Duggan was driving fast down Massachusetts Avenue, and Marsha kept pace with him as they raced onto the ramp that took them to Union Station’s parking zone. Two minutes later they were walking fast across the concourse where the confrontation had taken place. Most of it was cordoned off with police tape; uniformed and plainclothes cops were everywhere, including the four officers who were shot. Though they were merely bruised, the casualties had blankets over their shoulders, were drinking coffee, and were being attended to by paramedics. Beyond the tape, civilians were standing in near silence as they stared at the crime scene.
Marsha and Duggan ducked under the tape, flashed their FBI credentials at two officers who challenged them, and walked to the center of the crime scene. As they did so, Marsha estimated there were approximately fifty police officers on the concourse — a mixture of Transit and Met cops.
“Who’s in charge here?” Marsha’s voice echoed in the station.
The officers stared at her.
A plainclothes female officer stopped talking to three of her colleagues and called out, “That would be me. Detective Brooks. Met Department.”
Marsha and Duggan walked up to her. “We’re FBI. My name’s Marsha Gage and this is Agent Pete Duggan from HRT. I’m in charge of the Bureau manhunt to catch Will Cochrane.” She looked around. “What procedures do you have in place right now?”
Brooks nodded toward the exit. “Detectives and uniform are doing door to door to see if we can pick up Cochrane’s trail. We’ve interviewed a woman who sat next to him on the bus he took from NYC and who was close to him when he opened fire here. She says he was holding a gun on her when they were walking across the concourse. I know she’s lying, but I also know she’s not an accomplice. At least, nothing more than trying to help a guy who she took a shine to. We know where she lives and who she’s visiting, so we let her go with the caveat that we might question her again if we need to.”
“You should have asked her about Cochrane’s physical and mental state, and anything about where he might be headed.”
“I did. He was pleasant, kind, and exhausted when on the coach. She reckoned cops would be able to knock him over with a feather duster, and was very surprised to see how he sprung into action. But he made no mention as to where he was headed. On that point, I know she’s telling the truth.”
“Have you done anything with the media?”
“No. I was told you were coming here, so knew you’d want to make a decision on how to handle this with the press.”
“Forensics?”
Brooks pointed at the men and women who were dressed in all-in-one white overalls and were crouching over a part of the floor that had a small inner cordon and was off limits to everyone else. “That’s where he made the shots. Empty cartridges have already been sent off for ballistics analysis. Plus we’ve taken hair and other samples from a cushion the woman lent him on the coach and from her clothes. It’s a formality though — the woman has positively ID’d him as the man she read about in yesterday’s New York Times. Plus, she said he spoke in a British accent. We’re in no doubt he’s Will Cochrane.”
“Some of my agents are on their way here now to help with picking up his trail. You got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am. You have jurisdiction. And we need all the help we can get.”
Marsha smiled. “Detective Brooks, I can see this crime scene’s in capable hands.” She pointed at the four officers wearing blankets over their shoulders. “How are they holding up?”
“They’re in shock, and they feel like they’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Marsha nodded. “They’ll be at least half as effective as they were before Cochrane opened fire on them.” She glanced at Duggan before returning her attention to Brooks. “Can we borrow them for a moment?”
“Sure.” Brooks raised a hand and called out, “Sergeant Kowalski, I need you and your men over here.”
The four officers walked over, their faces somber and sheepish.
Marsha said to Kowalski, “I want you all to stand in the exact same positions you were in when Cochrane pulled out his gun. Just before it happened, did you have your hands over your pistols?”
The sergeant nodded. “Our guns were holstered but unstrapped; we were ready to pull them out.”
“Okay. Time to stop feeling sorry for yourselves, get rid of the blankets and drinks, and move into position.”
The officers moved to the places where Cochrane had knocked them off their feet — two groups of two, spread apart from the area where the forensics team was working.
Marsha said to Duggan, “Stand next to the inner cordon. When I give the command, pull out your handgun and pretend like you’re firing on the two cops ahead of you, then the two cops behind. Say ‘Bang’ for every pretend shot.”
The former SEAL Team 6 member turned HRT commander nodded. “Got it.”
Marsha raised her voice so that she could be heard by the cops, who were now forty yards apart. “Kowalski — my colleague’s going to pretend to be Cochrane and reenact what happened. I want you to do the same, and that means unholstering your weapons if you get a chance.”
“We’re hardly in the best shape!”
“I know. And that’s important to me.” She smiled. “Just make sure your safety catches are on and no one accidentally discharges.”
She stared at Duggan, who was standing very close to where Cochrane had opened fire. Within the United States’ special operations community, no one was better placed to do this than Duggan. In person, she’d witnessed what he could do with a gun, and on one occasion she’d played hostage in the Quantico antiterrorism training house. It had been a terrifying experience seeing Duggan’s explosive precision and speed as he stormed into her room while firing live rounds inches from her face.
Duggan’s handgun was concealed under his jacket.
Marsha shouted, “Go!”
The HRT commander dropped low, pulled out his weapon, two “Bangs,” spun around, and stopped.
The other two injured cops had their pistols pointing at his chest.
Duggan got upright, put away his weapon, and walked back to Marsha and Brooks. “I’d have been incapacitated or dead before I could fire the third shot.”
Marsha nodded. “Killed by men who were half as good as they were earlier this morning.”
“Correct.”
Marsha’s heart beat fast as she looked at Brooks. “If they’re not doing so already, make sure every officer on door-to-door detail — detectives included — is wearing body armor.” She asked Duggan. “Your assessment?”
The HRT commander looked at the four cops who were now moving back toward their hot drinks, blankets, and colleagues. “Getting up close and personal with Cochrane is a real problem. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d get beyond two shots. I’d say we put a net over D.C. — get helos in the air, each carrying one SWAT spotter and one sniper. And get every other sniper-trained SWAT operative on rooftops. The SWAT commander will know where to put them, since this is his turf.”