William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“I’m Harrison Metzger. Which one of you is in charge?”

“I am,” they both answered, Swift, because she was, and Mike, because he had the irresistible urge to give her ego a tweak. They exchanged a pointed look.

“I’m a homicide detective for Tulsa PD,” Mike explained. “I’m in charge of the homicide case. This is Special Agent Swift with the FBI’s Child Abduction Task Force. She’s in charge of the kidnapping case.”

Metzger turned to Agent Swift. They always went to the Fed, Mike noted. The Oklahoma inferiority complex. Anyone from out of town had to be smarter than a local. “I want to know what’s being done to save my son. Looks to me like you’re all just sitting around on your asses.”

To her credit, Swift remained unruffled but not unsympathetic. “Mr. Metzger-”

“Dr. Metzger.”

“Doctor,” she corrected. “I’ve had my public relations liaison brief you every hour. I think you know everything we do. We’re waiting for an opportunity-”

“Who are these people, anyway?”

“The kidnappers? We don’t know their names. We believe there are four of them, working together. The one who keeps speaking into the bullhorn is obviously male. The others, we’re not sure.”

“I don’t understand why this is taking so long. You know where my boy is. Go in and get him!”

“Sir, I can assure you that-”

“Before, your excuse was that you didn’t know where they were. Now you’ve got them surrounded, and you’re still not doing anything!”

Mrs. Metzger stayed a safe distance behind her husband. Mike had the sense that she was embarrassed by her husband’s tirade, but she knew better than to interfere.

“We don’t think it would be prudent to storm the apartment. We know they’re armed-”

“Aren’t your people armed?”

“Of course.”

“So what’s the problem? Show some balls, girl.”

Agent Swift paused barely a beat before responding. “Sir, I can assure you that when the time is right for action, we will take it. But at the moment, our top priority is getting your son out safely, which means avoiding, if possible, an exchange of fire that might endanger-”

“This is what happens when you put a woman in charge.” He shifted his gaze to Mike. “Is there something you can do, Major?”

“I’m just here to support Agent Swift, sir. Whether you realize it or not, she’s playing this by the book. And doing a first-rate job of it.”

“Do you people know how long my son has been their captive?” His confrontational mask cracked a fraction. “There’s no telling what… what they might have done to him!”

“I understand your concern, Mr. Metzger-”

“Dr. Metzger.”

Mike drew in his breath. The man was a Ph.D., which, to his mind, barely counted and certainly didn’t justify constant correction. But this was not the time to digress. “Dr. Metzger, from the start, we have moved as quickly as possible. And that hasn’t changed. But what’s most important is that we get Tommy out alive. Remember, the ransom demand came in almost immediately, and you paid it according to their directions. We have no reason to believe the boy has been molested.”

That, of course, was a lie, statistically speaking, anyway. As Mike knew all too well, more than 90 percent of all noncustody-related child kidnappings involved some form of molestation. But in most cases the child turned up again relatively soon, after the kidnapper had taken what he wanted. When the child was held for longer than twenty-four hours, the statistics became far more grim. Less than 50 percent of those kids ever made it home again.

Tommy Metzger had been gone for eight days.

“What about poison gas?” Metzger continued. “What about a flamethrower? I want those men laid low! I want them to pay for what they’ve done to my family!”

On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were this argument would be rehashed on the six o’clock news.

This case had been big news from the outset, from the moment one of the kidnappers grabbed eight-year-old Tommy Metzger outside his Tulsa private school. Mike had worked many a big case since he’d started with the force, but this one was something else again. The combination of the father’s prominence and wealth-in addition to teaching, he had penned a series of best-selling books- the cruelty of the snatch, captured on video by a parent coming out of a dance recital, and the photogenic qualities of the abductee, made this case an instant media sensation. All the national news agencies were carrying it; posters featuring Tommy’s face had blanketed the country. Every night, the evening newscasters updated the case-and if there was nothing to update, they reviewed what had gone before, usually rescreening the amateur video footage that had propelled the crime to the forefront. The initial snatch had been botched and the kidnappers had ended up killing the kid’s nanny, thus turning it into a homicide and bringing it into Mike’s bailiwick. It was the ransom-1.5 million in cold, hard cash-that had allowed the Feds to trace the kidnappers. A homing device sewn into the bag had led them to this apartment in the Tulsa suburbs. Their first approach had been subtle. Two agents disguised as UPS men knocked on the front door. Somehow, though, the kidnappers made them and started firing. Swift then moved in the troops, and ten minutes later the siege had begun. Everyone’s worst fear was that if the situation escalated, the kidnappers would become desperate and kill the kid.

If they hadn’t already.

Metzger’s anger was reaching a bitter crescendo. “Lady, you may not understand how influential I am in this community. I know people. Lots of powerful people. And if you don’t do something fast to save my boy, you’re gonna end up with your tit in a wringer!”

To Mike’s amazement, Special Agent Swift smiled. “Sir, I know you’re concerned about your son. I don’t blame you. But if you don’t stop interfering with my operation, I will be forced to have you removed from the premises. For your son’s safety. And yours.”

Mike almost whistled in admiration as the father stomped away, mother clinging close behind.

“Man,” Mike said, “you handled that brilliantly.”

Swift shrugged. “If handling kidnappers was as easy as handling parents, this would’ve been over a long time ago.”

“I would’ve been tempted to escort Metzger to the floor. With my fist.”

“Oh, he wasn’t really angry. He was riddled with guilt, venting on me as an avoidance mechanism. He and his wife are separated, you know. He’s moved in with some hot young number in Glenpool. Future trophy wife. Metzger hasn’t seen the kid in weeks.”

“Really?” In fact, Mike hadn’t known that.

“The mother is only marginally more attentive. My investigators tell me the one the kid was close to was the nanny.”

“And now she’s gone.”

“Yeah.” There was a slow release of air from between her lips. “And Tommy knows it, too, since he saw a bullet enter her neck.”

Mike winced.

“Metzger’s concerns about Tommy’s well-being are utterly reasonable, all things considered. The kidnappers intentionally chose the son-not the wife, not the girlfriend. They wanted the boy. And they’ve had him for more than a week.” Her voice faded. “And now they must be realizing they’re going to get caught-possibly killed-no matter what they do…”

Mike swore silently. His eyes returned to the fifth-story window and the dark shadows that flickered elusively across it. “Special Agent Swift, much as I hate to agree with Metzger, we’ve got to get that kid out of there. Soon.”