by J. R. McLeay
Kate took a moment to process the new information.
“It could be that the shooter was choosing noon as a convenient time to maximize his targets moving onto the street at lunch time. Perhaps he chose the same time of day to send a message that he's controlling the streets at this time. Maybe it's part of a scheme to shut the city down. If this were to continue, I imagine it wouldn't take long for the public to become afraid to venture outside at that time of day. If you can validate the timing in future shootings, this could help narrow down the search. In the meantime, I'll do a bit of research on the possible meaning of the one-minute-past-noon connection.”
“I don't just want us to focus on future shootings,” O'Neill interrupted. “Especially if it involves cops. That's not the way to catch this guy. If we can't protect the streets, all hope is lost for maintaining order. I want to find this guy before he does any more damage and he sends the entire city into a panic. Kate, have you got any suggestions as to where we can begin looking to find this nutcase?”
“It probably makes sense to start by looking through the short list of military-trained snipers. Look for someone with a troubled record or a dishonorable discharge. Once an outcast, always an outcast. If that doesn't uncover any suspects, check the adoption records of New York City in the twenty to thirty year ago time span. I have a feeling something awful happened to this fellow in his youth that he's bottled up for a long time. See if you can cross-reference young adopted men with criminal records or a history of violence. Look for any evidence of black market trading of the sniper rifle the suspect uses, but also look for hunting rifle licenses or hunting accidents involving adoptees. I'll comb through our FBI records to see if I can find any similar connections.”
O'Neill sat back in his chair, pleased with the group’s progress.
“That's good work, Kate. In the meantime, I'm going to have my team contact hotel managers around the city to alert them to this sniper's MO. At the very least, we can make it harder for this guy to sneak in and out of his preferred lair. I have a meeting in one hour with the mayor and the commissioner to discuss next steps. The entire force is on edge. Every beat cop is looking over his shoulder, afraid to step outside. If it was the sniper's intention to create fear, he's certainly accomplished that.”
O'Neill stepped up to a calendar hanging on his wall and picked up a pen.
“Kate, can you clear your schedule for the next few days? As long as this pattern continues, I'd like the four of us to meet here at the same time every day to share intel. We'll have a better chance of finding the sniper if we work together.”
“I'll check with my station manager, but there shouldn't be a problem. These serial killers always leave a trail. We'll catch him sooner or later.”
O'Neill placed a large red X through the next few days on his calendar.
“It's the later part that worries me.”
11
The Mayor's Office, City Hall
July 7, 10:00 a.m.
Brady O'Neill sat in the anteroom to the mayor's office, waiting to be invited into his scheduled 10:00 a.m. meeting. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he knew the police commissioner would also be attending. There was almost certainly going to be some tough questions about the spate of sniper shootings.
The walls of the waiting room were adorned with official photos of every New York City mayor, from its first, Thomas Willett, to its currently sitting occupant, Bill Braxton. All one hundred and fourteen were men, and all but one were white. O'Neill noticed another interesting pattern among the officials. Out of sheer boredom, he began counting the number of mayors whose first name was William.
His thoughts were interrupted when he got to the fifteenth, William O'Dwyer.
“The mayor will see you now, Lieutenant O'Neill,” the mayor's secretary announced.
She opened a wooden gate separating the waiting room from the front office, then walked ahead of O'Neill and opened the door to a large room festooned with gold-embroidered U.S. flags. The whole arrangement reminded O'Neill of a courtroom. He wondered who would be on trial today.
As he entered the room, the mayor rose from behind his large desk and walked toward O’Neill. The police commissioner remained seated in a leather armchair with his legs crossed.
“Brady, thanks for coming on such short notice,” the mayor said, extending his hand in greeting.
Even though the two had never met, the mayor had no hesitation referring to the lieutenant in informal terms.
I suppose you can never really take the politician out of political office, O'Neill thought.
“Please, have a seat,” the mayor continued. “Of course, you know the commissioner, Carl Pope.”
The mayor motioned toward the police commissioner, who slowly stood up to shake O'Neill's hand. He glanced at the lieutenant briefly, nodded, then sat back in his chair. The two had only met tangentially at official police functions, where the commissioner had shown little interest in O'Neill while glad-handing with higher officials.
“I've called this meeting to discuss the recent sniper shootings,” the mayor began. “In particular, the execution-style killing of a police officer yesterday. I understand your team is taking the lead on the investigation. These public shootings have begun to generate increasing interest from the press, and my office is getting bombarded with questions I'm not equipped to answer. I was hoping you and the commissioner could get me up to speed on the status of the investigation and your plan for stopping these killings.”
O'Neill looked toward Commissioner Pope to see if he would speak first. The commissioner simply nodded back.
“My team has made some progress identifying the suspect,” the lieutenant said. “We have video footage of him breaking into a hotel to set up for the most recent attack.”
The mayor raised an eyebrow.
“The one involving the mounted police officer?”
“Yes. We believe in all three instances, he fired from a hotel room after posing as a guest.”
“Do you have any leads as to his current whereabouts?”
“No, but we've enlisted the support of the FBI. We're building a profile that has given us some clues to begin investigating.”
The mayor paused to size O'Neill up. This was their first time meeting, and he wasn’t sure how much he could trust the lieutenant’s judgment.
“The sniper has attacked on three successive days at the same time of day,” he said. “What's your plan for averting another attack?”
“We know how he gains entrance to the hotel rooms. We've alerted every hotel manager in the city to be on the lookout for someone matching the sniper's description and ensure all guest rooms are secured and accessible only to registered guests. We've also notified our officers on the street to watch for a slim young man carrying an unusually shaped work case.”
The mayor nodded, seemingly satisfied with O'Neill's answers so far.
“What about our officers? Are they unnerved about yesterday's shooting? Is anyone showing reluctance to resume their beat? What steps are we taking to protect them?”
O'Neill glanced at the commissioner. This was a broader issue that was beyond the scope of his authority.
The commissioner looked the mayor squarely in the eyes and spoke in a confident tone.
“Our cops aren't afraid to go into the line of fire. Everybody knows it's part of the job.”
“I'm sure they do, Carl,” the mayor said. “But I'd like to prevent a recurrence of yesterday's circus. It looks to me, and perhaps increasingly to the public, like we’re sitting ducks out there. Can't we equip our cops with better protection?”
“Every police officer already wears a bulletproof vest,” the commissioner said. “Plus, the mounted officer's helmet didn't provide much protection against the fatal bullet.”
“What about riot gear? Don't you have more protective helmets in reserve, like the kind the ESU team uses?”
The mayor was reaching, O’Neill thought. Looking for simple
solutions to complex issues.
That's what politicians do.
“Riot helmets are only designed to resist rocks and other light projectiles,” the commissioner continued, “not high-powered rifle bullets. Besides, do you really want to send all our cops out in riot gear to roam the streets of Manhattan? That will just accelerate the rising public panic.”
The mayor slumped back in his chair and looked out the window.
“So you're recommending we just operate business as usual? I hate to think what the press will say if—God forbid—another cop or pregnant woman falls prey to this sniper. One or both of our heads could be on the block next.”
The room fell silent as all three considered the ramifications.
O'Neill suddenly looked up.
“We may not need to take such bold measures yet,” he said. “The sniper has established a predictable MO. He always fires to the top of the head. Every patrol cop wears a standard-issue police cap. We could jerry-rig something pretty easily to fit under their cap that could stop a bullet.”
The mayor paused for a moment then looked at his watch.
“It's already ten forty-five. We've only got a little over an hour before this guy potentially strikes again. Can you get the word out and fashion something that quickly?”
O'Neill looked at the commissioner who shook his head skeptically.
“Every police vest has Kevlar inserts in its compartments,” the lieutenant continued. “As a temporary measure we could ask each officer to cut out a small patch and place it under his cap. It's not perfect, but it could work at least until we come up with something more permanent.”
“And just ask every cop to keep his head down?” the mayor scoffed.
O'Neill shrugged.
“Literally, yes. So far, the sniper has taken up positions some distance above the street. Assuming he sticks to his MO, this will at least prevent a fatal head shot.”
“What about the civilians?” the mayor asked. “How are we going to protect them? We can't put bulletproof hats on everybody.”
The commissioner jumped in to defend the lieutenant.
“I think Lieutenant O'Neill has a workable plan for protecting the principle targets. Hopefully, his other actions will close down the sniper's lairs and make it harder for him to set up. But if he does strike again, I think we should entertain some kind of message to warn the public. At least for the narrow timeframe that he's confined his activity to so far.”
The mayor threw up his hands.
“And turn the streets over to the criminals? What kind of message does that send about our ability to protect the public?”
The commissioner shook his head.
“It's your call, Mr. Mayor. With respect, this appears to be a political issue. I think you need to decide which is the lesser of two evils: maintaining public safety with a limited curfew or risking another highly public assassination of an innocent bystander.”
The mayor paused for a long time to consider the options.
“Okay, Carl. Let's see if Lieutenant O'Neill's measures work in discouraging the shooter. If they don’t, I want you to take the point on notifying the public about appropriate safety measures. In the meantime, I'd like to be kept informed daily of the progress you and your team are making on finding this sniper. This could quickly turn into a political landmine for all of us.”
The commissioner and Lieutenant O'Neill looked straight at the mayor. They both knew he was setting one or both of them up to be the fall guy.
12
Washington Square, Lower Manhattan
July 7, 11:30 a.m.
It’s another lovely day in Lower Manhattan. Washington Square is beautiful this time of year. Big leafy trees, the circular fountain, and the famous arch at the foot of 5th Avenue. Not quite the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, but still impressive.
And lots of young people. Smack-dab in the hotbed of NYU. The students are scurrying between classes, taking an occasional break to rest their heavy backpacks and chat with colleagues by the fountain. A couple of cops are milling about, parkgoers eyeing them nervously.
It's less busy than usual in New York's public spaces today. Yesterday's shooting made the front page of the Post and the Daily News. The story finally made it above the fold in the Times. The city's finally catching on to the fact that there's a new killer in its midst.
But this is no Son of Sam, who operated in the dark and only targeted young couples. This killer strikes indiscriminately: young women, middle-aged men—even cops.
‘High Noon Sniper Strikes Again’, the Daily News billed it. ‘Serial Killer Ups the Ante’, said the Post. ‘Hotel Sniper Targets Cop’, the Times reported.
Not terribly catchy. I'll have to give the press something more interesting to chew on. Let's see if they can come up with something a little more memorable.
These people don't appear to have gotten the message. It's a quarter to twelve, and there's still lots of students milling about the fountain. Young people always think they’re invincible. It would be so easy to pick one of them off from my perch above the park. I could have a field day, just like the German sniper in that movie.
Here we go.
Looks like the other shoe dropped. Everyone's checking the time on their phones and getting up to clear out. Slipping into cafes and under awnings. I guess the word’s gotten around after all. No point taking any unnecessary chances. It's only for a few minutes. It'll be safe again shortly after noon, right?
Better to be safe than sorry. Nobody wants today to be their unlucky day.
Nobody except the cops, that is. You'd think this would be the perfect moment for them to step inside for a donut. I'm surprised they're not looking up for shiny objects and suspicious movement from above. You gotta give it to them, though. It takes a lot of guts to put yourself in the line of fire the day after one of your brothers-in-arms has fallen.
It's funny how quickly the streets can clear when the public is properly motivated. They're scurrying like ants into the safety of their anthills. Now it's only the yellow beetles marching down the thoroughfares of Lower Manhattan as we near noon. Where could you be safer than inside the steel cocoon of a taxicab?
Everyone's ducking into automobiles now, looking for safe passage. They're probably talking about the crazy sniper who's out there watching them right now. Good thing they're safely holed up in their metal and glass cages.
There's a stream of taxis moving toward me along Washington Square North. The light turns red at the intersection where 5th Avenue ends in front of the Washington Square Arch. One cabbie is strumming the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change. He knows his fare racks up faster on the move than letting the clock tick it off.
It's 12:01. The cabbie sees the traffic signal on the 5th Avenue lamppost turn yellow. As he prepares to rush out of the intersection, I size him up in my scope.
Why do people feel so safe behind fragile glass windows?
The moment the light turns green, I pull the trigger. With only one short block to travel, the bullet quickly snaps the cabbie's head back and he slumps forward onto the steering wheel. His car glides through the intersection with the horn wailing until it bumps into the lamppost on the other side. In the back seat, two passengers duck behind the backrest, cowering in fear.
This ought to give the newspapers something to write about.
13
Washington Square
July 7, 12:04 p.m.
Within three minutes of the shooting, flashing lights and wailing sirens pierced the peaceful setting of the park. Scores of police cruisers converged on the corner of 5th Avenue and Washington Square North. Cops poured out of their cars with guns drawn and began fanning out to block the escape of the sniper. One group raced toward the Washington Square Hotel at the northwest corner of the park.
A few short minutes later, Joe and Hannah's unmarked cruiser screeched to a stop beside the stricken taxi. Joe got out and flashed his badge to the patrol cop who was tryin
g to keep gawkers at bay.
“Detectives Bannon and Trimble from the Eighteenth Precinct,” he announced to the cop. “We're heading the investigation for the sniper. What time did you arrive on the scene?”
“My partner and I were patrolling the park when we heard the shot. He took off in the direction of the sound while I secured the crime scene.”
“From which direction did the shot come?” Joe asked. “Can you tell how far away it was and when it was fired?”
The patrol cop nodded.
“I checked my watch just before twelve. The shot was fired a minute later. Sounded only about a block away, toward the west.”
He pointed toward a building on the northwest side of the park.
“The Washington Square Hotel is on the corner. Fits the sniper's pattern. A bunch of our guys headed over there a couple of minutes before you arrived to lock it down.”
Hannah looked at Joe.
“Should we follow? We know what to look for and his known escape paths.”
Joe paused to look through the windshield of the taxi at the cab driver slumped over the wheel.
“One sec, Han.”
He placed his finger over the bullet hole in the glass then stepped a few paces into the middle of the intersection. He lifted his arm and swung it five degrees to the left. Then he looked down his extended arm toward a high-rise building on the southwest corner and motioned for Hannah.
“There isn't a clear sightline from the hotel to this location. Too many tall trees blocking the view. Plus there are no windows on the east face of the hotel. But look at the building to its immediate left. It's taller and has a clear line of sight to this spot. The turret on top of the building would provide perfect cover for the sniper.”
