth. The partner, Evan Grostic, Sr., died three years ago, but Penway kept up the three decades-long tradition of paranoia.

  The final clue to premeditation was the perp’s demand for a specific official intercessor. That request initiated the usual questions of what the relationship between the two was, and what the motives for the request would turn out to be.

  That was part of the report given when the requested person arrived.

  Captain Roger Burhans of the Winslow City Police refused to race his aging but lovingly cared for Chevy Landcruiser to the scene. He’d seen new tragedies arise too many times when someone tried to get to the main tragedy too quickly. Besides, training clearly stated that a desperate state of mind from rapid transit caused more harm than good from the agitated mindset than a few minutes of delay would avoid.

  After thirty-one years of service, who would want to call him on the carpet? Many who came to mind were in jail. Some were dead. More than a few, he was glad to know, put a higher value on their post-prison freedom than the damning price of a ticket to the satisfaction of vengeance. Six blocks to go. He’d already passed one blockade and was passing now a second with a flash of his badge and an eyeball recognition with the manning officer. Burhans had been around for a very long time. There were few who didn’t know him personally on the force.

  The Captain had to pull up on the sidewalk and park, leaving his keys with the officer in charge of the third and last cordon that kept curiosity seekers and overzealous reporters from getting too close to the scene. Other vehicles lining the road included ambulances, a Salvation Army mobile canteen, half the regional police vehicles, and those people who hadn’t been available to clear out. They were going to be stuck there for a while, he thought.

  “No problem, Captain. I’ll watch over her. Sgt. Cannes is waiting for you in at Incident Command. Good luck, Sir.”

  “Thanks Cho. Any changes in the past twenty minutes?”

  “Minor one. The perp had one of the hostages lower a rope and pull up a chemical toilet, camping variety. That seems to go with there being only one perp up there. An accomplice could escort a hostage to the privy. Then again, I’m no criminal-mind reader. Could be wrong, Sir.”

  “Makes sense. You’ve hit nail heads everyone else missed in the past. I’ll keep that in mind. Point me in the right direction.”

  “Thanks, Sir. You know us oriental types; inscrutable and diabolically clever. Stick to Chambers one block, left on Hornell. IC is at Jacobi’s Jewelers. You fix this fast and I’ll bet you’ll get a 50% discount next purchase. If that happens, Sir, I want a piece of the action.”

  Captain Burhans chuckled and shook his head. Owner Fred Quick would probably do just that for him. Nice guy. Rotarian. Burhans had asked him once why ‘Jacobi’s’? Fred just said that the fancier name allowed him another 20% price gouge to his loyal customers.

  “Done deal, Cho...IF you’re right on the single perp theory.”

  Four minutes later, the report was given by Sgt. Cannes. She was a seven-year veteran who had seen a lot of sadness, violence and stupidity, but this was her first hostage situation. Winslow wasn’t that big a city to attract headline crimes. The Dispatch News had to import criminal-related press-stoppers for their banners most of the time from larger cities. Locally-produced headlines were usually fires and accidental deaths.

  “The guy still hasn’t ID’d himself. He keeps a distance from the window, and the glass is pretty thick so a pot shot gets tricky. Plus, he has the lights off inside while it’s still bright out here. The angle of the sun against the building front makes infrared almost useless. What little we can see from science and rifle-scoping the windows is that he’s got the hostages sitting at the base of the wall opposite the two main windows, adding to the risk of sniping. Window bars and glass thickness make gas grenades real iffy. If he’s being truthful about the booby-trapped stairwell door, a flash bang might set it off directly or by his over-reaction.”

  Strategically, the perp had admirably done his homework or was unbelievably lucky. Coming in through the roof was out of the question as well. Steel-reinforced to keep highly-motivated crook types from doing the same. The scene was a booby-trapped fortress. That suggested that perhaps the location was more important for his or their security, rather than the hostages being specifically chosen. That could be very helpful to know; a huge help in negotiations happens when you know the opponent’s value system regarding hostages.

  “Oh, yeah, one other thing. The same hostage pulled another rope pull supply run. Burger King. Four separate orders.”

  Now that was telling. Toilet allowance. Feeding the hostages. Sounded like someone who could be reasoned with, possibly. He liked junk food? Stuff rots your brain. Maybe today affirmed that. Burhans thought to keep positive on the outlook, so whoppers and fries became one more potential peace-offering tool. Piece of cake. Just find out who this guy was and what beef was being applied to his person. ‘Where’s his beef?’

  “Were you able to spot his weaponry?”

  “Negative.”

  “ID on the hostage used for the rope transfer?”

  “Old Man Penwa
y himself. From what we could tell on the scopes, nothing is bruised. He had handcuffs on, so the rope pulling was done by him stepping on the rope and pulling two hands at a time. Handcuffs were fuzzy looking, so maybe he got them from some sex-toy supply house. Nearest one’s over in Westport. We called to see if anyone purchased at least three at one shot. Apparently not, so it was either mail order or he went in three separate times.”

  Captain Burhans’ mind began its shorthand analysis. [Rope. Toilets. Food. Multiple (possibly) handcuffs. Location. Request for me.]

  “Nothing on the other two?”

  “Too hard to see due to the lighting and glass thickness. We can spot outlines of two other figures, and we think one is male and the other female. Can’t even be sure of that. You see people nowadays you wonder about