Page 6 of Nowhere to Hide
She got out and walked to the scene. As she got closer to the property, the view from the road offered little aside from the silhouette of a roofline on a palatial home buried on the grounds.
Lieutenant Rick Kreiger was smoking a cigarette near the door and holding a coffee in a to-go cup. It gave her an instant flash of déjà vu.
“Vos,” he said while stamping out his cigarette butt on the pavement with a twist of his shoe.
“Kreiger.” She parroted his greeting. “Everyone inside?” She gestured toward the vehicle.
“You know it.” When he spoke, his silver mustache bobbed up and down, which was distracting sometimes.
She hadn’t expected a slew of small talk from the lieutenant. Kreiger wasn’t the type, and she appreciated that trait given the circumstances. She walked toward the vehicle, with Kreiger on her heels.
She rapped on the door before letting herself inside. There, she met with more familiar faces from last month. They churned the darker aspects from that day to the surface again.
“Hello, everyone,” she rushed out, trying to nix any regrets from taking hold.
Detective Monica Harding spun in her chair to face the doorway, her long brown hair back in a ponytail. “Sandra? It’s so nice to see you again. Not that there’s a situation, but, well, you know what I mean.”
“I do.” Sandra smiled at Monica. As the scribe, she made concise scripts from any discussions with the HT, or hostage taker. At thirty-two years of age, she was well along on her career track.
Detective Gibson Farmer offered a succinct, “Hey,” suiting his personality. In his late forties, like Sandra, he had fine lines around his eyes that fanned out like starbursts even on his resting face. Gibson was the information officer, responsible for noting relevant developments on a markerboard, and compiling backgrounds on the HT, hostages, and anyone within the scope of the incident. He also interviewed any persons of interest on scene.
Lieutenant Neal Coleman, a redhead who didn’t show his temper often, was getting himself a coffee from the alcove when Sandra entered, but he abandoned the task and came to her with an extended hand. She took it, and shook it firmly.
“We’re all so happy you could make it,” he told her.
“Sure.” Her gaze drifted to an unfamiliar face sitting at the workstation next to Monica.
The man introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Donny Mason.”
“Sandra Vos, with the FBI.” She offered the introduction, though she surmised Donny would have been told her name in advance of her coming here.
“Donny will assist you today, as your second.” Neal clarified his role while he swirled a stir stick in his coffee, then popped it into the trash can.
Hopefully, Donny wouldn’t feel usurped with her stepping up as lead negotiator. The one who had been Donny’s secondary must have already left the scene. “Well, nice to meet you, Donny. If you could fill me in on where we are before I make contact. That’s assuming we have a way to do so.” The comment was an insider reference for those who had worked the hospital lockdown. The gunmen had shut down all methodsof communication, and they were without a means of contacting the gunmen inside for several hours.
“We do. Thankfully, this is nothing like Founders,” Neal said. “The HT wants to talk, only to you, mind you, but he is the one who called nine-one-one using the landline inside the home. Donny, start us off.”
Sandra was stuck on the hostage taker calling 911. There must be a strategic reason for that. Most HTs liked their time undisturbed with their hostages before the police became involved.
Donny pointed at a monitor mounted inside the vehicle. It showed a live feed of the front gates. “Let me welcome you to the Hanson residence, belonging to Edward Hanson, the sole heir of the Hanson fortune. That being the Hansons of Hanson Property Development Inc. As in, ‘We’ve been building homes, not houses, since 1941.’ I’m sure you’ve heard the slogan.”
It was hard not to smile at Donny’s colorful overview. “Yes, I’m familiar with the Hansons.”
“Then you will recognize them.” Donny pointed at a markerboard where photographs of five people were attached with magnets. Their names and ages were written beneath them.
Edward Hanson, forty
Ashley Hanson, thirty-five
Sophie Hanson, thirteen
Brayden Hanson, nine
Abram Duke, thirty-seven
Sandra was certain she’d find out who Abram Duke was soon enough. It was the children’s faces that arrested her attention.Not just because their young lives were at risk, but more the grand picture. The hostage taker had violated their safe place. What happened today would stay with them for the rest of their lives.
On another markerboard were a few notes.
