Just Another Day (9 page)

Dave Watkins vomited violently and uncontrollably and the gunman looked at him in disgust.

‘Get some fucker over here now. I want to talk.’ The gunman was beginning to regain control of his emotions and his anger subsided. He popped two pills in his mouth and quickly jumped back up onto the bunk and pulled the curtain across to hide him from the marksmen. The amphetamines would ensure that he remained awake and alert but Dave, now staring at the gunman with a mixture of horror and disbelief knew they would also make him more volatile and unpredictable.

Johnson knew that he was a dead man if they could pinpoint him in the wagon. He also knew that If Dave Watkins died, they wouldn’t have anything to wait for. Once his hostage was dead, the siege would be as good as over and they would blast him.
He had to buy himself some time whilst he considered his options.

He saw the two armoured shields approaching him and the steel helmeted officers protecting another male behind.
When they were about twenty yards away he shouted.

‘Okay
, that’s close enough. Stop there and I’ll speak to you.’

‘
Is the officer alright?’

John Walsh had been a police negotiator for fifteen years and had successfully negotiated the release of many hostages during that time.
Most hostage situations tended to be domestic situations where partners, wives, husbands etc acted on the spare of the moment during some personal crisis. Whilst they were always traumatic for every one involved, they could more often than not be brought to a safe conclusion as the longer they went on without any blood being spilled, the more chance there was that the negotiator could talk the person round.

John was an excellent negotiator. Quiet with a strong, deep melodic type of voice, he never sounded patronising or condescending to his subjects. It was a golden rule never to rush any situation and he would successfully gain their trust over a period of time.
Sometimes hostage situations would last for several days and at the end, he would be as shattered both physically and mentally as the hostage taker and he would have to be debriefed, counselled and analysed to make sure that he was also able to cope with the trauma.

‘
You, behind the shield. Who are you?’

‘
John, my names John and I’m here to talk to you.’

O
kay. Now listen, and take this message back to your boss.’

Johnson held up Dave’s shattered finger and said,
‘This is a direct result of your fuckin boss’s stupidity. Tell him, if he wants to play again, I’ve got plenty of time and plenty of shells.’ He threw the mangled digit towards the shields and it landed halfway between the wagon and John.

There was a few moments silence and then John said,
‘Will you allow me to retrieve Dave’s finger?’

John knew this was an important first contact between himself and the gunman as a means of establishing a rapport between them. Also, this was the first time that the gunman had heard the name of his captive and John knew it was important to try and humanise him so his captor would think of him as a person and not a commodity.

Knowing Johnson for the animal that he was, he doubted whether or not he could appeal to him in any way. He didn’t have a better nature or any kind of compassion; but he knew he had to try.

‘What for. D’yah think it’s gonna be of any fuckin use to him now? You gonna use it to pick your fuckin nose or something?’

‘
No’, said John, ‘I just think I should take it rather than leave it lying in the road. Its up to you, you’re in charge, but I would like to take it if you will allow me. I’m not armed in any way; I’m no threat to you.’

The two men looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. John could see that the gunman was thinking over his suggestion. Johnson looked away for a moment at Dave lying in his own vomit on the floor of the cab and then back to John.

‘
I suppose so.’ said the gunman.

John breathed slightly easier and he knew that the next few moments would play a big part in gaining the trust of the gunman and to show him that he was not a threat. He had told him he was not a threat, now he had to demonstrate the same. Whether or not you could gain the trust of an animal like Johnson was another matter entirely.
Dave’s finger lay some ten yards away from John and the sensible thing would have been to instruct his two protectors to move forward slowly with their armoured shields to allow him to pick it up in safety. It wasn’t just the sensible thing, it was the required thing. At no time was the hostage negotiator supposed to take any more risk than was absolutely necessary. John knew the rules full well.

He wanted to make a point of showing the hostage taker that he could be trusted implicitly and he stepped out from behind the protection of the five foot long heavy, bullet proof shields and stood next to the taller of the two officers who were identically dressed in protective boots, helmet, leg and arm protectors and flame retardant overalls
. John had no protective clothing of any kind. Dressed casually and non threateningly in denim jeans and worn black leather jacket, he was completely at the mercy of the assailant.

Mike Hogan, the shield officer closest to John took a sharp intake of breath at his colleagues’ foolish act and took hold of him by the jacket sleeve quietly and forcefully without making a fuss, but also ensuring that John could not move forward.

He quietly whispered to his colleague, but at no time did he take his eyes off the cab of the wagon.

‘John,’ he hissed, ‘this is a bad fucking idea mate. Just stop and think for a second. We already know what an evil bastard we’re dealing with here. He could take you hostage as well. He might even just fucking shoot you John, just to make a point.’

John also never took his eyes off the cab of the lorry and replied just as quietly,

‘Mike, if I don’t try and move this along quickly, Dave Watkins might die from shock and loss of blood. I’ve got to try this.’ With a gentle tug, John broke free from his friends grip. He very much appreciated the words of wisdom from his protector; but he also knew that Dave was in a bad way.

Mike Hogan was well aware that John was breaking all the rules at this early stage of negotiations. He had worked with him on the successful conclusion of plenty of jobs in the past but he had a very bad feeling about the mental state of the nutter in the wagon.
This course of action might be okay after talking with your subject for several hours and after having built up a reasonable amount of rapport between both parties, but after only a few minutes, ‘fucking suicidal’ thought Mike and he tensed as his colleague stepped forward.

Mike watched closely as John walked tentatively toward the severed finger. Whilst he strongly disagreed with his colleagues’ action in taking himself outside the relative safety of the shields, he knew why he had acted in the way that he had. John was a friend and an excellent negotiator and had brought dozens of situations to a peaceful and successful conclusion over the years; from talking down potential suicides, to actually taking the place of a hostage on one occasion. He had very accurately gauged the reactions of a man who had taken his son hostage and threatened to kill him after a particularly violent argument with the boy’s mother. She had sustained serious head injuries as a result of a severe battering over a period of about ten hours but had managed to escape to safety by crashing through the first floor bedroom window and sliding down the porch roof to the garden below.

As is so often the case, the boy was the unfortunate meat in the sandwich of an extremely volatile relationship which was doomed to disaster almost from the first weeks of the marriage. He had always been a sickly child and prone to all manner of illness and john had managed to persuade his father that,

‘James needs to be seen by the Doctor. After all Tom, this business is between you and your missus. Let your son go, I’ll come in and we can try and sort it all out without any more injury to anybody. I know you love him dearly and you don’t want him to suffer. I also know that you feel trapped in there and he is your only hope. He knows that you are hurting as well Tom. Let him go and you and me will get through this together.’

After the release of the boy, John had spent thirty hours as a replacement hostage before he was able to talk his captor out of killing both of them. The handgun that the man had cocked and held to johns head on several occasions was later found to be a genuine, but de-activated, nine millimetre automatic but there was no way of any one knowing that fact until the gun was examined after the event.

Mike Hogan knew this was a very different siege incident. John had ‘lost’ several situations over the years when he had been unable to prevent people from taking their own lives. He always knew that there would be some incidents that he could never resolve. There would always be a few where death was the inevitable outcome; some where the hostage taker actively sought out his own death. Known as suicide by cop, the individual would come out; all guns blazing, only for him to be shot by the police marksmen: but, the one job that he felt particularly responsible for; the one he found most difficult to come to terms with, was when a young female police officer was taken hostage during a bank robbery several years ago.

It wasn’t Johns fault and, deep down, John himself knew it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t stop him from feeling that weight of responsibility.

The young officer had been on foot patrol in the area of the bank. Maybe an older, more experienced officer would have called for assistance first or made a slower, more calculated and informed decision, but no one could criticise her bravery as she instantly ran into the bank when she heard the alarm sound and, along with a cashier and the manager, was held captive for twelve hours.

John, as the lead negotiator, had managed to persuade the hostage taker into allowing him into the bank to talk. The would be robber was not much older than the rookie officer, 20 or 21 years of age maybe and, it would later transpire, had no history of armed robbery. A few minor offences of street mugging and joy riding in stolen cars, but nothing of this seriousness.

He was using all his experience in taking his time, keeping the young gunman calm. Making sure that John himself was not seen as a threat to him and slowly but surely building up trust and a dialogue when the young officer, sat several feet away, saw her captor lower his firearm. Unlike the firearm he was facing today which, had two barrels and only held two shells before it had to be reloaded, the bank robber had a single barrelled sawn off pump action shotgun which held at least seven or eight 12 bore cartridges.

Although many witnesses recall instances seemingly happening in slow motion, it happened so quickly and unexpectedly that John had not been able to shout at the officer. He couldn’t stop her as she made a lunge for the gun. She grabbed it in a way that you might take hold of a Christmas cracker. She wrapped both hands around the barrel and pulled it towards her.

Even to this day, John was absolutely certain that it had not been the intention of the gunman to pull the trigger but, as he tried to pull the gun barrel back towards him, out of the young officers grasp, it went off fatally wounding her in the stomach.

She died instantly. Her spinal cord was cut clean through and two of her vertebrae shattered into several pieces. As she slumped to the floor with her mouth and eyes wide open, her insides emptied in a pool of blood, intestines and mucus around the gunman’s feet. He stepped back leaving a bloody footprint on the marble floor, as his own mouth opened in disbelief at the crumpled body below. John could plainly see the look of abject horror and panic on his face.

The cashier, sitting on the floor several feet away screamed and ran for the door as the gunman instinctively raised the gun in her direction. This time he did intend to fire and the back of her head exploded like a pomegranate as bits of skull and brain tissue splattered against the outside of the bullet proof glass. The beautifully ornate mahogany counter of a few minutes before now smeared with blood
and bone fragments. John was falling to the floor at the same time as the manager collapsed in a heap next to the cash machine and John heard the distinctive sliding action of the weapon as one shell was ejected to be replaced by the next cartridge of death.

He knew the metal legs and flimsy upholstery of the chairs would not protect him and, as he looked up in the direction of the gunman several feet away, he saw him slump to his knees.
Almost in slow motion, and certainly with a sense of shock and horror, the gunman looked at the empty shells at his feet and at each of the motionless persons in turn.

First, the policewoman at his side with a hole the size of a small football in her back where the cartridge had exited her body, then to the cashier, almost headless, several feet away. He looked at the bank manager lying on his face, his light coloured suit peppered with blood. He was in such a confused state of mind, he’d pulled the trigger two or three times; he didn’t know whether he had shot the manager or not. Finally, he looked over to where John had cowered behind the chairs.
Their eyes met. The young man, still kneeling, slowly shook his head. He leaned back heavily on his heels and looked up to the domed ceiling of the bank, tears streaming down his cheeks. It seemed like a long time as they were both trying to understand how it had happened and why. It was in fact only a matter of a few seconds before he lowered his gaze from above and looked down at the floor. He had never seen so much blood.

How could a situation change so dramatically in less than 30 seconds or so. One or two minutes before, everybody had been alive. Shocked, most certainly, frightened; absolutely, but all unharmed. Now, two people had died at his hands in the most violent of circumstances as the pools of blood from the two horribly disfigured persons spread out across the floor engulfing his knees in warm sticky crimson. The once beautiful building now resembled that of a war zone.

He didn’t speak, just looked back over at John, placed the stock of the gun between his knees and leant forward slightly. The fleshy under part of his chin pressed down on the stubby barrel of the gun and, looking away from John towards the two mutilated bodies, he squeezed the trigger.

That image, of the shotgun shell entering his lower jaw and exiting out the top of his skull; with blood, mucus, membrane and hair smashing their way out of the top of his head like a volcano erupting, would stay with him for many years.
The later enquiry into the circumstances of the fatal shooting would conclude that the double murder and suicide could not have been prevented by John.

The evidence of the only other person to survive the carnage; the manager, who made particular mention of his negotiating skills and calm demeanour, was still not enough to prevent John’s feelings of failing his young colleague in her sudden and shocking death.  That was one of the few occasions where John was thankful of the counselling procedures and it helped him to eventually come to terms with his own guilt. Mike Hogan knew that John’s actions were to do with that earlier bank job. He wasn’t about to see another colleague murdered and just maybe, his judgement was a little impaired.

‘Well, pick the fucking thing up then.’

Mike’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the voice from the wagon.
He saw John slowly stoop to the ground and pick up the severed finger. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wrap the white cotton gently around the digit as the blood red stain began to spread through the linen. He turned to walk away when he was halted by the voice from the cab.

‘
Hey, John boy. Don’t be in such a hurry, come over here a minute. We need to get to know each other a little better.’

John hadn’t expected this and he was sure that the gunman would soon have two hostages instead of one. He wondered; might he be able to persuade the gunman to let him swap places with his injured colleague?
He stood with his back to the open drivers’ window for a second or two; he was looking at Mike who was slowly shaking his head. The signal was very clear, without doubt his workmate was saying, ‘don’t go anywhere near this madman.’ He tried to think ahead. He turned and walked toward the wagon and there was an obvious concern in the minds of the watching police officers at the scene and also, back at the Incident Command Centre, who were viewing the situation in real time as the force Helicopter beamed back pictures of the unfolding scenario. They could hear every word Johnson was uttering and could easily discern the hostility in his voice. John stood directly beneath the window of the cab. He could not see the gunman as he was still concealed by the bunk area.

‘
Take it out.’ he said to John.

‘
What do you mean,’ he replied, ‘take what out?’

‘
Porky’s fucking finger. Take it out of the hankie.’

John looked down at his right hand holding the bloody handkerchief and started to unwrap it.

‘Let me have a look.’ came the voice from within and with that, John spread the cotton covering to reveal the two inch long finger remains inside the blood stained handkerchief.

‘
Lift it up here, closer to the window.’ John did as he was told and lifted his hands up. The gunman reached down and picked up the finger with his right forefinger and thumb. He examined it closely for a few seconds observing the torn skin and sinew trailing out from the opposite end of the fingernail.

‘
Can you take him Ged’ came the voice in the marksman’s earpiece.

‘
No shot, repeat, no shot. I think he’s holding the gun in his left hand pointing at Dave Watkins head.’

‘
Roger, just to confirm, you have the authority at any time you consider appropriate. Understood.’

‘
Yes, message received and understood.

Come on you bastard, drop your guard and give me just one shot. Lean out of the cab just a bit, one shot is all I need,
’ Ged Duggan was perched on a table in a ground floor office some one hundred yards away and at about the same height as the bunk bed but, with the curtain of the sleeping area of the cab slightly drawn, he couldn’t take the chance of missing his target. He knew that with this animal, he wouldn’t get a second chance to save his colleague’s life.

Ged, looking through the sight, could see that the gunman was holding the severed finger in front of his face and appeared to be looking at it in some detail. He wanted to take the shot, but was not prepared for the consequences if Dave was not safe. He had to know that his colleague wouldn’t die because of his actions. Take it easy Ged, he thought to himself, his time will come.

Johnson looked down at the injured officer on the floor of the cab and said menacingly.

‘
Not much good to
you
now Dave
,
’ emphasising the word, ‘But it still might be of some use to me.’

Dave groaned in pain as he looked away from those dark eyes and unshaven face. The stubbly cheeks and chin, the result of a couple of days of beard growth, gave Johnson even more of an evil appearance. Dave covered his bloody and damaged left hand with his discarded tunic in an attempt to stem the blood loss.
The gunman looked back at ‘his’ negotiator stood below him and he leaned slightly forward to make eye contact with his new acquaintance.

‘
Now then Johnny me boy. What do we do next?’

‘
That’s up to you. The ball’s in your court. Tell me what you want and we’ll see where we go from there.’

‘
That’s right. You’re right Johnny me boy. It’s up to fuckin me. I’ll decide. Not you. Not that fuckin lot out there,’ as he gesticulated towards the police officers in the distance, still holding Dave’s mangled finger and pointing it in their direction, ‘but me. I’m in fuckin charge here. Not you. Understood?’

The hairs on the back of john’s neck were bristling and he took a step back to try and defuse the hostility and he placed his arms out forward, palms facing his aggressor, and said,
‘Okay, okay, we can resolve this, calm down and we can sort this out.’