Terminal (45 page)

At first Sean ignored the phone, assuming that Dr. Mason would answer it. When Mason failed to do so, the continuous ringing began to grate on Sean’s nerves. Putting down the pipette he was using, Sean walked over to the glass-enclosed office. Mrs. Mason was sitting glumly in an office chair pushed into the corner. She’d apparently cried herself out and was just sniffling into a tissue. Dr. Mason was nervously watching the flask in the ice bath, concerned that the ringing phone might disturb it.

Sean pushed open the door. “Would you mind answering the phone?” Sean said irritably. “Whoever it is, be sure to tell them that the nitroglycerin is just on the verge of freezing.”

Sean gave the door a shove. As it clunked into its jamb, Sean could see Dr. Mason wince, but the doctor obediently picked up the receiver. Sean turned back to his lab bench and his pipetting. He’d only loaded a single well when his concentration was again broken.

“It’s a Lieutenant Hector Salazar from the Miami Police Department,” Dr. Mason called. “He’d like to talk with you.”

Sean looked over at the office. Dr. Mason had the door propped open with his foot. He was holding the phone in one
hand, the receiver in the other. The cord snaked back into the office.

“Tell him that there will be no problems if they wait for a couple more hours,” Sean said.

Dr. Mason spoke into the phone for a few moments, then called out: “He insists on talking with you.”

Sean rolled his eyes. He put his pipette back down on the lab bench, stepped over to the wall extension, and pushed the blinking button.

“I’m very busy right now,” he said without preamble.

“Take it easy,” Hector said soothingly. “I know you’re upset, but everything is going to work out fine. There’s someone here who’d like to have a word with you. His name is Sergeant Hunt. We want to be reasonable about all this. I’m sure you do too.”

Sean tried to protest that he didn’t have time for conversation when Sergeant Hunt’s gruff voice came over the line.

“Now I want you to stay calm,” Sergeant Hunt said.

“That’s a little difficult,” Sean said. “I’ve got a lot to do in a short time.”

“No one will get hurt,” Sergeant Hunt said. “We’d like you to come down here so we can talk.”

“Sorry,” Sean said.

“I’ve heard that you’ve been angry about not being able to work on a particular project,” Sergeant Hunt said. “Let’s talk about it. I can understand how upsetting that might be. You may want to lash out at the people you think are responsible. But we should also talk about the fact that holding people against their will is a serious offense.”

Sean smiled when he realized the police had surmised he’d taken the Masons hostage as a result of being kept off the medulloblastoma protocol. In a way, they weren’t far off.

“I appreciate your concern and your presence,” Sean said. “But I don’t have a lot of time to talk. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Just tell us what you want,” Sergeant Hunt said.

“Time,” Sean said. “I only want a little time. Two or three, or perhaps four hours at most.”

Sean hung up. Returning to his bench, he lifted his pipette and went back to work.

R
ONALD
H
UNT
was a six-foot redheaded man. At thirty-seven, he’d been on the police force for fifteen years, ever since graduating from community college. His major had been law enforcement, but he’d minored in psychology. Attempting to combine psychology with police work, he’d jumped at the chance to join the Hostage Negotiating Team when a slot became available. Although he didn’t get to use his skills as often as he would have liked, when he did he’d enjoyed the challenge. He’d even been inspired to take more psychology at night school at the University of Miami.

Sergeant Hunt had been successful in all his previous operations and had developed confidence in his abilities. After the successful resolution of the last episode which involved a discontented employee at a soft-drink bottling plant who’d taken three female colleagues hostage, Ronald had received a citation from the force for meritorious service. So when Sean Murphy hung up on him, it was a blow to his ego.

“The twerp hung up on me!” Ron said indignantly.

“What did he say he wanted?” Hector asked.

“Time,” Ron said.

“What do you mean, time?” Hector asked. “Like the magazine? Does he want to be in
Time
?”

“No,” Ron said. “Time like hours. He told me he has to get back to work. He must be working on that project he’d been forbidden to work on.”

“What kind of project?” Hector asked.

“I don’t know,” Ron said. He then pushed the redial on the portable phone. “I can’t negotiate unless we talk.”

Lieutenant Hector Salazar and Sergeant Ronald Hunt were standing behind three blue-and-white Miami police cars parked in the Forbes parking lot directly across from the entrance to the Forbes research building. The squad cars were parked in the form of a letter U facing away from the building. In the heart of this U they’d set up a mini-command center
with a couple of phones and a radio on a folding card table.

The police presence at the site had swelled considerably. Initially there had only been four officers: the original two uniformed patrolmen who’d answered the call, plus their sergeant and his partner. Now there was a small crowd. Besides dozens of regular uniformed police, including Hector, there was the two-man negotiating team, a five-man bomb squad, and a ten-man SWAT team dressed in black assault uniforms. The SWAT team was off to the side warming up with some jumping jacks.

In addition to the police, Forbes was represented by Dr. Deborah Levy, Margaret Richmond, and Robert Harris. They had been allowed near the command post but had been asked to keep to the side. A small crowd, including local media, had gathered just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Several TV vans were parked as close as possible with their antennae extended. Reporters with microphones in hand and camera crews at their heels were scouring the crowd to interview anyone who seemed to have any information about the drama transpiring within.

While the crowd of spectators swelled, the police tried to go about their business.

“Dr. Mason says that Murphy flat out refuses to get back on the phone,” Ron said. He was clearly offended.

“You keep trying,” Hector advised him. Turning to Sergeant Anderson, Hector said: “I trust that all entrances and exits are covered.”

“All covered,” Anderson assured him. “No one is going in or coming out without our knowing it. Plus we have sharp-shooters on the roof of the hospital.”

“What about that pedestrian bridge connecting the two buildings?” Hector asked.

“We got a man on the bridge on the hospital side,” Anderson said. “There aren’t going to be any surprises in this operation.”

Hector motioned to Phil Darell to come over. “What’s the story on the bomb?” Hector asked.

“It’s a little unorthodox,” Phil acknowledged. “I spoke
with the doctor. It’s a flask of nitroglycerin. He estimates about two or three hundred cc’s. It’s sitting in an ice bath. Apparently Murphy comes in every so often and dumps ice into the bath. Every time he does it, it terrifies the doctor.”

“Is it a problem?” Hector asked.

“Yeah, it’s a problem,” Phil said. “Especially once it solidifies.”

“Would slamming a door detonate it?” Hector asked.

“Probably not,” Phil replied. “But a shake might. A fall to the floor certainly would.”

“But can you handle it?”

“Absolutely,” Phil said.

Next Hector waved Deborah Levy over.

“I understand you run the research here.”

Dr. Levy nodded.

“What do you think this kid is doing?” Hector asked. “He told our negotiator he wanted time to work.”

“Work!” Dr. Levy said disparagingly. “He’s probably up there sabotaging our research. He’s been angry that we haven’t allowed him to work on one of our protocols. He has no respect for anyone or anything. Frankly, I thought he was disturbed from the first moment I met him.”

“Can he be working on that protocol now?” Hector asked.

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Levy said. “That protocol has moved into clinical trials.”

“So you think he’s up there causing trouble,” Hector said.

“I know that he is causing trouble!” Dr. Levy said. “I think you should go up there and drag him out.”

“We have the safety of the hostages to consider,” Hector said.

Hector was about to confer with George Loring and his SWAT team when one of the uniformed patrolmen got his attention.

“This man insists on talking with you. Lieutenant,” the patrolman said. “He claims to be the brother of the guy who’s holed up inside.”

Brian introduced himself. He explained that he was a lawyer from Boston.

“Any insight into what’s going on here?” Hector asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” Brian said. “But I know my brother. Although he’s always been headstrong, he would not do anything like this unless there was a damn good reason. I want to be sure that you people don’t do anything rash.”

“Taking hostages at gunpoint and threatening them with a bomb is more than headstrong,” Hector said. “That kind of behavior puts him in an unstable, unpredictable, and dangerous category. We have to proceed on that basis.”

“I admit what he’s done here appears foolhardy,” Brian said. “But Sean’s ultimately rational. Maybe you should let me talk to him.”

“You think he might listen to you?” Hector asked.

“I think so,” Brian said, despite still feeling the effects of the episode at the Masons’.

Hector got the phone away from Ronald Hunt and let Brian try calling. Unfortunately no one answered, not even Dr. Mason.

“The doctor has been answering until a few minutes ago,” Ron said.

“Let me go in and talk with him,” Brian said.

Hector shook his head. “There are enough hostages in there as it is,” he said.

“Lieutenant Salazar,” a voice called. Hector turned to see a tall, slender Caucasian approaching, along with a bearded, powerfully built Afro-American. Sterling introduced himself and Wayne Edwards. “I’m acquainted with your chief, Mark Witman, quite well,” Sterling said after the introductions. Then he added: “We heard about this situation involving Sean Murphy so we came to offer our services.”

“This is a police matter,” Hector said. He eyed the new-comers with suspicion. He never liked anyone who tried to bully him by saying he was bosom buddies with the chief. He wondered how they’d managed to cross the crime scene barrier.

“My colleague and I have been following Mr. Murphy for several days,” Sterling explained. “We are in the temporary employ of the Forbes Cancer Center.”

“You have some explanation of what’s going on here?” Hector asked.

“We know that this dude’s been getting progressively crazy,” Wayne said.

“He’s not crazy!” Brian said, interrupting. “Sean is brash and imprudent, but he’s not crazy.”

“If someone does a string of crazy things,” Wayne said, “it’s fair to say he’s crazy.”

At that moment everyone ducked reflexively as a helicopter swept over the building, then hovered over the parking lot. The thunderous thump of the rotor blades rattled everyone’s ribcage. Every bit of dust and dirt smaller than medium-sized gravel became airborne. A few papers on the card table were swept away.

George Loring, commander of the SWAT team, came forward. “That’s our chopper,” he yelled into Hector’s ear. The noise of the aircraft was deafening. “I called it over so we can get to the roof the moment you give the green light.”

Hector was having trouble keeping his hat on. “For crissake, George,” he screamed back. “Tell the goddamn chopper to move off until we call it.”

“Yes, sir!” George yelled back. He pulled a small microphone clipped to one of his epaulets. Shielding it with his hands he spoke briefly to the pilot. To everyone’s relief the chopper dipped, then swept away to land on a helipad next to the hospital.

“What’s your take on this situation?” Hector asked George now that they could talk.

“I looked at the floor plans supplied by the head of security, who’s been very cooperative,” George said, pointing out Robert Harris for Hector. “I think we’d only need a six-man team on the roof: three down each stairwell. The suspect’s in the fifth-floor lab. We’d only need one, but we’d probably go ahead and use two concussion grenades. It would be over in seconds. A piece of cake.”

“What about the nitroglycerin in the office?” Hector asked.

“I didn’t hear about any nitro,” George said.

“It’s in a glass-enclosed office,” Hector said.

“It would be a risk,” Phil interrupted, having overheard the conversation. “The concussive waves could detonate the nitroglycerin if it’s in a solid state.”

“Hell, then,” George said. “Forget the grenades. We can just come out of both stairwells simultaneously. The terrorist wouldn’t know what hit him.”

“Sean’s no terrorist!” Brian said, horrified at this talk.

“I’d like to volunteer to be with the assault team,” Harris said, speaking up for the first time. “I know the terrain.”

“This is not amateur hour,” Hector said.

“I’m no amateur,” Harris said indignantly. “I trained as a commando in the service and carried out a number of commando missions in Desert Storm.”

“I think something should be done sooner rather than later,” Dr. Levy said. “The longer that crazy kid is left up there, the more damage he can do to our ongoing experiments.”

Everyone ducked again as another helicopter made a low pass over the parking area. This one had “Channel 4 TV” on its side.

Hector yelled for Anderson to call the complaint room to have them call Channel 4 to get their goddamn helicopter away from the scene or he’d let the SWAT team have a go at it with their automatic weapons.

Despite the noise and general pandemonium, Brian picked up one of the telephones and pressed the redial button. He prayed it would be answered, and it was. But it wasn’t Sean. It was Dr. Mason.

S
EAN HAD
no idea how many cycles he should let the thermal cyclers run. All he was looking for was a positive reaction in any of the approximately one hundred and fifty wells he’d prepared. Impatient, he stopped the first machine after twenty-five cycles and removed the tray containing the wells.