A burst of static. “Flatiron Command, we ran that name, break.”
“Go ahead.”
“The suspect is a thirty-nine-year-old male. He’s a combat veteran. He was recently arrested for disorderly conduct at the Denver VA. Charges were dropped.”
The information was conveyed to the hostage negotiator, while the sheriff’s department went back to digging, trying to find the pieces of this man’s identity, the broken fragments of his soul, so that the negotiator could reach him.
Naomi waited for a break in the radio traffic to ask Megs another question. “If he puts down the gun and agrees to come down, will the Team go up at that point and bring him down?”
Megs shook her head. “If he puts the gun down, he can always pick it up. I don’t want my people going in until that weapon is beyond his reach.”
“Flatiron Command, we have more information for you. Break.”
“Go ahead.”
“The suspect’s wife recently filed for divorce. He has three kids—two boys and a girl—all under age ten. His wife told us he has PTSD and was at the VA trying to get treatment when he was arrested. Apparently, he was waitlisted. The wife’s name is Kaylee. The children’s names are Pike, Flynn, and Harper.”
Naomi’s heart broke for him.
The deputy went on to spell the children’s names phonetically and give them their ages, trying to arm the hostage negotiator, a woman, with information she could use.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Another burst of static. “He’s sitting down now. He is sitting down, and he has dropped the weapon.”
“Flatiron Command, is that confirmed?”
“Affirmative. He has dropped the weapon over the back. Sixteen-ninety-four has retrieved it.”
Naomi let out a relieved breath.
“That’s Moretti.” Megs got to her feet. “You hungry?”
Naomi shook her head. She couldn’t eat now.
Megs disappeared into the kitchen.
“Sixteen-ninety-four. I’d like to leave my position to speak with the negotiator.”
“Sixteen-ninety-four, go ahead.”
“I’m a combat veteran. I’ve walked in his shoes. I think I can help.”
Megs reappeared with a granola bar and an apple. “I hope Moretti knows what he’s doing.”
For the next hour, Moretti talked with the man, first via bullhorn, and then via cell phone after the man gave Moretti his number.
“Flatiron Command, he says he’ll let us bring him down if we guarantee that he gets to see a doctor.”
It struck Naomi as tragic that a man with PTSD, a man who’d served his country, had to threaten to kill himself and others to get immediate attention. Now, all of these people—sheriff’s deputies, rangers, and the Team—were scrambling to try to save him.
Megs picked up the mike. “Flatiron Command, this is Team Ops.”
“Team Ops, go ahead.”
“No member of the Team is to approach the suspect without first being on belay. They should set up the anchor before anyone goes near him.” Megs set down the mic, turned to Naomi. “I don’t want him changing his mind and dragging one of my people over the edge with him.”
Dear God! Neither did Naomi.