Brimstone

"It's all right, Captain," Hayward said crisply. "I'm acquainted with both the term and the bodily function."

"Right."

"Proceed," the commissioner said dryly. Hayward thought she noticed a subtle flicker of amusement in Rocker's tired eyes.

"We're getting calls up the wazoo"-another glance at Hayward-"from important people. You know who I'm referring to, sir. They're demanding, they’re screaming , for something to be done. And they're right. These people in the park have no permit."

Hayward shifted in her chair. Her job was on the Cutforth murder, not listening to some precinct captain talk about permits.

"It isn't a political protest, a question of freedom of speech," Grable went on. "It's a bunch of religious nuts, egged on by this so-called Reverend Buck. Who, by the way, did nine years in Joliet for murder two, shot some clerk over a pack of gum."

"Is that right?" Rocker murmured. "And why not murder one?"

"Plea-bargained it down. The point I'm making, Commissioner, is that we're not dealing with a simple fanatic here. Buck's a dangerous man. And the damn Post is beating the drum, doing all they can to keep things stirred up. It's getting worse by the day."

Hayward knew the facts already, and she half tuned Grable out, her mind turning to D'Agosta and Italy. She realized, with a twinge she didn't fully understand, that he was overdue for a phone update. Now, there was a real cop. And where did it get him? It was guys like Grable who got the promotions-desk jockeys.

"This isn't just a precinct situation. It's a problem for the whole city." Grable laid his hands on the table, palms-up. "I want a SWAT team to go in there and bring this man out before we have a riot on our hands."

When Rocker replied, his voice was gravelly and calm. "And that's just what we're here for, Captain: to figure out a way not to have a riot on our hands."

"Exactly, sir."

Rocker turned to a man sitting at his left. "Wentworth?"

Hayward had no idea who this was. She'd never seen him before, and there were no insignia on his suit to indicate rank. He didn't even look like a cop.

Wentworth turned, eyes half lidded, fingers tented, and took a long, slow breath before answering.

Psychologist, thought Hayward.

"As far as this, ah, Buck fellow is concerned," Wentworth drawled, "he's a common-enough personality type. Without an interview, of course, it's impossible to develop a firm diagnosis. But from what I've observed, he exhibits a marked psychopathology: possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. There's a good chance he suffers from a delusion of persecution. This is complicated by the fact that the man is prone to violence. I would definitely not recommend sending in a SWAT team." He paused thoughtfully. "The others are simply followers and will respond as Buck responds: with violence or with cooperation. They will follow his lead. The key here is getting Buck out of the picture. I would suggest that the movement will collapse of its own accord once Buck is removed."

"Right," said Grable. "But how do you get him out, if not with a SWAT team?"

"If you threaten a man like Buck, he'll lash out. Violence is the language of last resort for such a man. I would suggest sending an officer or two in there-unarmed, no threatening, preferably female and attractive-to take him out. A gentle and non provocative arrest. Do it quickly, surgically. Within a day, the tent city will be gone, his followers off to the next guru, or Grateful Dead concert, or whatever they were doing before they read those articles in the Post ." Another long exhalation. "That is my considered advice."

Hayward couldn't help rolling her eyes. Buck, a schizophrenic? His speeches, as lovingly quoted in the Post , showed none of the disorganized thought processes you'd expect from schizophrenia.

Rocker, who was about to pass over her, caught her expression. "Hayward? Do you have something to contribute?"

"Thank you, sir. While I agree with some of Mr. Wentworth's analysis of the situation, I disagree with his recommendation, with all due respect."

She found Wentworth's watery eyes on her, clearly pitying her ignorance. Too late, she realized she had called him "Mr." instead of "Dr." A cardinal sin among academics, and his antagonism was palpable. Well, screw him.

"There's no such thing as a nonprovocative arrest," she went on. "Any attempt to go in there and take Buck away by force-even gently-won't work. If he's crazy, then he's crazy like a fox. He'll refuse to come. As soon as the cuffs appear, your two 'preferably female and attractive' cops will find themselves in a nasty situation."

"Commissioner," Grable interrupted, "this man is openly flouting the law. I'm getting a thousand calls a day from businesses and residents on Fifth Avenue-the Sherry Netherland, the Metropolitan Club, the Plaza. The phone lines are jammed. And you can bet that if they're calling me, they're calling the mayor." He paused, letting this sink in.

"I am acutely aware they have been calling the mayor," Rocker said, his voice low and unamused.

"Then you know, sir, that we don't have the luxury of time. We've got to do something. What other options are there besides arresting this man? Does Captain Hayward have a better idea? I'd like to hear it." He leaned back, breathing hard.

Hayward spoke coolly. "Captain Grable, these businesses and residents you mention should not be allowed to push the police into a hasty and ill-considered operation. “In other words, she thought, they can go fuck themselves.

"Easy for you to say from your perch in the detective bureau. These people are in my face every day. If you had solved the Cutforth homicide, we wouldn't have this problem, Captain ."

Hayward nodded, keeping her face neutral. Score one to Grable.

Rocker turned to her. "Speaking of that, how is the investigation proceeding, Captain?"

"There's some new forensic evidence the boys in lab coats are going over. We're still checking the people on Cutforth's call list during his last seventy-two hours. And we're reviewing the security video cams from his apartment lobby, cross-checking them against residents and known visitors. And, of course, the FBI is following up some promising leads in Italy." This was thin, and Hayward knew it sounded that way. The fact was, they didn't have squat.

"So what’s your plan for dealing with this guy Buck?" Grable, sensing he had the upper hand, faced her belligerently.

"I would advise an even less aggressive approach. Don't push it. Don't do anything to provoke things. Instead, send someone in there to talk to Buck. Lay it out for him. He's got hundreds of people there, ruining the park and disturbing the neighborhood. He is a responsible person at heart and will naturally want to do something about that; he'll surely want to send his followers home to shave, shit, and shower. That's how I'd put it. On top of that, I'd offer Buck a deal: if he sends his followers home, we give him a parade permit. Treat him like a rational human being. All carrot, no stick. Then, as soon as they've broken camp, fence the area under the guise of reseeding. And then give them a parade permit for eight o'clock Monday morning for the far corner of Flushing Meadows Park. That will be the last you see of them."

She saw another cynical glimmer in Rocker's eye. She wondered if it indicated agreement with, or amusement at, her suggestion. Rocker had a good rep among the rank and file, but he was notoriously hard to read.