I advised the barrack of what we had accomplished. A frustrated duty officer acknowledged my message and again indicated that the JOC was insisting I call immediately. I checked in on the phone with our two witnesses; they were fine, and nothing had changed. Trooper Draskovic now had two additional uniforms with him at the entrance ramp and felt comfortable that they would be able to prevent the snipers from leaving. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but again I told him, needlessly, that he was not to let that car out of the rest area and he could use whatever force he saw fit.
I assessed our position. There were three K-9 teams positioned in the median strip. Both directions of the interstate had now been shut down. Westbound was shut down at the Myersville exit, which was at the bottom of the mountain approximately two miles east of our location. There was a McDonald’s just off the Myersville exit ramp that had a large truck parking lot. That lot was being converted to a staging area for arriving police units, including communications vehicles and armored vehicles that were responding to the incident.
My next order to the barrack was to get the eastbound rest area cleared of all vehicles as soon as they had personnel available. As I looked across, I could see that there were several trucks and cars parked over there. There was no traffic moving on the interstate, and I didn’t see any reason for anybody to be in that rest area. I wanted to eliminate any danger to the public, as well as to prevent the snipers from having access to another vehicle in the event that they somehow got out of the rest area and past us.
I wasn’t happy about the fact that I still had my two witnesses and at least four other truckers in harm’s way, caught inside our perimeter. But there wasn’t much I could do about that without running the risk of getting into a gunfight in the dark. That would be to the snipers’ advantage, so it was something I was going to do my best to avoid. Just let the bad guys sleep and feel comfortable until the cavalry arrived. I knew the TANGO teams would be on their way to the staging area by the McDonald’s, if they hadn’t arrived already.
As for the truck drivers, I figured if they would stay in their trucks and stay locked in, that would be my best option. If they tried to leave, they would simply back up behind the two stopped trucks we had added to our roadblock. We would then clear the trucks as they came up, and the drivers could either stay locked in their trucks or we could evacuate them out of the rest area to an area behind our police lines.
I was starting to feel more comfortable about our tactical situation. There were now three of us on this end, and more uniformed troopers arriving. I now had at least ten uniforms in place, and we had them surrounded on three sides. The only open side was the woods, and I wasn’t really worried about that as an escape route.
No more delaying it—it was time for me to go back to car 662 and call the JOC. I used Dwayne’s cell phone, and said as I was dialing, “Do whatever you need to do. I’ll handle the communications.” I really didn’t have to tell him that. He already knew what needed to be done. It was a good feeling to know that I was surrounded by troopers I knew, and whom I considered to be the best of the best. The snipers’ luck had just run out. They didn’t yet know it, but I sure as hell did.
It was somewhere around 12:45 a.m. when I finally called the joint operations center. I was immediately placed on speakerphone, probably in the same conference room that I had left several hours before. The FBI special agent in charge was on the line, as was the agent in charge for the ATF, plus at least a dozen other voices. They were all talking at once, asking questions at the same time. They were all trying to introduce themselves, an obvious power play. They wanted to make sure I knew who the real bosses were. But this wasn’t a cocktail party; introductions weren’t necessary. Plus, I didn’t care who they were. I just wanted to make sure the leadership was up to speed and to let them know we had this under control.
I had seen this same group of people in action several hours earlier, so none of this surprised me. This conference call reminded me of standing in the chow line at the JOC behind the heads of the leading federal agencies, listening to them argue over what to put on their plates while the working stiffs stood in line behind them waiting to just get something to eat. I had resisted the urge to yell, “Shut up, eat the cream of mushroom soup, and get the hell out of the way.”
I stopped trying to talk. In those first few minutes of this multi-conversation I must have been given at least three dozen orders by people who had no idea what my current tactical situation was or what I had already put in place. Once the initial barrage of chatter started to wind down, I briefed them on the situation. I told them about the two witnesses. That set off rumblings of concern and started up the second-guessing. I assured them that if things went south for the witnesses, I had the resources to take whatever action was needed to get them out of there. Probably none of these people had ever been at this rest area and had no idea of the terrain I was dealing with. I understood their concern, I understood their need to be in control and call all the shots. It was also obvious that they were trying to call the plays and micromanage the incident from forty-five miles away. They didn’t know me, which most likely contributed to their anxiety. They had forgotten about the incident command structure that had been ingrained in all of us. They either couldn’t trust my training and experience or couldn’t let go of their desire to be in charge, probably part of the reason they each had risen in command within their own agencies. I was betting on the latter.
The JOC did reassure me that the TANGO teams would be taking the lead with the assault of the Caprice. I knew Major Ballard would be leading those teams. Having worked with the major, I also knew what he was expecting from my side—hold the perimeter. I assured them that we had the perimeter surrounded, and I explained why I wasn’t concerned about their escaping through the woods and across the mountain. I suggested that patrol cars be dispatched to the back-mountain roads closest to the rest area and told to stand by.
We talked about the snipers. I mentioned I thought they were likely sleeping in the car, but I could not be sure one wasn’t standing guard, maybe in the woods nearby, while the other one slept. Yet we had no indication of that—no one had been seen moving around in the rest area. I also told them that I was planning for the worst-case scenario, a shootout with the snipers. It’s always better to prepare for the worst than just assume these guys would surrender without a fight. They had shot and killed so many people and had a god complex; there was no reason to think they would give up without a fight. I was preparing for that fight, and I knew that Major Ballard was also more than ready to give these scumbags all the fight they wanted. Still, it was extremely difficult to communicate what I knew over the phone to people who were only half listening and probably didn’t trust me anyway.
I also told them I believed the element of surprise was on our side and there was plenty of time for the TANGO teams to plan their assault. I explained that the time would also be to our advantage. By the time it was 3 a.m. to 5 a.m., the snipers would be at their most vulnerable and would likely be at their lowest level of alertness. Since I had worked with Major Ballard and the STATE teams so many times before over the past twenty years, I knew he was thinking the same thing. I didn’t really need to talk to the major and exchange ideas. I already knew and anticipated what he was thinking. From his perspective, I had all the bases covered.
Yet there was still a big push from the FBI and ATF. They wanted their people in that rest area and in charge. Here we went again: it was professional competitiveness between agencies, and I didn’t have time for that bullshit. I had killers locked in a trap, and I was damned if I was going to let the troopers and deputies under my command get hurt over politics. As they pushed harder, I stood my ground. “I know the rest area, I know the troopers I have under my command, I already have communication and have established trust with the witnesses,” I said. “There is nothing I need from any of you other than resources when and where I direct them.”
But I kept hearing advice and orders issued to me. “Don’t do anything until we get there and take command,” someone said.
I kept repeating myself: “Got it covered, I know what the hell I’m doing, I’ll keep you posted if anything changes, don’t worry—I won’t let them out of the rest area.” I had to work to keep my cool, though what I wanted to do was reach through the damn phone and slap all of them on the backs of their heads. I was dealing with what was in front of me, and making decisions based on a myriad of factors that none of these potentates could possibly know about. I’m sure they all knew that what I was telling them was the right thing. But their anxiety and frustration at not being here were driving them crazy, and their egos were at a boiling point. I understood and respected that. But by the tone of my voice I had let them know I was in charge, and that they were just going to have to trust my judgment.
If there was anything positive about this exchange, it was the fact that all this vitriol wasn’t being spewed out over the radio, and none of my troops were hearing it. The last thing that any of them—any of us—needed was a distraction. I wanted everyone focused on the job at hand. These were seasoned cops who understood that there can be only one chain of command in an incident like this. I trusted them without exception, and I knew that every one of them had complete trust and faith in me. That’s just the way it was—the way it has always been throughout the history of the state police. I could have been anybody else sporting a state police badge and it would have been the same.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a shadow moving up behind me. It was a cold night, and the first thing that registered was that this person was wearing shorts and was carrying some sort of assault rifle. I was still on the phone and stopped mid-sentence: Fuck, I thought, the bastard got behind me and I am dead. I spun around and reached for my holstered Beretta. The guy was wearing a backward baseball cap and a black tactical vest over a short-sleeve shirt. As he passed under the streetlight, I could see in small white lettering above his right breast area—DEA. There was a badge hanging off the left breast pocket that I believe was sewn on. “Stop!” I shouted.
Trooper Smith and the deputy spun around. Smith leveled his Remington on the guy’s chest. The guy shouted “DEA!”
As he got closer I snapped at him. “What in the hell are you doing? Who the fuck are you?”
He told me he had heard about what was going on when he got a call from his supervisor. So he jumped out of bed, threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and hustled up here. The guy obviously wasn’t local; he had been flown in from another part of the country to help on the task force. He said he was planning to sneak into the rest area with his rifle and see what he could see.
It took a few seconds for me to compose myself and not jump down the guy’s throat. “Look, I am not your boss, but this is my incident, and I am currently the incident commander until properly relieved. If you go in there and one of my perimeter troopers sees you, you are going to get your ass shot off. My people have been instructed to assume anybody not in uniform is one of the snipers. This is just like a combat zone. Their instructions are to do what they need to do. And here you are, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and carrying an assault rifle. If you think my troops are going to see that two-inch DEA lettering over your pocket, then you’re an idiot. And if you go in there and screw up the TANGO team operation, well, if they don’t kill you, I might.”
The last I saw of the DEA agent was his back as he hurried away.