A Maidens Grave

serve as a state liaison and my right-hand man. I’m the incident commander. There’ll also be a containment officer, who I haven’t picked yet.
    “The TMT has two jobs. The primary one is to effect the surrender of the HTs and the release of the hostages. The secondary job is to assist in a tactical resolution if an assault is called for. This includes gathering intelligence for the hostage rescue team, distracting the HTs, manipulating them however we can to keep casualties to an acceptable level.”
    In barricade incidents everybody wants to be the hero and talk the bad guys out with their hands up. But even the most peace-loving negotiator has to keep in mind that sometimes the only solution is to go in shooting. When hetaught the FBI’s course in hostage negotiation one of the first things Potter told the class was, “Every hostage situation is essentially a homicide in progress.”
    He saw the looks in the eyes of the men and women in the van, and recalled that “cold fish” was among the kinder terms that had been used to describe him.
    “Any information you learn about the takers, the hostages, the premises, anything, is to be delivered immediately to Agent LeBow. Before me if necessary. I mean any information. If you find out one of the HTs has a runny nose, don’t assume it isn’t important.” Potter glanced at two hip young troopers rolling their eyes at one another. Looking directly at them, the agent said, “It might mean, for instance, that we could slip knockout drops in cold medicine. Or it might indicate a cocaine addiction we could use to our advantage.”
    The young men were above contrition but they reined in their sarcasm.
    “Now I need that containment officer. Lieutenant Budd here thought that perhaps some of you have had hostage experience.” He looked out over the group of cocky young law enforcers. “Who has?”
    The woman state trooper spoke up quickly. “Yessir, I have. I took the NLEA hostage rescue course. And I’ve had negotiating skills training.”
    “Have you negotiated a release?”
    “No. But I backed up the negotiator in a convenience store robbery a few months ago.”
    “That’s right,” Budd said. “Sally led the tactical team. Did a fine job too.”
    She continued, “We got a sniper inside the store, up in the acoustic tile. He had all of the perps acquired in his sights. They surrendered before we had to drop any of them.”
    “I’ve had some experience too,” a trooper of about thirty-five offered, his hand on the butt of his service automatic. “And I was part of the team that rescued the teller in the Midwest S&L robbery last year in Topeka. We iced the perps, nailed ’em cold, not an injury to a single hostage.”
    One other trooper had trained in the army and had been part of two successful hostage rescue assault teams. “Saved them without a single shot being fired.”
    Peter Henderson had been listening with some dismay.He piped up. “Maybe I better take that job, Art. I’ve had the standard course and the refresher.” He grinned. “And I read your book. Couple times. Should’ve been a best-seller. Like Tom Clancy.” His face went somber and he added softly, “I think I really ought to. Being federal and all.”
    Dean Stillwell lifted his head then glanced at the troopers, decked out in flak jackets and dark gray ammunition belts. The movement of his moplike hair gave Potter the chance to avoid answering Henderson and he asked Stillwell, “You going to say something, Sheriff?”
    “Naw, I wasn’t really.”
    “Go ahead,” Potter encouraged.
    “Well, I never took any courses, or never shot any—what do you call them?—hostage takers. HTs, heh. But I guess we have had us a coupla situations down here in Crow Ridge.”
    Two of the troopers smiled.
    “Tell me,” Potter said.
    “Well, there was that thing a couple months ago, with Abe Whitman and his wife. Emma. Out on Patchin Lane? Just past Badger Hollow Road?”
    The smiles became soft laughter.
    Stillwell laughed good-naturedly. “I guess that does sound funny. Not like the terrorists you all are used to.”
    Budd glanced at the troopers and they went straight-lipped again.
    “What happened?” Potter asked.
    Stillwell, looking down, said, “What it was, Abe’s a farmer, pig farmer born and bred, and none better.”
    Now Peter Henderson, SAC though he was, struggled to stifle his own smile. Budd was silent. Potter gestured for Stillwell to continue and, as always,