Chapter 15: Background Briefing

Monday, March 19, 2018

“Dispatch to One-Six-Three.”

“One-Six-Three to Dispatch, go ahead.”

“Dispatch to One-Six-Three, say location.”

I was curious as to why Dispatch wanted to know where I was, since they had sent me to supervise an accident at Pinetree and Glen Aubrey. There was a three-car pileup on Glen Aubrey after the first car, a silver Nissan sedan had suddenly braked for a squirrel. The next car, a red Ford Fusion had slammed into the Nissan from behind and had then been sandwiched by a gold Toyota. It was rainy and a bit foggy, and it didn’t help that the driver of the Ford was texting. Nobody was hurt, but the Ford was a crumpled disaster and the fire department had to cut the wreckage apart with the jaws of life. Dispatch had me roll in as a supervisor.

More important, all our vehicles supposedly had GPS that told Dispatch where we were. Half the time it didn’t work. The same was true of the MDTs, the mobile data terminals that allowed us to run plates and licenses without going through Dispatch. They didn’t work half the time, either. If Dispatch was asking where I was, it meant the system had crapped out again.

“One-Six-Three to Dispatch, presently at Pinetree and Glen Aubrey supervising a multivehicle accident.”

“Dispatch to One-Six-Three, how long until you can break free and return to Command?”

That caused my eyebrows to raise a touch, but only a touch. The accident had occurred right after shift change at 0800 and I had been sent over practically from the moment I had started Tom Two-Three, my Tactical Response Vehicle. The accident was near the Glen Aubrey Street fire house, and it had been a slow morning for them. I glanced at my watch. It was 0915. I looked around, and the regular Patrol officers could handle the details. “One-Six-Three to Dispatch. Give me ten minutes here and another ten to head back to the barn. What’s up?”

I didn’t get any answer other than instructions to report to Command. Shrugging, I went over to the Patrolmen and let them know I was taking off, and then said good-bye to the emergency squad. As I climbed into my TRV, I saw flashing lights in the rear-view mirror; a tow truck had arrived to haul away the wrecks.

Back at the station, I parked Tom Two-Three and went inside. At the front desk, Sergeant Castle pointed at the ceiling. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room, Grim.”

“They? Who’s they?”

“Most of the brass. Watch your ass, Grim. There’s a couple of Feds with them. What’d you do now?”

“Feeling the love, Sarge.”

“Like I said, watch your ass. Even if you’re innocent, it would be just like them to get the MPD involved in some idiot scheme.”

I nodded at him. It was just like when I was in the Army. You always wanted to keep an eye on the officers, because they were always coming up with something that could get you killed! “I hear that!” I said feelingly and went to the stairs. A minute later I was knocking on the door of the conference room.

“Enter,” said the voice of Chief Crowley.

I opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind me. I glanced around the room and saw that Castle was right. Most of the brass was in the room; aside from Chief Crowley, Captain Abernathy was there representing Investigations and Captain Bullfinch was present for Patrol. Also, from Patrol was my boss, Lieutenant Jenkins, and the Patrol Lieutenant, Lieutenant Roscoe. The only other people in the room were a man and a woman I didn’t recognize; they must have been the two Feds. One was a man in his forties, slim and balding, and the other was a woman about my age, short and a touch heavy.

“You wanted to see me, Chief?” I said.

“Come on in, Grim. Have a seat.” He tapped a chair next to his and across the conference table from the Feebs. When I settled in, he asked, “Busy morning?”

I shook my head. “Three-car-minor over on Glen Aubrey. Some idiot decided to brake for a squirrel and two other idiots decided to climb up her ass. No injuries but they had to cut the one in the middle out of his car. News at six and eleven. What’s up?”

Everybody seemed to straighten up and lean forward. “Grim, this is Special Agent Delahoye of the FBI, and this is Special Agent Hughes from Homeland Security.” He pointed first at the woman and then at the man. “They’re out of their Atlanta offices, and they are here to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Thank you for coming in,” said Delahoye. Hughes didn’t say anything, but they both reached out and shook hands with me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

I looked at her curiously. “We’ve met before.”

She smiled. “In a manner of speaking. I was at Quantico three years ago when we had that SWAT/HRT training seminar that you attended. I was one of the coordinators and taught one of the symposiums. You made quite the impression, Sergeant Reaper.”

I remembered that seminar. It was about six months after I made it to the Tactical Response Team, and Crowley and Jenkins had sent me to the FBI training complex in Quantico, Virginia when a training slot had opened. It had been very educational, but perhaps not quite the way it was originally intended. I gave a sheepish smile. “I’m surprised the FBI wants anything to do with me these days.”

She laughed, and Hank Jenkins asked, “What happened, Grim? What did you do to the FBI?”

“Hank! It was nothing!”

Special Agent Delahoye laughed again. “That’s not quite the way I remember it.” She turned to the others and said, “Let me explain. The seminar was for experienced SWAT officers, police officers, from around the country. It lasted about a week and had both classroom training and some hands-on work.”

The rest of the room nodded in understanding. Training seminars were a staple in police work, though the invite to Quantico was unusual. That had occurred just a few months after TRT and the Drug Task Force took down Candy Pants Holden, and the Atlanta FBI office had recommended me for the seminar.

Delahoye continued. “In any case, one of the highlights was a demonstration of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. HRT considers themselves an elite unit.” Everyone nodded, though Hank was looking at me curiously. “For those of you who have never been there, the Training Center has a little town built in the middle of it, to practice hostage rescue, threat avoidance, protection training, and the like. Most Federal agencies use the FLETC facility in Maryland, but we still use the one in Quantico. Anyway, that morning the HRT was going to do a demonstration of how they would take down a bad guy who was holed up in a store with hostages. The bad guy was picked from the student attendees and was supposed to be random, but I heard later that they selected a guy who had been in the news recently and who they wanted to make an example of. In case you didn’t know, HRT has a bit of an attitude.”

For some reason everybody in the room looked at me. “My understanding was that Grim passed his training, but nothing more was said. Just what did Grim do?” asked Crowley.

“Chief!” I protested.

“HRT decided that Sergeant Reaper would be the hostage-taker. First, they put everybody into MILES gear. That is basically a sort of web gear suit that has laser sensors all over it. The Army uses it for combat training. They put Sergeant Reaper in a fake store with a bunch of mannequins as hostages. He was issued an AR-15 with the MILES laser gear on it, and a single flash-bang grenade that could also set off the MILES gear. That was supposed to be a simulated IED. Then they were going to do an assault on the store and take down the criminal and rescue the hostages.”