The Third Victim (38 page)

Arriving at the corner of Marlborough and Gloucester, Bobby processed many details at once. Blue sawhorses and Boston PD cruisers had already isolated one tiny block in the heart of Back Bay. Yellow crime scene tape was strewn across several brownstone houses and uniformed officers were taking up position on the corners. The ALS ambulance was now on scene, and so were several vans from the local media.

Things were definitely starting to rock and roll.

Bobby double-parked his Crown Vic just outside a blue sawhorse, jumped out the door, and jogged around to his trunk. Inside he had everything a well-trained police sniper might need for a party. Rifle, scope, ammo, black and urban camo BDUs, Ghillie hood, body armor, changes of clothing, snacks, water, a bean bag, night vision goggles, binoculars, range finder, face paint, Swiss Army knife, and flashlight. Local police probably kept spare tires in their trunk; a state trooper could live out of his cruiser for days.

Bobby hefted up his rucksack and immediately started assessing the situation.

In contrast to other SWAT teams, Bobby’s tactical team never arrived en masse. Instead his unit consisted of thirty-two guys located all over the state of Massachusetts, from the fingertip of Cape Cod to the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains. Headquarters was Adams, Mass., in the western half of the state, where Bobby’s lieutenant had taken the call from Framingham Communications and made the decision to deploy.

In this case, a domestic barricade with hostages, all thirty-two guys had been activated and all thirty-two would arrive. Some would take three to four hours to get here. Others, like Bobby, made it in less than fifteen minutes. Either way, Bobby’s lieutenant prided their team on being able to get at least five officers anywhere in the state in under an hour.

Looking around now, Bobby figured he was one of those first five officers. Which meant he needed to hustle.

Most SWAT units were comprised of three teams—an entry team, a perimeter team, and snipers. The perimeter team had the primary job of securing and controlling the inner perimeter. Then came the snipers, who took up position outside the inner perimeter and served as reconnaissance—appraising the situation through their scopes or binoculars, and radioing in details on the building as well as all people and movement inside. Finally, the entry team would prepare for last resort action—if the hostage negotiator couldn’t convince the suspects to come out, the entry team would storm in. Entries were messy; you prayed it didn’t come to that, but sometimes it did.

Bobby’s STOP team brought all those bells and whistles to the table, but they didn’t specialize. Instead, given that they arrived piecemeal, they were cross-trained on all positions so they could get up and running the moment boots hit the ground. In other words, while Bobby was one of the team’s eight designated snipers, he wasn’t looking at taking up sniping position just yet.

First goal—establish the inner perimeter. The inner perimeter was the area looking in at the scene. Establishing a good inner perimeter solved 90 percent of any tactical unit’s headaches. You controlled and contained. It took at least two guys to form a perimeter, each standing on opposing corners, monitoring the diagonals.

Bobby was one guy. Now he was looking for a second. He spotted two other state police cruisers parked across the way, then noticed the white van set up as command center. He hefted his rucksack on his shoulder and resumed running.

Bobby climbed into the command center. “Trooper Bobby Dodge,” he announced, setting down his gear and thrusting out a hand.

“Lieutenant Jachrimo.” The CO took his hand, handshake tight but quick. The thin-faced lieutenant wasn’t from the state police, but from BPD. That didn’t surprise Bobby; the scene was technically BPD jurisdiction, plus his own state police commander was probably still two hours away. The state police often assisted other jurisdictions, and secretly prided themselves on playing well with others.

Jachrimo already had a white board up in front of him and was making a Gant chart in the upper left-hand corner. “Position?” the man barked.

“Sniper.”

“Can you hold a perimeter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great, great, great.” A Boston uniform was walking by. Lieutenant Jachrimo broke away from the white board long enough to stick his head out of the van and yell, “Hey, hey you.” Jachrimo flagged down the uniform. “I need the phone company. Understand? Use your radio, call into dispatch, and get the goddamn phone company, ’cause nothing in this van is working, and you can’t really have a command post if it doesn’t command. Got it?”

The uniform went flying, and Jachrimo returned his harried attention to Bobby. “Okay, so what do you know?”

“Domestic barricade, male subject believed armed with a gun, wife and child also on the premises.” Bobby repeated the message he’d received on his pager.

“Suspect’s name is James ‘Jimmy’ Gagnon. Mean anything to you?”

Bobby shook his head.

“Just as well.” Jachrimo finished his Gant chart, then started an overhead sketch of the neighborhood on the lower part of the white board. “So here’s where we’re at. Woman called nine-one-one shortly after eleven-thirty. Claimed to be Catherine Gagnon, Jimmy’s wife. Said her husband was drunk and threatening her and their son with a handgun. The nine-one-one operator tried to hold her on the line, but there was some kind of disturbance and the call was disconnected. About four minutes later, nine-one-one received a call from a neighbor reporting sounds of gunfire.

“The call came into headquarters, but our guys are already out on a situation in Revere, so I kicked it to Framingham Communications, who contacted your lieutenant. Your unit’s serving as the primary, maybe for the whole show, maybe until our guys wrap up the party in Revere. Don’t know. As of this moment, we have uniforms already securing the external perimeter. There are men posted here, here, and here, and cars positioned here and here to block off the connecting streets.” Jachrimo made a series of X’s on his sketch, and that quickly one block of brownstones was cordoned off from the surrounding neighborhood.

“The Gagnons occupy the top three levels of unit number four-fifteen. Uniforms have already evacuated the residents below their unit, as well as the residents of the brownstones on either side. We haven’t had contact with anyone inside the residence yet, which frankly doesn’t make me happy. As far as I’m concerned, we should’ve had the inner perimeter secured ten minutes ago, and the hostage negotiators here eight minutes ago. But hey, that’s just me.”

“Manpower?”

“Troopers Fusilli, Adams, and Maroni are already on scene. They’re scoping the building now, looking to form a very tight perimeter, probably inside the building. I got one officer tracking down blueprints and another—hopefully—getting me the goddamn phone company.”

“Intel from the neighbors?”

“According to the downstairs unit owner, the Gagnons did significant work on the place in the past five years. Top level was converted into cathedral ceilings, eliminating the attic. There’s one main elevator, serving three floors. Stairs go all the way to the top, one set inside the building and one set of fire escapes on the side. He’s not sure about crawl spaces or how many rooms per floor. It’s an old building, though, so there’s bound to be a few surprises.

“It would seem that the Gagnons keep to themselves and whatever parties they’ve had, they haven’t invited too many of their neighbors. Couple has a reputation for its fights and we’ve been called out here before for domestic disputes. First time there’s been mention of a gun, though, so that’s a fresh kick in the pants. Is it her? Is it him? Hell if I know. Mostly, I’m sure it just sucks for the kid. So that’s where we are and that’s what we got.”

The lieutenant’s spiel ground to a halt just in time. Phone company had arrived. Another one of Bobby’s teammates as well.

“Perfect,” the lieutenant declared. He stabbed one finger at the new trooper. “You, inner perimeter. And you”—the finger moved to Bobby—“find a position. I want intel on that house. Where’s the husband, where’s the wife, where’s the kid? And better yet, is anyone still alive? Because it’s been over thirty minutes now, and we haven’t heard a thing.”

THE THIRD VICTIM

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bantam mass market edition published February 2001

Bantam reissue edition / October 2004

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2001 by Lisa Baumgartner

Excerpt from Love You More copyright © 2010 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

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Published simultaneously in Canada

eISBN: 978-0-553-90088-0

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