1Friday
3:25 p.m. - Major Case Squad
Bobby and Alex arrived in the break room to find several other officers already there, gathered around the TV. Reporters and camera crews from the City's major television stations had just arrived but, obviously, a wide perimeter had been established by the Police – – the news really had no specific details or new information, yet, to offer.
They watched for a few minutes, then Alex rose from her seat. "I don't know about you, but I've got a ton of paperwork to finish," she said, looking at Bobby, "and I don't feel like working late on a Friday."
Bobby stood, but his eyes remained on the TV. Alex could tell that he really wanted to stay and watch but, reluctantly, he joined her, turning back towards the room as they exited, "Hey, Jerry...come get me if anything good happens, okay?"
"Sure thing, Bobby," Jerry answered.
3:45 p.m.
Inside the Chase Manhattan Bank
Cathy Deakins, Dave Conroy and the other hostages remained seated on the floor, backs against the wall. They all noticed the increasing panic, anxiety and anger of their captor. He nervously paced back and forth in front of them, waving his weapon with each gesture of his hand, as he awkwardly stepped over the bodies of the dead tellers. He would nearly jump out of his skin every time the phone rang –which was often. After each unanswered call, the voice of the officer outside on the bullhorn could be heard, asking the robber to pick up the phone and talk to him and, within seconds, the phone would start ringing again. It was grating on all their nerves.
Dave Conroy's voice startled them all, when he blurted out, "Why don't ya' just answer the thing!"
The robber swung around, the look on his face turning from disbelief to anger. "You don't give me orders, he barked, as he pointed the gun at Dave. The group of hostages cowered, but Cathy Deakins spoke up: "He didn't mean it that way," she calmly tried to appease him. "It's just that...that non-stop ringing...it's annoying...if you don't plan on answering, can't we just take it off the hook? Or, may ..."
The gunman interrupted, "Or what," he asked, now pointing the gun at her. She forced herself to look at him; her heart was racing, her stomach in a knot. She felt her throat constrict and didn't know if she would be able to get the words out.
"Or, maybe it's a good idea to talk to them...show them that you're reasonable...that you're open to bargaining with them and...
The robber yelled, "Enough!." He aimed the gun at Cathy, waving it back and forth, like an extension of his finger. "There won't be any 'bargaining,' lady...that's the police out there...the New York City Police...a bunch of liars...traitors...the first chance they get to put a bullet in my head, they're gonna' take it!" He backed off and began pacing again, a pensive look on his face.
Dave and Cathy exchanged a look and a small sigh of relief; each of them had made it through the confrontation. Cathy looked at the bodies of the two tellers, practically at her feet, and the guard who laid near the entrance. The exposure to the air was turning the pool of blood surrounding him to a deep burgundy. She needed to create another window of opportunity for herself; she needed another distraction. She got an idea.
4:10 p.m.
Outside the Chase Manhattan Bank
Inside the S.W.A.T. Mobile Command Unit, Artie Schultz had just gotten off the phone with Commissioner Kelly. He wasn't able to tell the Commissioner much in the way of update. The gunman (or men) was/were refusing to communicate. There had been no sightings near the door or windows. All he could confirm was that the Police had responded to two separate silent alarms and that, almost immediately upon arrival, two shots had been fired. The block had been sealed off and S.W.A.T. personnel were positioned both around and above the building. Police technicians were still working with off-site bank security to hook into the bank's closed-circuit system, while other officers were reviewing the films from the outdoor cameras, in the hopes that clues could be derived from the sidewalk ATM monitors.
Schultz rubbed a hand through his hair. "Damn it," he swore, at no one in particular as Sgt. Sanchez entered the MCU.
"Brass gettin' on your back already," he asked, while adding another piece of bubble gum to the wad already in his cheek.
"Nah. I just wish I could get 'em to pick up the pho..."
Schultz was cut off by another member of the team, Tony Marino, who had bounded into the MCU, his adrenaline obviously pumping, "We're in the system – let's get the monitors on."
The technician flipped some switches and the monitors lit up, filled with a static snow. Marino reached over the control board, turning a dial as he said, "on channel 8." The image was now clear. The cameras were from the viewpoint of high behind each teller window, looking out towards the front of the bank. In the foreground, the lifeless, blood-soaked figure of the guard was plain to see. Slightly off to the side were the legs of someone else – unknown to the Police if dead or alive – but, in fact, they were the legs of the dead gunman, who had fallen against the planter.
Marino turned towards Schultz. "Ya' think that accounts for the two shots?"
Schultz rubbed his jaw, "Anything's possible. We've gotta' see more...we've gotta' find out how many people are in there...damn it! why won't they just pick up the damn phone!"
4:40 p.m.
Continental Flight 1701
Bill Kowalski and Jimmy Deakins had reclined and dozed off after their in-flight snack. Don Cragen was reclined, but leafing through a magazine. The movement from a slight air pocket had jostled Jimmy and he woke, looking to his left and right, eyeing his friends. He checked his watch; "4:40...we're just around two hours into our flight...another hour and a half to go, give or take," he thought to himself.
Bill was also now awake and returned his seat to the upright position, stretching his arms and legs as much as the cramped quarters would allow. He stifled a yawn and turned to Jimmy, asking, "How much longer?"
Cragen laughed. Jimmy knew why. Kowalski was like having a big kid around – the way kids always ask, "are we there yet?" whenever you're going somewhere. Deakins gave him a smile and said, " 'bout another hour and a half."
Bill nodded and asked the passing flight attendant for a Coke.
"I'll be right back with that, sir," she smiled.
"Hey Jimmy," he said. "You got any peanuts left?"
Deakins chuckled as he removed the foil packet from the seat-pocket in front of him and passed it to his friend.
"This is gonna' be a great trip, fellas!" he laughed, as he tore the packet open. Jimmy and Don agreed. It was great for the three old Academy buddies to be reunited for the trip.
"I don't know about you guys, but I wanna' catch a few zzz's before we land," Jimmy smiled. "It's gonna' be a late night while I'm beatin' ya' at the poker table," he laughed, as did Bill and Don.
4:45 p.m.
Inside the Chase Manhattan Bank
Cathy Deakins had formulated a plan. She had been waiting for an opportunity – a lull in the ringing of the phone and pleas for communication from the cop with the bullhorn, which only seemed to result in more ranting and pacing by the gunman, putting everyone more on edge (if that was possible). She waited until he seemed a bit more calm, then summoned up all her nerve.
"Excuse me." Her voice had come with soft trepidation.
The gunman looked at her, wordless, so she continued.
"Would it be all right if...well, if we got something to...cover th– that up?" she timidly asked, while pointing momentarily at the bodies by her feet and bending her knees, trying to get some space between herself and the corpses.
The gunman chuckled. "They don't look too pretty now, do they?" He laughed more, amused by his own sick humor.
"Or at least that one," she continued, pointing a nervously shaking finger at the blood-drenched guard.
"Ha! That one," the gunman mocked; "You smell that?...blood...that pig stinks already."
His bravado was merely an act. He didn't like the sight of the bodies any better – they were nothing but a reminder of the murder charges, among others, that he'd be facing if he didn't get himself out of this mess. They were also a reminder of the last time in his criminal past that things hadn't gone according to plan – a memory that still pissed him off.
He turned and addressed the group. "You!" he said, pointing at the bank worker in the blue striped tie. "You got something around here to cover this up?"
The young man in the tie swallowed hard; he tried to answer, but nothing would come out. Dave Conroy spoke, "The cleaning crew has some stuff in the closet back here," he said, gesturing with his thumb at the narrow hallway behind him, to his right side. "Trash bags, maybe," he nervously offered.
"Get up," the gunman demanded at Dave. "Come over here – slowly," he commanded, keeping his weapon pointed directly at Dave. "We're goin' for a little walk...if one of you moves, I put a bullet in his head...you got it?"
Cathy and others shook their heads, "Yes." Slowly, the gunman and Dave stepped towards the hallway, cautiously making their way to the supply closet, some 15 feet away.
Now safely out of his view, Cathy quickly opened her pocketbook and retrieved her cell phone, flipping it open and hitting her #1 speed-dial. The two bank employees next to her looked at her with disbelief. She could read their expressions – she knew what they were thinking, because if the roles had been reversed, she'd be thinking the same thing: 'This lady's either gonna' get us all killed or save us...but whichever it is, she's got balls.'
She placed the open phone on its side, behind her back and put her pocketbook back in its original position, returning her hands to her lap, just as the gunman and Dave returned, bearing an industrial-sized box of Hefty trash bags.
4:59 p.m.
Major Case Squad
Bobby and Alex had signed off on their paperwork and, with a great sense of satisfaction, Bobby walked it into Deakins' office and deposited the stack on his desk. As he turned to leave, the Captain's phone starting ringing. He hesitated for a moment, then decided he'd at least answer and tell the caller that Captain Deakins wouldn't be returning to the office until Wednesday. He grabbed the receiver.
"Major Case, Captain Deakins' office." No reply. But no hang-up, either. Bobby listened to the static-y air, deciding to give the caller a chance. "Maybe they're on a cell and lost the connection for a second," he thought. He continued listening, intently.
Voice: "You! Get up and help him...cover that one."
The voice was distant. Bobby continued listening.
Voice: "And cover up all that blood, too...filthy bleedin' pig."
That got Bobby's attention.
Voice: "Now get back over there and sit down! Nobody moves!"
Then...a ringing phone in the background. It rang – Bobby counted 20 times – then stopped.
Voice: God damn it! When are those friggin' pigs gonna' learn! I ain't answering the God damn phone!
Bobby's face almost went white. He had been putting 2 and 2 together and the realization finally hit. The call was coming from somebody inside the bank. "But how the hell did they end up dialing the Captain's num...Oh my God!"
At that instant, Alex had appeared in Deakins' doorway. She was wondering what was taking Bobby so long. After all, it was 5 o'clock and they had a pizza and beer to get home to. She didn't get a word out of her mouth – as soon as she saw Bobby's face, she knew something was wrong.
He covered the mouthpiece and, almost in a panic, told Alex, "Have Marty trace this call...and get me Artie Schultz on the phone!"
End. Chapt. 3