The Big Bad Wolf

Kyle Craig.”
    Nooney waved a hand my way. “Why should you apologize? You’re dismissed from the day’s classes. There’s a helicopter waiting for you over at HRT. You
do
know where Hostage Rescue Team is?”
    “I know where it is.”
    Class dismissed,
I was thinking as I ran to the helipad. I could hear the
crack, crack
of weapons being fired at the shooting range. Then I was onboard the helicopter and strapping in. Less than twenty minutes later, the Bell helicopter touched down in Baltimore. I still hadn’t gotten over my meeting with Nooney. Did he understand that I hadn’t asked for this assignment? I didn’t even know
why
I was in Baltimore.
    Two agents in a dark blue sedan were waiting for me. One of them, Jim Heekin, took charge immediately, and also put me in my place. “You must be the FNG,” he said as we shook hands.
    I wasn’t familiar with what the letters stood for, so I asked Heekin what they meant as we got into the car.
    He smiled, and so did his partner. “The Fucking New Guy,” he said.
    “What we have so far is a bad deal. And it’s hot,” Heekin said. “City of Baltimore homicide detective is involved. Probably why they wanted you here. He’s holed up in his own house. Most of his immediate family’s in there with him. We don’t know if he’s suicidal, homicidal, or both, but he’s apparently taken the family hostage. Seems similar to a situation created by a police officer last year in south Jersey. This officer’s family was gathered together for his father’s birthday party. Some birthday party.”
    “Do we know how many are in the house with him?” I asked.
    Heekin shook his head. “Best guess, at least a dozen, including a couple of children. Detective won’t let us talk to any of the family members, and he won’t answer our questions. Most of the people in the neighborhood don’t want us here either.”
    “What’s his name?” I asked as I jotted down a few notes to myself. I couldn’t believe I was about to get involved in a hostage negotiation. It still didn’t make any sense to me—and then—
it did.
    “His name is Dennis Coulter.”
    I looked up in surprise. “I know Dennis Coulter. I worked a murder case with him. Shared a bushel of crabs at Obrycki’s once upon a time.”
    “We know,” said Agent Heekin. “He asked for you.”

Chapter 6
    DETECTIVE COULTER HAD ASKED FOR ME. What the hell was that all about? I hadn’t known we were so close. Because we weren’t. I’d met him only a couple of times. We were friendly, but not exactly friends. So why did Dennis Coulter want me here?
    A while back, I had worked with Dennis Coulter on an investigation of drug dealers who were trying to connect, and control, the trade in D.C. and Baltimore and everywhere in between. I’d found Coulter to be tough, very egotistical, but good at his job. I remembered he was a big Eubie Blake fan, and that Blake was from Baltimore.
    Coulter and his hostages were huddled somewhere inside the house, a gray wood-shingle Colonial on Ailsa Avenue in Lauraville, in the northeast part of Baltimore. Venetian blinds were tightly closed in the windows. What was going on behind the front door was anybody’s guess. Three stone steps climbed to the porch, where a rocking chair and a wooden glider sat. The house had recently been painted, which suggested to me that Coulter probably hadn’t been expecting trouble in his life. So what happened?
    Several dozen Baltimore PD, including SWAT team members, had surrounded the house. Weapons were drawn and, in some cases, aimed at the windows and the front door. The Baltimore police helicopter unit Foxtrot had responded.
    Not good.
    I already had one idea. “What do you think about everybody lowering their guns for starters?” I asked the field commander from the Baltimore PD. “He hasn’t fired on anybody, has he?”
    The field commander and SWAT team leader conferred briefly, and then weapons around the perimeter were lowered, at least the ones I could see. Meanwhile, one of the Foxtrot helicopters continued to hover close to the house.
    I turned to the commander again. I needed him on my side. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Have you been talking to him?”
    He pointed to a man crouched behind a cruiser. “Detective Fescoe has the honor. He’s been on the horn with Coulter for about an hour.”
    I made a point of walking over to Detective Fescoe and introducing myself. “Mick Fescoe,” he said, but he didn’t seem overjoyed to