“If you look closely, you can tell what day of the week it is by the tie Zoran’s wearing,” Dan told Yoko.
The other detective, Brian Watson, a burly man with clothing as rumpled as Zoran’s was wrinkle-free, was one of the older detectives at the 13th Precinct—the “one-three” as they called it. Watson was obsessed with plans for his approaching retirement and because of that single-minded focus, hardly seemed to notice Zoran’s reluctance to shake hands or the OCD detective’s compulsion to count random objects at random moments. Fortunately, Brian Watson and Zoran Zeissing rarely worked together, usually only when her Dan Riley, Zoran’s regular partner, was off duty.
Zoran could sometimes be a pain to work with, but Yoko admired his uncanny ability to resolve cases that baffled others. She had a special fondness for Zoran, for good reason: some eleven months earlier, Zoran had answered the phone when Yoko telephoned the precinct after escaping from the killer who’d had her abducted. Thanks to Zoran’s unorthodox management of the police response, the killer had been caught in minutes and the nightmare that had begun with the woman murdered in front of Yoko was finally over.
Then, true to finicky form, once she was safe, Zoran lectured Yoko about the risk she’d taken escaping from an armed and dangerous man. Later, knowing that Yoko’s expertise in optometry had helped solve the case, he’d recommended to Chief Sanders that Yoko be hired as a civilian consultant. She wouldn’t be the first optometrist to work with the police––Gus Forkiotis had led the way at the Connecticut State Police Academy decades earlier––but Yoko was NYPD’s first female civilian consultant and their first optometrist.
Reluctant at first to be involved in more mayhem, Yoko finally accepted the post of civilian consultant. It turned out that much of her optometric training meshed with the police requirements, often going further. Her studies of anatomy, psychology, pathology and pharmacology were terrific preparation for police work. Not only that, her accreditation as an optometrist licensed by the state to prescribe pharmaceuticals for the eyes impressed the chief, particularly her knowledge of the effects of drugs—including narcotics. By now, everyone at the station from the chief on down knew that Yoko was a specialist in behavioral optometry.
“It’s a valuable health care that expands on traditional optometry,” Yoko explained to the group the chief had gathered to hear more about what their attractive civilian consultant did. “The results are remarkable for youngsters and adults who have learning or behavior problems.”
“You mean the criminals would quit, go straight if they had vision therapy?” someone called out from the back of the room.
“Say it isn’t so––we’d be out of work.” The wry comment got a laugh from everyone, even Yoko.
“No need to worry, I doubt that’ll happen,” she said. “What I didn’t get the chance to say yet is that if there’s an imbalance in someone’s vision system that often triggers a learning or behavior problem.”
“Is this a new fad?” Sergeant Greer asked. “Motivational tapes, soft music and all that.”
“Hardly,” Yoko said. “Behavioral optometry has been around for decades and has the scientific evidence to support it. It’s taught in twenty colleges of optometry here in the U.S. and colleges around the word and is available in forty countries.”
That silenced the doubters.
After Yoko graduated from the series of police courses she dubbed, “Detecting 101,” Chief Sanders told her, "You're more than ready to join us for certain cases, Yoko, and I want you to know you'll always be with the best on the force. I promise you’ll never have to face a maniac alone, the way you did last year.
“I’m pleased Zoran suggested you for special duty, those times when he needs another pair of eyes. You know Zoran has the best record in the country for solving cases, he’s an important and valuable member of the team. But…how can I put this? He needs partners who are…let’s say, supportive of his sometimes…distinctive methods. Good investigators themselves, willing to think outside the box, not worried when someone pushes the envelope.” The chief looked at her seriously, clearly sending an important message.
“Dan fits the bill admirably, and I think you will too, but with a different sensibility. Maybe because you're Japanese American. Zoran was born here, soon after his parents arrived.”
“I’ve been witness to Zoran’s work over the years. He’s quirky and unpredictable but for sure he’s brilliant,” Dan said when he learned that Zoran had suggested Yoko to Chief Sanders as a civilian consultant.
“Zoran, that’s an unusual name, I don’t think I've ever known someone called Zoran,” Yoko said.
“His family’s from Croatia, part of what used to be Yugoslavia,” Dan explained. “His people were well-educated, his parents spoke several languages, including English. They were architects in Dubrovnik but had to retake all the exams here and they passed with flying colors. You have to admire that kind of resiliency and determination. They both died a few years ago.”
Now, as Yoko looked over the current scene, she wondered what Zoran was seeing, and how it might differ from her impressions.
She watched him step ultra-cautiously around the debris, careful that nothing touch him. Periodically his index finger twitched, ticking off significant items he observed. Zoran never took notes, apparently the simple tick of a finger was sufficient to imprint an item on his encyclopedic mind. Occasionally, he would pause and stare off into space. Sorting the encyclopedia, Yoko assumed. What, she wondered, was in it?
A few minutes ago, Brian had finished interviewing the roller-blader, then allowed her to glide off down the street, cell phone reinstated against her ear. Another uniformed officer arrived and cordoned off the area and stood guard, ready to warn people away from the site. Amazingly, no one had materialized, not even media types. That was odd. Brian stood near the police photographer, who snapped picture after picture of the balloonist, moving hurriedly out of the way as the ambulance crew prepared to move the balloonist to the stretcher.
Zoran continued his careful route amongst the ruins of the balloon, zeroing in on bits of wreckage, then staring off into space again. Was he seeing something written against the sky, some message from the ether only he could decode? She had much to learn from the master.
Brian sidled over to Yoko. “Zeissing wants to talk to you when he’s finished browsing. Did you see the balloon crash?”
“I didn’t see it but I heard the noise, it was terrible, almost burst my eardrums. Did you find out how the roller-blader knew about the crash?”
“Her name’s Cooper, Andrea Cooper. She said her uncle’s the security guard in the building across the street and was just leaving work when the balloon hit the college. He knew she’d be heading to her job at that pricey eatery around the corner and he called her cell phone to warn her of the accident. He had to get to his day job but told her to give us his name and number and tell us he was locking up when he heard all the noise and saw the basket of the balloon hit the ground. He thought it was empty, didn’t see anyone in it, which figures, the guy landed behind the debris, outta sight.”
“Did the security guard from the college call in?”
“Jeez, with two jobs like that uncle, I could retire early.” Brian considered that beguiling scenario for a moment then brought his attention back to Yoko. “Yep, the security guard on duty at the college called to report the noise. Said he couldn’t see anything because the whole front of the place was covered by the balloon. I think he was afraid to leave the building. Coupla cabbies called it in too. So…you got here right after the balloon crashed?”
“Almost immediately,” Yoko said.
“The Cooper girl said he told you his name—Archer, right? No ID on him, no wallet, nothing in his pockets, nothing at all. Nothing in the wreckage either, not even a map. He just said ‘Archer,’ huh? Not a first name?”
“Archer could be a first name,” Yoko said.
“Yeah, guess so. You got a point there.”
> Zoran had finished his slow walk around the debris and was standing still. Now and then he stared up at the material from the hot-air balloon, great swaths of fabric hanging off the face of the building, limp in the still air.
“Guys, you better look at this,” one of the ambulance men called.
They’d lifted up the balloonist and revealed a puddle of darkening blood. About to slide the stretcher under the man, they halted obediently when Zoran called out, “Wait. Stop. Don’t put him on the stretcher, hold him right there for a moment.”
He hurried over to where the two EMTs balanced the stretcher impatiently and bent down, peering at something under it. Yoko moved closer and bent to look, trying to see what Zoran had spotted. The police photographer came nearer, angling his camera for the best view.
“It is the shaft of an arrow,” Zoran said. “He has been shot with an arrow that is still in him This is now a crime scene.”
“So that’s what he meant when he said ‘Archer,’” Yoko said. “It’s not a name, he was trying to tell us he’d been shot by an archer.”
“Who cares?” Brian grumbled. “Guy broke the law, it’s not legal to fly solo over Manhattan. Someone shot him and he crashed. End of story.”
Yoko groaned inwardly at Brian’s comment. It was okay for someone to shoot the guy because he was flying a balloon illegally?
“Why would someone be shooting arrows in the air?” Zoran said, apparently oblivious to Brian’s remark.
“Man, we gotta get to the hospital. It’s urgent,” one of the EMTs said.
Zoran nodded. Now that the EMTs knew they were dealing with a wound in the back and possible internal injuries, they skillfully positioned the balloonist face down on the stretcher and speedily loaded him into the ambulance, which set off, siren wailing.
Yoko looked at her watch: 7:30 already. If she hurried, she could at least sort through the piles of paper on her desk before Dan arrived. She’d find out more about the accident from him.
“Officers, any more questions for me? All right if I go?”
Brian Watson shrugged. Zoran gave no indication he’d even heard her. Yoko headed for the side door to the college, the main one was blocked. No one would be able to use the front entrance until the mass of material from the balloon was removed. That would be a headache and a half.
Jay, the guard on duty greeted Yoko cheerily, used to her frequent arrival on weekends. “G’morning, Yoko, what’s happening outside? Can’t see a thing with all that stuff covering the glass.”
“A nasty accident, Jay. Those are the remnants from a hot-air balloon that you’re looking at. Only one person was in it and he’s seriously injured.”
“Oh man, that’s too bad. Think he blew over from New Jersey?”
“Could be,” Yoko said, smiling as she signed in. Jay was convinced all things strange originated in New Jersey. She climbed the stairs to her office, calling back, “I won’t be here long. Dan’s coming by when he gets off. Should be soon.”
She settled down at her desk with a sense of relief. Enough disaster for one day. The ferry ride and beach would be welcome diversions. She’d finished sorting papers into “Must Do,” and “Can Wait” piles when her phone rang. It was Dan.
“Morning, strange one so far,” Yoko said.
“Sorry to hear that because I don’t have good news,” Dan replied. “I’ve been put on a murder case, high-profile one. Look’s like my day off’s cancelled.”
“He died? But how do you know it’s murder already, not an accident?”
“Say again? You know about the case I’m on?”
“The balloon that crashed over the college. I…”
“Gotta go,” Dan interrupted, “but my murder’s not at the college. But hey, I get brownie points, yes? I called this time.”
Rats, Yoko thought, forget brownie points. I’m sick of this. It’s too much, wasting a gorgeous day like this. I bet the idiot volunteered. Guess I’ll be eating alone tonight. Dan claims he has the soul of a romantic but he’s an absentee romantic. Not good enough.
Yoko’s phone rang again. It was Zoran Zeissing.
“Doctor, are you free to join me on a murder investigation?”
4
From the south end of Union Square Park, the gentle breeze carried the hot-air balloon slowly northeastwards. Union Square was achingly familiar territory for Hans. It was where Frankie Manning had heard him fiddling the wild, racing melodies of his Romani heritage and invited him to the Cat Club, just a block over, on East 13th Street. There, Hans had played his fiddle and watched as Frankie dazzled a group of students with his jazz dancing, the exuberant, magical moves the athletic maestro called three-minute romances. Brigitta had been the one student in the small group that Hans watched all those years ago, as the dapper Frankie, smiling in pure joy, tapping so fast the lightning moves of his feet were a blur, had glided and twirled and leaped breath-takingly high to the strains of Hans’ music.
Brigitta had been equally fascinated by the music and by Hans. She was captivated by his obvious ardor for his heritage. No three-minute romance for Hans and Brigitta. Decades of loving and dancing and dreaming of future success had followed. Until cancer took Brigitta.
Hans choked down the bittersweet memories. Time to concentrate on the here and now, on what his family expected of him.
The National Arts Club was a scant two blocks ahead, off at ten o’clock. So far, so good. This was the trickiest part of the flight. He pulled the lanyard and released a little air, drifting down just a bit. He’d have to be careful. Having to gain altitude by triggering the balloon’s burner would be noisy and could alarm his target; better to come in a bit high and let the balloon drop slowly and silently to the roof top. The building he was heading for was only three stories tall, and he needed to be close enough to the roof to be able to use a grappling hook if he had to. With continued good fortune, whose face had done nothing but smile on him this morning, he’d settle squarely on the rooftop.
As he approached the impressive brownstone occupying the corner of Irving Place at Gramercy Park South, he released more air from the bag, jubilant with his God. The balloon settled another 30 feet, the rooftop now 200 feet straight ahead and only 20 feet below the basket. One more release of air and the basket would drop silently to the roof, opposite his target.
Hans focused on the incarnate evil at the end of the roof-top archery run—the man at the end of the archery range, who appeared to be mesmerized by the arrows he had placed perfectly in the circular bulls-eye target, completely oblivious to the hot-air balloon drifting closer.
Hans bled off some more air, then removed the Luger from its holster as the balloon continued to descend to the roof, oh so gently. He held the Luger in his right hand, keeping his eyes on the man in the archery range and carefully picked up the grappling hook by feel. Hans knew he would have to approach the man quietly, using the open door at the other end of the wire mesh-protected range. Bullets from the Luger probably would penetrate the mesh surrounding the archery run, but he needed to make sure.
A ray of sunlight from that open doorway at the opposite end of the archery run flashed across Hans’ eyes, and his attention shifted to the astonishing sight of a second archer standing there, her bow raised, a hunting arrow notched and ready to fly, sunlight glistening from its razored tip.
Her arrow flew, finding and knifing into its target—Hans’ quarry. The man arched his back, then slowly fell forward, the arrow protruding from his back.
“No!” Hans cried. “He’s mine!” Hans raised his Luger. “Mine!”
The startled archer stared up at Hans, her mouth agape at the sight of a man in the basket of a balloon, a man waving a pistol. Where the hell did he come from?
She notched another arrow.
5
“The balloonist died and already you’re convinced it was murder?” Yoko said, thinking her words were strangely déjà vu.
“I am not talking about the balloonist. We are needed on
a different case.”
“Really? Fine. If you’re still outside, I can be there in a minute,” Yoko said.
Now that Dan had cancelled, she might as well join Zoran for some sort of excitement. She sure wasn’t going to spend a day at the beach by herself.
The OCD detective was waiting by the side entrance when she reached the lobby.
“Brian will drive us there, although we could as easily walk to Gramercy Park. We will be briefed when we arrive.”
“When we arrive where? The National Arts Club?” Yoko asked, immediately thinking that there had been yet another brouhaha at the club at Gramercy Park. Like the troubling stories about pigeons poisoned inside the gated park, one of several articles that had appeared in the Post. Always something going on, frequently rumors from the gossip mill. When Zoran shook his head, she was relieved, until he spoke.
“When we arrive at the Fellini home.” Zoran said.
“A murder at the Fellini home?”
“That is correct, the husband, Marco Fellini, has been shot with an arrow, just like the balloonist.” Zoran shuddered, as if worried young braves had returned to the warpath while he was straightening the knives in his cutlery drawer. Yet again.
He shook himself back to the moment. “I believe you know the Fellinis, Yoko.”
“Yes,” Yoko said, struggling to adjust to the shocking news. “Marco Fellini funded a vision therapy program for students at P.S. 41.”
“Are you saying he knew about your work in behavioral optometry?” Zoran sounded almost insulted that someone else had an insider’s knowledge about the little-known optometric specialty that was Yoko’s passion.
“Yes. His wife had raging migraines and was referred to my boss, Dr. Forrest.”
“She was helped and the husband also sought therapy?” Zoran said, in one of his mind-boggling connect-the-dots leaps of understanding.
Eye Wit Page 2
