Septimus Gradus

“Describe to me what you saw when you arrived at the scene,” a dull voice crawled through the cool room.

“When I got there the SWAT guys were settling into positions around the building while the firefighters kept dousing the doors. I was told that no contact had been made with the suspect. The mission director shoved a floor plan in my face, told me where his men suspected the bombs were planted and where the hostages were being held by the suspect,” the detective reported dryly.

“Was there anything unique about the scene?” The interviewer groaned.

“What do you want me to say? There were pretty police lights flashing, the building seemed empty, the firefighters were wrestling their hoses, it was dark.”

“Right…” the voice droned. “What was your understanding of the situation before you arrived on scene?”

“I knew about the fires, how they choked off the entry points. Except one, which I later used. I knew there were bombs. The hostages were a surprise. I—”

“A surprise?” The voice perked up. “Why were they a surprise?”

“The case struck me as similar to one I had encountered before. Or at least, would have encountered. A few years ago I was called out to help with suspicious activity in some underbelly neighborhood. Came across a fella with a toxic relationship with fire and a real desire to blow shit up. He seemed misguided to me… not malicious. So I just talked with him. He let me take his contraband, I set him up with a therapist, and I checked in on him now and then after that.”

“Checked in on him?”

“Sure, I felt I was responsible for him, in a way. I wanted to make sure he was doing well. And, it always seemed he was. So I put it out of my mind that it could’ve been him when I responded to the call. But the mission director told me it was him when I arrived.”

“You knew the suspect before the incident, and the director knew that.”

“Of course, that’s why I was on scene. He hoped I could reason with Chuck.”

“Chuck Gershwin, the suspect?”

“Of course. Where do you find guys like this?” The detective asked, peering over his shoulder into the false mirror as his arms rose in a wide, mocking shrug.

“If we could stay on topic…” the interviewer’s voice drooped low again, his eyes half shut. “So you walk into the building. Then what happens?”

“I followed the floor plan, ducking under the smoke. The room was simple enough to find. It was right in the middle of the second story. No windows, no secondary access. And it was pretty small, basically a maintenance closet. I hollered a bit coming down the hallway so Chuck wouldn’t be alarmed. I said, ‘I’m alone, unarmed, and I just want to talk to you. Is that okay?’”

“They sent you in unarmed?”

“Not really. I had a concealed pistol on my hip,” the detective continued. “Anyway, there wasn’t any response to my question. I peeked around the corner. Chuck was holding a remote. The hostages were sat under him between the two of us. He’d duct-taped their wrists, ankles, and mouths. Three men and two women.”

“Was there any conversation?”

“Sure. I greeted him like I’d bumped into him on the street. He was shaky. He told me I wasn’t going to talk him out of this one, ‘not this time.’ He had to do it this time, he really had to, or else they would come and get us.” The detective shifted in his seat before continuing.

“‘Who are they?’ I asked him. He just fidgeted and flexed his arm. He had never mentioned ‘them’ before, so I have no clue what he meant. Seemed like I wasn’t going to find out, either. So I changed the topic. ‘Hey,’ I continued, ‘who are these people?’

“‘They’re my friends,’ he told me. 

“‘Your friends? Well, this is no place for friends, don’t you think? They might get hurt.’ Chuck agreed with me. He let one woman and two of the guys go. He had me cut their tape. But he wouldn’t budge on the other two. ‘You guys will come in and get hurt,’ Chuck said.”

“He didn’t want to let them go because SWAT would come in, and he’d blow them up?” The interviewer leaned in, resting his arms on the cold table.

“That seems to be the case, yes. Then he told me to leave, because he didn’t want me to get hurt. I asked if the last two hostages would be hurt if I left.”

———

“My husband and I were so scared,” her voice shook. “The bomber insisted that we had to be the two to stay, because we’re married. I think he thought that we should die together.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” the indifferent voice lulled. “What I need to know is what happened after the other three hostages were released. Do you remember?”

“The detective bargained for our release, or tried, I guess. The bomber wouldn’t do it. The detective was so…well, he really tried. He was really kind, too. The bomber, I didn’t get a look, but he started…crying. I felt sorry for him. He was about to blow us all up, bury us in that building, but I felt bad for him. The detective moved closer. He was trying to get the remote, I think. But he told the bomber he was just going to take the tape off of our mouths. The bomber started getting angry, so the detective stopped. I was staring at him as he talked to the bomber…it felt like hours. I heard another sob behind me. His face contorted—”

“Whose face contorted, ma’am?”

“The detective’s. I couldn’t ever see the bomber. The detective’s face…I don’t even know to describe it…I thought we were about to die. The bomber, I thought, had pulled the trigger, and we were seconds from blowing up. I turned to my husband, then I heard a bang! I thought—”

“The detective shot the suspect at that point. Was the suspect threatening in any way prior to the shooting?” The voice cold as the stiff air in the room.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” she stammered, “but he did sound very angry. Angry crying. If I had to guess, he was about to blow the building, yes.”

“Thank you.” The slender man stood, strolling out of the room.

———

“Do I regret it?” The detective repeated. “What is ‘it?’ The shots? No, not at all.

“What, then?” He snapped. “Yes…yes, I regret it very much. I regret that I didn’t stop Chuck from getting there.”