IT WAS EERILY quiet when we pulled up to a row of flat-topped brick town houses on Winfield Lane in Northwest. One pair of tennis players was at it on the Georgetown courts across the road, and the playing fields were still wet. If Nana were home, I thought, she’d just be getting up and ready for church.
We had four SWAT officers posted in back, with MPD cruisers at either end of the block and EMS on standby. The rest of us emerged onto the street several doors away from Bowie’s place, where a single white van was just coming to a stop.
Once Ridge gave the go, an entry team of five men in ballistic gear exited the van and snaked up the front steps of Bowie’s town house in a line. It was a silent operation; they pried the door and then disappeared inside.
After that, it was ten long minutes of waiting while they leapfrogged through the house, clearing one space after another. Ridge kept his head down and a hand over his earpiece as the SWAT commander whispered their progress to him. He held up two fingers to indicate they’d reached the second floor, and a few minutes later, three fingers.
Then he straightened up suddenly. I could hear shouting coming from the house.
“They’ve got him!” Ridge said—but then, “Wait.”
There was some fast back-and-forth now, with Ridge blurting communications. “Yes? I hear you. Do not stand down.” Eventually he said, “Okay, give me one second,” and turned to address the rest of us.
“We’ve got a standoff situation inside,” he said. “Bowie’s armed and belligerent. Says he won’t talk to Secret Service.”
I didn’t have to think about this. “Let me talk to him,” I said.
Ridge held up a finger and went back to the mic in his cuff. “Peters, I’m going to send in a throw phone—”
“No,” I said. “Face-to-face. All he’s looking at in there is five armed officers. We’re not window dressing, Ridge. You brought us here for a reason, and now we know what it is.”
There was another long stretch of back-and-forth after that, relayed among Ridge, SWAT, and Constantine Bowie inside. Eventually, an agreement was reached. Bowie would let them check the rest of the house to make sure no one else was there, and then I’d go in. All of a sudden, someone was handing me a vest and Ridge was giving me the rundown.
“Keep SWAT between you and Bowie at all times. If you can get him to stand down, do it, and if not, leave. Don’t drag it out.” He checked his watch again. “Fifteen minutes. That’s it. Then I’m going to pull you out myself.”