He left three conditions for turning himself in on his iPhone notepad. The first was that the arresting team wore the proper hazmat gear so they didn’t kill him in the act of apprehension. The second was that they show him that they had a means of transportation for him that would keep him isolated from everyone else. The third was that no one single agency would have access to him. He wanted to make sure that there would be some kind of oversight. If he was the victim of a conspiracy, he didn’t want to fall into the hands of the people who were responsible for it.
The first police officer to arrive on the scene had received the briefing to stay well clear of Roberts under the suspicion that he might have a chemical weapon on him.
He parked his car across the entrance to the south side of the bridge while another police officer did the same on the north side. Their instructions were to contain him until federal officials arrived and under no circumstances to engage him directly.
As an added precaution, the officer stretched a line of crime scene tape across his side of the barrier as if it would form some magical barrier between everyone on the outside and whatever was wrong with Mitchell Roberts.
Mitch held up his hands when the first two police cars arrived to tell them to stay back. He didn’t even have to show them the noose around his neck to threaten them. He leaned back on the railing and waited for the people in funny-looking blue spacesuits to arrive.
He cast a glance up at the Channel 8 building and could see crowds gathered around the windows. He spotted one of the cameras aimed at him and gave it a wave and a nod. If he acknowledged them, he at least felt it would look like he was partially in control of the situation.
For the millions of people watching at home, it was a different sight than the usual police standoff. Mitch wasn’t waving his hands around in the air. He didn’t have any weapon other than the noose around his neck. Standing in his underwear, his lean physique made him look more like a college swimmer waiting for his swim match.
While news commentators waited for a response from the federal officials who were arriving on the scene, the biggest topic of conversation was the state of Mitchell’s body. One of the Channel 8 cameras zoomed in and revealed the various scratches, bite marks and bruises all over his body.
One female CNN correspondent trying to buy time while they waited for more information put it succinctly. “This man doesn’t look like a terrorist. He looks like a rape victim.”
The confused and afraid public didn’t know what to believe. Mitch’s YouTube video had played over and over again the previous day while amateur and professional sleuths looked at his online footprint for any kind of insight into Mitchell. His playlists were scrutinized and his broadcast archives were listened to for anything that would give them a reason to think his behavior was somehow premeditated or the final chapter of a bizarre life.
The search came up with a relatively normal man a few years out of college trying to make his way in broadcasting. His friends described him as an affable guy with the same interests as everyone else. He had no political agenda and not a single person could recount a violent thing he’d said or done prior to two days ago.
The sincerity of Mitch’s YouTube video had won a lot of people to his side. The experts on talk shows who explained the sheer difficulty of trying to make the chemical weapon that he was rumored to be in possession of made the WMD storyline difficult for people to swallow.
Talk of a rage virus or “reverse rabies” seemed equally difficult to accept, but people found themselves divided into two groups. There was the WMD camp and the patient zero camp. The lack of any apparent agenda on Mitchell’s part made many of the WMD group suspect that maybe he was an unwitting pawn.
Thirty minutes after Mitch had arrived at the bridge, the first person in a hazmat suit approached the outer barrier. Other people in suits were moving the barrier even farther back and clearing all the roads another block back. Mitchell thought this was a hopeful sign.
The man in the spacesuit waved at Mitch and motioned that he wanted to walk toward him. Mitchell nodded and felt a wave of relief that this nightmare was about to be over.
45
Special Agent Joseph Merritt, the FBI’s designated negotiator, walked toward the man in his underwear with the orange electrical cord around his neck standing in the middle of the bridge. DHS and his district supervisor had given him specific instructions on what to tell Roberts. He was to not contradict Roberts’ claim that he was somehow infected, and he could promise him anything within reason if it could get him clear of the bridge and the noose.
At the outer edge of the perimeter, an FBI SWAT team watched as the negotiator approached Mitchell Roberts. They had been informed by DHS that it was likely a chemical agent that Mitchell had been using. When it was obvious that he wasn’t concealing anything on his body that fit the profile, their commander gave the order for them to use gasmasks instead of the more cumbersome tactical nuclear/biological/chemical suits they had in their truck.
Mitch held up his hand for the agent to stop when he was 15 feet away. Mitch could make out the man’s face through the glass on the helmet. He had a broad grin and thinning red hair.
“Hello, Mitchell,” said the agent. He used the informality as a way to put Mitchell at ease. “I’m not used to talking to people with a spacesuit on. I feel like I should be asking you to take me to your leader.”
Mitch stared at the man for a moment. He was about to ask if the corny jokes were a tactic to wear him down but thought better of it. “I’m not used to negotiating in my underwear.” Mitch paused. “Begging, yes.”
Agent Merritt smiled. Through his earpiece he could hear one of the people listening in on the microphone let out a muffled laugh.
“My name is Special Agent Joseph Merritt. You can call me Joe. My job is to negotiate with you and listen to your demands. I’m empowered to make anything happen that we think is reasonable.”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Mitch. “Demands? Demands are what bank robbers and terrorists have. I don’t want anything. I just want to know that if I surrender I won’t be torn to pieces. And that I’ll be safe from whoever is responsible for this.”
“Who do you think did this to you, Mitchell? I’d like to help.”
The question was posed with the calm sincerity of a parent talking to a child about monsters.
It took every bit of Mitchell’s willpower not to react sarcastically or get angry. Acting defensively in either way would make him look paranoid and unbalanced. “Look, Joe, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I hear all the crazy things that people say on the radio. I see firsthand what happens when people come near me.” Mitch looked down at his body. “Look at me, man! This is real. Those bite marks and scratches happened. I want an explanation for all of this.” Mitch looked at the crowd of law enforcement officials on either side. “We need answers for all of the people who got hurt.”
“Let me help you get some answers. What do you need?”
“I need to know that anyone who comes near me is going to be wearing proper protective equipment.”
“Protective of what?” asked Merritt.
Mitchell blinked. The question came out sounding like a probe. “Protective of me. My scent. Maybe I’ve got some kind of rage virus like they said.”
“Who said?”
“Talk show hosts. People on the radio filling airtime. I don’t know who, man. It’s just one of those things that come up when people are looking for an explanation.”