CHAPTER 13

Tony did not like what he heard over the police radio. A young man with autism named Stuart Abramson was shooting at the police and SWAT officers who hunkered down in the woods around his home. The Hanover Police Department called the county SWAT Unit, which responded in their usual understated way. They brought the “Tank”—an armored personnel carrier for SWAT—and parked it one hundred feet from the front door of the stately colonial house, blocking the driveway.

Nobody was getting out of 12 Iroquois Street.

Captain John Hunter peered at the Abramson home through night vision goggles. “Any visuals on Rachel Abramson?” he asked over the radio.

“Negative, sir,” replied one of the SWAT officers.

Hunter was worried about the boy’s mother, Rachel Abramson. It was believed that she was in the house, but she wasn’t answering the phone and no one had seen her moving around inside. The father, Dr. Solomon Abramson, was on a flight back from Milwaukee where he had spent the week at the American Academy of Pediatrics.

How Stuart got access to a firearm wasn’t clear. It appeared that Dr. Abramson was a hunter in his younger days and still kept a rifle or two along with a pistol, in his home. County records indicated that Dr. Abramson had gun permits. What was clear was that Stuart suddenly appeared outside on his porch with a rifle, screaming. The Hanover Police responded and tried to communicate with Stuart, but couldn’t. Stuart walked back inside the house and the police moved up the driveway. Just as they reached the porch, shots rang out and the siege was on.

The hostage negotiators, who phoned Stuart twice, couldn’t get him to talk. All Stuart would say was “Police go!” The hostage negotiators didn’t know what to do. Hunter called Chief Lonnegan and asked for Colletti and Forceski. “Chief, I need your autism whisperer guys up here. We need to communicate with this kid.”

Hunter had to do something. This siege couldn’t go on forever. There was a residential facility called the French Heights School for Delinquent Boys just behind the Abramson home. Castleton County had a fair number of residential facilities going back to the days when New York City’s young offenders were “sent up the river.” The river was the Hudson, and the place of confinement was rural French Heights, the location of a small Revolutionary War battle.

“Tony, look at it this way,” said Forceski while turning onto Iroquois Street. “One of our special kids has a whole facility of young criminals locked down.”

“Irony, defined.” Tony said. They parked their car and showed badges and identification to a blue-helmeted SWAT officer. “Hunter is waiting for you guys in the Tank.”

“So I guess that the Abramson house would be the one with the Tank in the driveway,” said Forceski.

John Hunter’s voice boomed over a megaphone, “Winston PD! Get your Goddamned heads down!”

That tone did not indicate that things were going well. Nor did the smell. SWAT detonated a canister of oleoresin capsicum, and the area was blanketed in a shroud of caustic fumes. There was a lot of confusion when the event started. Some kids from The French Heights School came through the woods to see what was going on. When they refused to leave, SWAT let the OC canisters loose. The fumes were now rolling through the facility, sickening the residents and staff who were pinned down in classrooms.

The men entered the Tank through the rear hatch. “Hey, guys,” Hunter said.

“Hey, Marine,” said Forceski. “What the heck are we doing here?”

“We need you guys to get this kid talking or get him to come out. We don’t know what the status of the mom is. We don’t even know why he’s shooting.”

“We all don’t know shit,” said Hanover Chief Ambrose. “All we know is that we have a retard with a rifle and . . .”

“Hey, chief,” said Forceski, “we both have autistic kids, and we don’t call them retards!”

“Come on, Chief,” Tony echoed. “We don’t have to hear that crap.”

“Let’s chill out, gentlemen,” Hunter said in military fashion. “We have a nightmare scenario here. None of us knows what the heck to do. I got hostage negotiators set up in the house across the street and they can’t get anything going.” Hunter was now shouting because of the noise from a helicopter that now hovered above the scene. Then one of the SWAT officers called over the radio. “Captain, I have a visual. The suspect is moving back and forth in front of the television, first floor family room. He’s watching Teletubbies.”

“What’s he doing?” yelled Hunter.

“He’s watching Teletubbies, sir.”

“I can’t hear this guy because of the damn helicopter . . . what?!

“Teletubbies, Captain! He’s watching the Teletubbies on the TV!”

“John, can I get a look at the house? You got night goggles, right?” asked Tony.

“Yeah, take a look.” Hunter pointed to the hatch above. “Just keep your head low. If you can see him, he can see you.”

Tony poked his head up through the hatch. Searchlights kept sweeping over the house. There were half a dozen police cars with their overhead lights circling. The noise from the helicopter was incessant. The smell was acrid and awful, and the helicopter kept kicking it back into the air. “Look, we have to cut the chaos down,” Tony reported. “There’s no way that a kid with autism can handle this. He’s gotta have sensory overload from all this.”

“Okay,” said Hunter, “we have to reduce the . . .”

Then a shot rang out. Everybody hit the floor. Then another shot. Hunter started screaming, “Down! Down! Everybody get your heads down!” Mayhem and obscenities ensued. “Where did the shot come from?”

“We think the kid!” barked one the SWAT team members over the radio.

Forceski and Tony’s faces were inches from each other. Forceski said “He thinks it was the kid. What the . . .”

More screaming and yelling over the radios. Tony’s cell phone rang. “Yeah,” said Tony under the din.

“It’s Newman. Hey, I ran a search through Westlaw. You’re right.”

“What?”

“Clear the freaking lines, people!” shouted Hunter. “I’m getting pissed off.”

“I searched Westlaw,” Newman continued, “and found eight more case decisions where the kid was described as having autism and was compensated by HHS.”

“Uh, that’s great, Counselor,” Tony said. “But listen, can we talk later? We’re being shot at right now.”

Hunter was really angry now. “IDENTIFY THE SOURCE OF THAT LAST SERIES OF SHOTS, GENTLEMEN! WHO THE HELL IS SHOOTING?!”

Then over the radio, “Uh, Captain, sir, I saw movement on the south side of the property. I thought I saw a flash of something, but, well sir, it was a deer moving between trees with lights from a facility behind it and . . .”

“Copy that.” Hunter was exasperated. “We bagged a deer.”

Chief Ambrose was enraged. “You people come up here from Pine Plains and start shooting up my town! What kind of operation is this?!”

Hunter wanted to strangle Ambrose. “Don’t you point your finger at me, you . . .”

“John,” Tony said quietly. “Let’s lose the helicopter.”

“It isn’t ours. It’s News 13.”

It took nearly forty-five minutes until the helicopter finally left after the county executive convinced the station to back off. The lights, sirens, and floodlights were turned off.

The Tank was now packed with cops. Hunter, Tony, and Forceski were looking over the house plans that Hanover Police had pulled from the town’s building department. The hostage negotiators wanted to be closer to the house to plan the next move. “You think that he might just let us in?” said Demetrius Jones, a muscular African American officer and hostage negotiator.

“I think we have a shot,” said Tony.

“Do we try to get the door open and bull the team through?” asked Hunter.

“If he lets you in, why not just take him in with as little drama as possible?” said Forceski.

“I’m not sure that I can communicate with him effectively,” said Jones. My wife’s nephew, Antoine, has autism, but I don’t know him real well.”

“Glen and I live with this,” said Tony. “That’s why we know you have to go low emotion here. No flash-bangs, battering rams, helicopters, or OC canisters.”

“And that’s why you guys go in,” said Hunter. “We need to end this thing, and we still don’t know the status of the mother. You two go in first.”

There are times when it is completely reasonable to question one’s career choices. That time had come for Tony and Forceski. Both men were moving quietly through the darkness down the driveway toward the front door with their guns drawn. In the house in front of them was an armed young man who couldn’t communicate and who was under enormous stress. Behind them was a platoon of well-armed SWAT officers who had just spent hours freezing in the woods, stressed out, and sucking in the acrid OC fumes. Even with body armor, helmets, radios, and firearms, this was not exactly a good place to be.

“Guns in front of you, guns behind,” said Tony. “This is horrible, Glen.”

“You aren’t kidding me, bro.”

Once on the porch, the men took up positions on either side of the door. Tony listened for any activity. “TV’s still on,” Tony said into his radio.

“Tony, I think the door may be open,” said Forceski. “Looks like it from my side.”

“All right. If it opens, we move, quiet. You go left and I go right through the parlor. Once we clear that room, we go through the kitchen into the family room where we hope he is watching TV.” Tony was talking to Forceski and to Hunter on the radio at the same time. Hunter moved his team toward their position.

“We will keep the door open. Everyone comes in quiet, with ears and eyes wide open. Festina lente.”

“Repeat last communication,” chirped Hunter.

“Hurry slowly.” Tony turned the door knob—it was open. Both men moved in quickly but quietly. Tony went right. Forceski cut left.

The parlor was clear.

Both men merged at the door into the kitchen. “Parlor is clear.” They heard the SWAT team assembling on the porch. Tony nodded to Forceski. “So far, so good.” They moved into the kitchen using the same approach. The lights were on and everything seemed normal. They could hear the television in the family room down the hall.

The two men huddled. “I think we ask SWAT to move into the kitchen and camp out here until we clear the family room. This way they have our backs. This is some house.”

“Yeah, nice place. They got money, I guess,” whispered Forceski.

Tony advised Hunter of the plan.

“Tony, I think he’s watching Bear in the Big Blue House.

“That figures. It’s my favorite kid show.” They could hear the bear singing “I am just the shape of a bear . . .” “Let’s do this.”

The two men moved down the dark hallway and paused at the entrance to the family room.

Stuart Abramson, a tall, lanky teenager with a mop of frizzy hair, sat in front of the television, holding his mother’s cramped, lifeless hand. Rachel Abramson lay on the floor, dead from a bullet wound to her head.

Stuart didn’t notice the men yet. Forceski pointed to a rifle that was lying on the floor. He moved quickly and took it. Tony moved toward Stuart slowly, making sure that Stuart was unarmed. “Stuart.”

The boy responded by screaming and punching himself in the head.

“Stuart. Easy. We’re here to help. We are clear. Situation resolved!”

“Mom, Mom, quiet,” Stuart said. Then he began to cry. “Mom. Mom.”

The threat was over, but the scene was horrific. Stuart had blood all over his hands and clothes. There was blood splatter against the wall just past the entrance from a side hall. Mrs. Abramson must have been shot as she walked into the room. She may never have realized what was happening. The round took off most of the back of her head.

Tony felt his heart sink. It was one of the worst things he had ever seen in his life. He glanced at Forceski, who was also shaken.

“This is Colletti.” Tony spoke into his radio. “It’s over. Rifle secured. We have Stuart. It’s over.” Tony sat with Stuart on the couch and spoke quietly to him. “Stuart, what happened?” Stuart looked at him but couldn’t really maintain eye contact. Finally, he said, “Call Daddy.”

“Okay. We will.”

Hunter and the other SWAT team members came into the family room. “Oh my God,” Hunter said, “can he say what happened?” Stuart began hitting himself again, and Tony and Forceski had to restrain him. Hunter didn’t know what to do. “Clear the rest of the house,” said Hunter over the radio. “I guess we cuff him.”

The rest of the evening was a nightmare. Tony sat with Stuart while other detectives tried to get him to describe what had happened. It was impossible to communicate with the boy, who was completely frustrated and continued his self-abusive behavior. The DA investigators had no better luck. It was futile. They couldn’t use information from Stuart, anyway, as he clearly wasn’t competent to waive his rights. Tony had Forceski call Laura, on the sly, and she sent her husband Carlos Melendez up to Hanover to represent Stuart.

It ended up being the strangest interrogation in the history of Castleton County. The perpetrator not only wouldn’t talk, he couldn’t talk. Finally Melendez told the detectives, “Guys, this is over. He isn’t withholding. He really can’t say what happened here.” No one could really argue with him. It seemed that Stuart somehow got a rifle and shot and killed his mother. No one could determine intent. The incident was horrible and senseless.

Stuart would be held overnight in Hanover. He was photographed and booked. Booking is a tedious and tense process with regular offenders, and almost impossible to do to a person with autism.

Tony, Forceski, and Carlos Melendez never left his side. The men had become at least familiar to Stuart. At some point during the night, Dr. Abramson arrived. He looked ashen, as he entered the jail cell at 3:30 a.m. “I am Stuart’s father,” he said to Tony. “I am responsible here.”

Tony stood up and acknowledged him, but didn’t know what to say. Stuart suddenly became animated and started repeating, “Daddy, home. Home, Daddy.”

“The officer outside said that you helped my son,” said Abramson turning to Tony. “He told me you have a son with autism too.”

“Yes,” said Tony quietly, “I do.”

“You may have saved my son’s life.”

“I am so . . . .”

“I am responsible, Officer. I am.”

Tony didn’t know what else to say. Leaving Dr. Abramson in the cell with Stuart, Tony and Forceski headed home. The two men said nothing to each other all the way to Winston PD headquarters where they reported what happened to Chief Lonnegan, who waited for them.

Tony got home after 5:00 a.m. at first light. Anne met him downstairs. “I heard about what happened. You look awful. Go get some rest.”

Tony went upstairs and checked on Sophie and then little Anthony. They looked so sweet and innocent sleeping. He paused a minute over Anthony and brushed his hair and whispered ever so quietly to him, “Freedom. Freedom. I wish that you could have freedom.” Then he kissed his son’s forehead and went into his bedroom. Anne was back in bed and had already dozed back into sleep. He lay down next to her and closed his eyes. He couldn’t get the image of Rachel Abramson out of his mind. Or the image of Stuart in the jail cell.