by J. R. McLeay
17
NBC Studio 1A, Rockefeller Plaza
July 8, 6:45 a.m.
Police Commissioner Pope rested uncomfortably in the prep room for the Today Show. He was scheduled to be interviewed by the show's host shortly after it aired at 7:00 a.m. The fourth sniper killing in as many days had attracted sensational headlines from every news agency in the city. Some tabloids suggested the NYPD was inept and being outwitted by the mysterious sniper. The mayor had asked the commissioner to tamp down the hysteria level and assure the public that the situation would soon be under control.
The commissioner anticipated a tough interview with many difficult questions. Worst of all, the NYPD had precious few leads as to the identity or whereabouts of the killer. The sniper had slipped through their dragnet once again, and the investigation team had no clues about where he might strike next.
A makeup technician blotted Pope's sweaty forehead as a familiar face entered the prep room and approached his chair.
“Commissioner Pope?” the man said, extending his hand. “I'm Doug Morrison, host of the Today Show. I just wanted to stop by and make sure you're comfortable before we start the interview. We'll have you join us in the main studio after the first commercial break, around seven twenty. Did you have any questions?”
The commissioner shook his head, trying to look calm.
“I've been on TV before. However, something tells me this interview will be a bit more challenging.”
“Not to worry,” Morrison assured. “We're just looking for any insights you can share on the status of the investigation and what citizens can do to protect themselves.”
The commissioner eyed the host suspiciously. He knew reporters tried to sensationalize their news stories, and this one already had plenty of buzz.
“A stage manager will escort you to the studio at the appointed time," the host said. "See you in about thirty minutes.”
At 7:17 a.m., the stage manager retrieved Pope and escorted him to the main set. He directed the commissioner to sit in a high chair directly opposite the host while a stagehand attached a microphone to his suit lapel.
“We'll be going live in sixty seconds,” the stage manager said.
Morrison nodded toward the commissioner as a makeup technician performed a final touch-up. Behind the camera a production assistant called down the live feed.
“Five, four, three, two, one—live.”
The red light atop the main camera lit up.
“We're here with New York City Police Commissioner Carl Pope,” Morrison said, facing the camera. “Commissioner Pope, thank you for joining us today.”
“Thanks for having me,” the commissioner replied.
“As you know, the city has experienced a series of unusual shootings these last few days. We're hoping you can shed some light on the department's progress finding the killer and what the public can do to protect itself.”
The commissioner paused as he considered his answer.
“We've collected video footage of the suspect, and we know where he sets up. We’ve narrowly missed apprehending him. It's just a matter of time before we find and neutralize the perpetrator.”
Morrison looked at the commissioner, unconvinced.
“This sniper apparently fires from hotel rooms. What steps has the force taken to prevent unauthorized entry to these spaces and block his escape should he try to set up there again?”
“We've notified every hotel manager in the city to ensure guest rooms are locked at all times. We also have a protocol for locking down any building suspected of harboring the suspect.”
Morrison's brow furrowed.
“How did the suspect evade your lockdown in four successive shootings?”
Commissioner Pope began to feel his blood pressure rise as he gripped the arms of his chair tightly.
“It takes several minutes for our first responders to arrive on the scene and identify the firing location. This killer is very clever. He seems to know exactly how long it takes for our team to respond and how to bypass our cordon.”
Morrison cocked his head.
“Are you suggesting he's smarter than your cops? Haven't you got a lot more resources to work with? How many officers are working to find the killer?”
Commissioner Pope clenched his jaw. Apparently the sniper wasn't the only one ambushing his police force.
“Our entire force of thirty-five thousand officers is on alert to watch for someone matching the suspect's description. The detective squads at the First and Eighteenth Precincts are leading the investigation. We've also enlisted the help of the FBI in constructing a profile, and we're following up on some leads.”
“What exactly do we know about the killer so far?”
“He's a white male in his mid-twenties, about six feet tall and a hundred seventy-five pounds. He uses a high-grade sniper rifle with special bullets. We're currently investigating individuals with a military background.”
“You've brought a photo of the suspect,” Morrison said. “May we share it with our viewers now?”
The commissioner nodded and the camera cut to a still image of the sniper exiting the Pierre Hotel two days ago.
“That's a pretty blurry image,” the host said, squinting at the photo. “Between the beard, the hat, and the sunglasses, there's not much we can make out. That could be any one of thousands of New York City citizens. Is that all you have?”
The commissioner shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Our technicians are working to clarify the image quality and provide a clearer picture to share with the public. One of the distinguishing characteristics of the suspect is the unusual case he carries. It's a square black roller case with a long round handle. If any citizen sees someone matching this description, please notify the police department immediately.”
Morrison nodded, satisfied with the new information.
“What can we surmise about the killer's motivation? Each of the victims was very different. Is anybody safe out there?”
“Our FBI profiler has established certain commonalities between the victims. We've begun to search our databases to find suspects who fit the profile.”
Morrison sensed the commissioner was holding something back.
“In each case, the sniper shot his victims in the head from a long distance,” he continued. “Always right around noon. What can we make of that?”
“I'm not sure we can make any conclusions just yet. I don't want to speculate until we have more information.”
“Our switchboard is getting hundreds of calls a day from people who say they feel like sitting ducks when they go outside. What can the citizens of New York City do to protect themselves?”
The commissioner nodded sympathetically.
“So far, the killer has limited his shootings to a relatively narrow time frame. Until we apprehend him, we're recommending that everyone refrain from going out in public between 11:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m.”
Morrison raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Is this an official curfew?”
“At this point, it's simply an advisory.”
“Does this apply to people on foot and in vehicles?”
“Yes. Hopefully this will only be necessary for a few days. We hope to apprehend the killer soon.”
“So far the sniper has only struck in Manhattan. Is the advisory for the downtown borough only?”
“For now, yes. But I think all citizens of New York City should take the necessary precautions to protect themselves and their families. It may be wise for everyone to stay indoors during this time frame until we find the killer.”
Morrison reached out to shake the commissioner’s hand.
“Thank you for joining us today, Commissioner. I think I share the sentiments of every citizen of New York in expressing Godspeed to the NYPD in—"
Morrison suddenly placed his finger to his ear and turned his face to the side as he listened to a message in his earpiece. Then he turned toward the camera.
“I've just been informed of a new sniper shooting at Whitehall Ferry Terminal. A passenger disembarking from the Staten Island Ferry was shot during the morning rush hour.”
Morrison turned back toward the commissioner.
“Commissioner Pope, what do you make of this latest incident? An early morning shooting breaks from the sniper's usual pattern. Will you extend the advisory to a wider timeframe?”
The commissioner pulled a mobile phone from his jacket and paused as he read something on the screen.
“We need to confirm this is the same shooter,” he said. “For now, the advisory stands as recommended. We'll release a statement when we have more information. You'll have to excuse me now as I have more important business to attend to.”
The commissioner began removing his lapel microphone as the camera zoomed in on the show's host.
“There you have it, folks,” the host announced. “Our city is in an unprecedented state of lockdown while the NYPD searches for a dangerous and unpredictable killer. Let’s all pray for a speedy resolution of this matter so we can avoid further bloodshed and reclaim our normal lives.”
With the sound of frenzied shuffling in the background, the camera cut to commercial.
18
Astoria, Queens
Twelve years earlier
The young woman sat on her living room sofa, leafing through a photo album. She paused at a picture of newlyweds laughing while confetti rained on their heads. It seemed so long ago when they married, even though it had only been a few years. She caressed the image of her husband wearing his Marine uniform. He was so dashing in his dress blues, with his white peaked cap and long sword at his side.
She knew the life of a Marine officer's wife would entail stretches of time apart, but it had been many long months since she'd felt his tender caress. After the September 11 attacks, the Gulf War had pulled Joe overseas for an indefinite time. Now all she had to combat her loneliness was their five-year-old son, who sat quietly beside her, playing with a toy.
As her mind wandered to memories of their wedding night, she heard a sound in the kitchen. Getting up to investigate, she told her son to stay in the living room. As she approached the kitchen with caution, she saw a shadow move along the floor. Sensing an intruder, she flipped open her phone and began dialing 9-1-1.
Just before the line started ringing, someone grabbed her from behind. She dropped the phone and her son began wailing. A man gripped her tightly around the waist and held a carving knife inches from her throat.
“Where's your cash and jewelry?” he rasped.
“I…don't keep much money in the house,” she said.
Her son was cowering on the sofa, his eyes wide as saucers with fear.
“Please don't hurt us,” the woman said. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
The man looked at the boy on the sofa then grabbed the woman's left hand.
“Where's your wedding ring? Aren't you married?”
“Yes,” she said. “My husband will be home soon.”
“Don't play games with me,” the man snorted. “I've been watching you. No one has come to this house in days. Give me your valuables if you don’t want your son to watch his mother bleed to death before his eyes.”
The woman glanced at her phone on the floor. The screen was still illuminated with the 9-1-1 number, indicating the call had been connected. She knew the operator would be tracing the call and sending a patrol car to investigate within minutes. All she had to do was remain calm and keep the intruder distracted.
“It's upstairs. Just give me a moment and I'll get it for you.”
The man eased his grip and the woman instinctively reached for her son. Whatever she did, she didn't want to leave him alone with this violent stranger.
The man suddenly grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and dragged him off the sofa.
“The child stays with me. Now hurry, if you don't want to see him harmed.”
“Mommy!” the boy wailed, trying to pull away from the man. “Help me!”
The intruder placed the knife under the boy's chin.
“Let’s go together,” he said. “That way I can keep my eye on both of you and make sure nobody tries anything fancy.”
The man saw the phone on the floor and kicked it across the room.
“Get a move on. You've got exactly one minute to hand over your jewelry.”
The woman turned to head upstairs and the man followed, dragging the boy with his heels flopping on the floor. When they got to the second floor, the woman went into the master bedroom and opened a jewelry box.
“Here,” she said thrusting the open box toward the intruder. “Take everything—just leave me and my son alone.”
The man used the tip of the knife to search through the box and move its contents around. It was full of silver bracelets and broaches.
“Don't waste my time. This stuff is worthless. Where's your wedding ring?”
The woman knew full well where she kept her ring. She’d gotten in the habit of not wearing it around the house while her husband was away. She didn't want to scratch it while washing dishes or playing with her son. She always kept it in a jar in the kitchen cupboard. But it held sentimental value to her and she hesitated. She just needed to keep the intruder at bay for a few more moments.
“I thought it was in the jewelry box,” she lied. “Let me check the bathroom.”
If she gave the intruder her ring, she was worried what else he might demand. She was wearing a flimsy nightgown, and the man was leering at her undulating breasts.
“Don't fuck with me!” the man yelled. “Every woman knows where she keeps her wedding ring. I'll slice your child open like a ripe tomato if you don't hand it over right now!”
He placed the edge of the knife at the side of her son's throat. The child looked at his mother and whimpered. The man grabbed the boy's hair, and the boy flinched in pain. The knife cut a thin red line across the boy's neck and blood started gushing out.
The woman screamed in horror and ran to her son. She pulled the comforter off the bed and held it up to her son's neck to stem the bleeding. But it couldn't stop the cascade pouring from his carotid artery. Blood was spurting in every direction.
“Call 9-1-1!” the woman screamed at the intruder.
For a brief moment, he looked at her as if to apologize for the accident. Then he quickly turned and ran downstairs and out the side door.
Seconds later, the sound of sirens surrounded the house.
19
NYPD 18th Precinct
July 8, 11:00 a.m.
The blinds on Lieutenant O'Neill's office windows rattled as he entered the room and shut the door firmly behind him. Joe, Hannah, and Kate looked at each other expectantly on the other side of his desk. The morning's shooting had upped the stakes in the investigation and they were feeling pressure to deliver results.
“I hope you guys have something for me,” O'Neill said. “I just got off the phone with the commissioner. He's blown a gasket over this ferry shooting. He wasn’t too thrilled that it happened while he was being interviewed on live TV. The mayor and the press are looking for answers, and we've got very little to give them. What do you make of this latest incident? Is it the same shooter?”
Joe nodded.
“It breaks with his pattern of midday shootings. But it otherwise fits the profile. Another head shot fired from a long distance with a .338 slug.”
“From a hotel, like the other killings?”
“We're not sure yet,” Joe said. “Eyewitnesses in the area of Battery Park said they heard a gunshot coming from the vicinity of the Ritz-Carlton. But we haven't been able to track anyone to the time and location of the shooting.”
“What about the cabbie shooting yesterday? Wasn’t that fired from the Washington Square Hotel?”
“We don't think so,” Hannah said. “There was no clear line of sight from that location to the spot where the driver was hit. We think he fired
from a co-op apartment building across the street. He had a perfect vantage point from its rooftop.”
O’Neill tapped his fingers on his desk.
“How soon were you able to lock the building down?”
“We arrived on the scene in less than ten minutes and locked it down almost immediately.”
“Based on the Pierre video, that should have been enough to trap him. What happened?”
Joe looked at the lieutenant blankly.
“He slipped through our fingers. We found no trace of him.”
“What about security footage from the building? Co-ops in that part of town should have pretty sophisticated CCTV systems.”
“We looked at the footage,” Hannah said. “There was no sign of ingress or egress from anyone matching the perp's profile at any time during the day.”
The lieutenant leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“What about the roof? Did CSI scrub it?”
“They found powder residue on the northeast corner beside the elevator shaft,” Joe said. “That aligns with the firing angle of the bullet through the taxi windshield.”
O'Neill shook his head in exasperation.
“But no sign of the sniper? Somehow he got in and out within ten minutes without anybody seeing him?”
“It appears so,” Joe said.
“What about the ferry shooting? If the sniper fired from the Ritz-Carlton, there should have been cameras covering every point of entry.”
Joe reached beside his chair and pulled a laptop from his bag. He flipped it open, tapped the keyboard a few times, and swung the screen around for Kate and O'Neill to see.
“Someone matching the perp's description entered and exited the hotel the night before. We found gunpowder residue on the rooftop in a location with a clear view of the ferry terminal. But the timing doesn't match. The shooting occurred twelve hours after he last left the building.”
O'Neill pointed toward the screen.
“Show me the clip. Maybe we can find some clues from the video.”
