by J. R. McLeay
I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.
A living sacrifice—that fit, but why? Was Weir a religious fanatic trying to demonstrate how everybody should bow to God's will? Joe didn't see a profusion of religious artifacts when he searched Weir's apartment. Maybe the sniper simply chose the timing to coincide with the busy lunch hour when everybody headed outdoors for a midday meal? The initial regularity of the shootings certainly made the streets deserted around that time of day. Were the killings simply a power trip by someone who'd been taunted his whole life and never felt in control? Weir didn't exactly project an attitude of insecurity in the brief encounters he'd had with Joe.
Joe shook his head in frustration. He decided to get up and give his wife a little attention. She’d often shared useful insights on tough cases he'd worked on previously. He walked into the kitchen where Jane was washing dishes over the sink, watching a light drizzle fall outside the window.
“Hon, can I ask your opinion about something? You’ve got a degree in psychology, so maybe you can help me fill in some holes in this suspect's profile...”
“If you remember, psychology was just my minor, but I suppose I know a few things about human behavior, so fire away. I mean, what else could we possibly be doing this rainy mid-summer evening?”
Joe leaned over and gave his wife a playful peck on her cheek. She snickered at his half-hearted romantic gesture.
“Well, I've been trying to get my head around the timing of these killings. You know how they all started around the same time? Just after noon each day.”
“Yes—"
“And then suddenly they started happening at seemingly random times. Two at different times of the morning and one in the afternoon. I thought at first the shooter was firing at the same time during the lunchtime rush to scare everybody off the streets. Like he was on some kind of power trip or something. But that doesn't make sense now that he's mixing his timing up.”
“Actually, it makes perfect sense. That's exactly how dog trainers shape animal behavior. They start by pairing the signal and response in very predictable timing patterns, like feeding a dog every time it performs a desired behavior such as fetching or sitting. Once the dog understands the connection between the signal and response, the trainer gradually randomizes the delivery of the reward so the animal associates the signal such as a verbal command with the behavior instead of the reward. People are just like animals. They learn in much the same way.”
“Holy crap,” Joe said. “Do you really think the sniper is that smart? That he's consciously training people to be afraid of him firing at any time of the day?”
“You said yourself that he's exceptionally clever. The Today Show broadcast showed how New Yorkers are afraid to go outside now during daylight hours.”
“Jesus,” Joe muttered. “If you're right, I might need more of your professional services to decipher this guy's intentions. Can I put you on retainer?”
“I'm sure we can arrange some kind of trade for services.”
Joe looked at the pile of dirty dishes stacked beside the sink.
“Do you want some help cleaning up?”
Jane shook her head.
“I've only got another five minutes or so to finish up. You go ahead and relax in the living room. I think you need the rest more than I do. But will you put all that sniper stuff aside for the rest of the night when I'm done? I wouldn't mind cuddling with you over a romantic movie before we turn in for the night.”
“Of course, babe.”
Joe gave his wife a warm hug and a proper kiss before heading back to the living room. He sat on the sofa and began to leaf through the sniper dossier again. Something else bothered him.
What about the victims? he thought. There was no rhyme or reason there either. A young pregnant woman, a middle-aged businessman, a cop, a cab driver, a ferry commuter, a schoolyard youngster, and a letter carrier. Could it be any more random than that? What was the connection between the victims—or was there no connection at all? Was this guy just one seriously fucked-up individual who simply was angry at the world, as Kate suggested? Or did each one of the victims symbolize someone who'd wronged him in his earlier life?
Joe could see the possible connection with the pregnant woman. Weir was given up for adoption by his natural mother at a young age. He could be harboring anger towards mothers, especially those carrying an unborn child. The businessman might have represented all the comforts of life the sniper had been denied. Weir ran what appeared to be a successful small business, but his living arrangements were far from luxurious. Could the police officer shooting have been over anger from possible mistreatment during a troubled youth? Maybe his locksmith skills were developed during hardscrabble years as a foster child, though there were no previous arrests on Weir's file. But why the cab driver, the letter carrier, and the young boy? What kind of grudge could he possibly have towards them?
Joe began to wonder if he was chasing the wrong suspect in Weir. He had an air-tight alibi for the ferry killing. But there were plenty of suspicious circumstances associated with that shooting. Like the powder residue on the roof of the Battery Park Ritz-Carlton Hotel and the suspect matching Weir's description seen on the lobby cam. But the video footage was inconclusive, and the suspect's facial hair might have covered Weir's unusual lip deformity.
There was no way of connecting him directly to any of the crimes. No smoking gun, no eyewitnesses, and no DNA evidence. He had nothing on this guy other than a gut feel. What if he was wrong about Weir? What if the sniper was somebody else? What if Joe was wasting valuable time chasing the wrong suspect?
Joe threw the file down on the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa. He could hear the rain starting to come down harder as it pelted against the windows. A quiet movie with his wife was exactly what he needed to take his mind off everything.
“Almost done in there, hon?” Joe called out to Jane.
“Just one more minute. Drying the roasting pan, then I’ll be right there. Do you want to scan the listings to see if there’s anything good on? No more of those shoot-em-up action flicks that you're always making me watch.”
“No worries, babe. I've had quite enough shooting this week. A romantic movie it is.”
Joe turned on the TV and thumbed through the on-screen listings with the remote. He found a movie that neither of them had seen before, starring two of their favorite actors. He selected the movie, queued it up, and hit the pause button.
“That's funny,” Jane suddenly called from the kitchen.
“What? Are you going to make more fun of my television performance today?”
“No, I'm spying on the neighbors. You know that apartment building across the street? It's odd that people would open their windows on such a rainy night. Just about everybody is battened down. But there's this one apartment directly across the way with their window wide open. Their curtains will be getting wet…”
Joe nodded absentmindedly, thinking back to the sniper case. Then he suddenly leapt off the sofa.
“Jane!” he screamed at the top of lungs.
As he started running toward the kitchen, Joe heard a dull pop and the sound of broken glass, followed by the sickening thud of a body falling on the floor.
31
Astoria, Queens
July 12, 8:30 p.m.
Joe raced out his front door, searching frantically for the open window in the apartment building across the street. The rain was pelting down on his face, and he ran his hand over his brow to clear his vision. He gave no thought to the possibility the sniper might still be watching and could pick him off in the glow of the streetlights. There was only one thing running through his mind—how he could stop the shooter before he got away.
Then he would tear him apart with his bare hands.
His vision darted from side to side and up the face of the building until he s
aw some white curtains blowing against the dark brick wall. The open window was on the east end of the building. He counted the number of floors then sprinted toward the lobby. When he got to the glass door in the vestibule, he kicked it in, sending glass shards shattering to the floor.
He ducked under the door's cross-beam, darted into the main hall, and saw the emergency exit sign on the east side. He ran to the exit door, flung it open, and bounded up the stairway steps two at a time. The ten floors passed in a blur. Joe was so pumped full of adrenaline and rage that he could have scaled another twenty floors without slowing down.
When he got to the tenth floor, he swung open the door to the hallway and paused in front of the first apartment to his right. He pulled out his service pistol and pointed it at the door. His heart was racing a hundred miles an hour. Without giving a second thought, he raised his right knee and thrust the heel of his foot as hard as he could beside the door handle.
The door splintered open, and he rushed in toward the open window in the living room. His hands were locked together, pointing his Glock straight ahead. A young naked couple sat up on the living room sofa and looked at Joe in terror.
“Where is he?!” Joe screamed at the couple.
“Who?” the young man said, trying to cover himself and his partner up with a blanket. “It's just us…”
Joe glanced around the room, looking for any sign of the sniper. He ran into the adjoining bedroom and bathroom. There was no sign of the shooter. He hurried back into the living room.
“Have you seen anyone with a rifle?” he asked. “Didn't you hear the gunshot?”
The young couple looked at Joe with their mouths agape.
“We heard something,” the young man said. “We just thought it was a car backfiring.”
Joe stared at the couple, wondering why they hadn't bothered to investigate or call 9-1-1. It had been over fifty years since Kitty Genovese was brutally murdered in Queens while her neighbors blithely ignored her screams. Had nothing changed in New York City?
Joe looked at the young woman trembling in fear with the blanket pulled over her naked body. His chest was heaving from the ten-story sprint. Rain from his soaked hair was streaming down his face. He peered through the window and saw his house across the street. The kitchen light radiated out into the black night.
Then the weight of what had just happened fell over him. He sank to his knees and wept uncontrollably.
32
Union Square, Manhattan
July 13, 8:15 a.m.
Todd Weir sat at a sidewalk bistro table watching the morning rush hour unfold. He wasn't worried about being recognized with his hair and fake mustache dyed gray. He looked at least twenty years older than his real age. Besides, everyone seemed much more concerned about looking upwards for signs of trouble than at street level.
He was far more interested in the flow of pedestrian traffic emerging from the MTA subway station in the park across the street. Although it was noticeably thinner than usual for this time of day, Weir was surprised so many people were still braving the open streets to get to work.
I guess Maslow was right, he thought, referring to the famous psychologist's theory of human motivation. Sustenance really is higher on the hierarchy of human needs than safety and security.
He picked up a copy of the Daily News lying on his table and looked at the headline. ‘Cop's Wife Killed in Cold Blood’, it read in large type. Below the headline, there was a crude illustration of a sniper targeting a woman behind her kitchen window.
That ought to keep them guessing, he thought. By foot, car, even in their own home—no one is safe. Not even cops and their families.
Weir smiled as he thought about how easy it was to pick off anyone he wanted. It seemed strange to him that with so much advanced technology, modern man had been unable to protect himself from a simple bullet. Lower life forms had evolved all manner of natural defenses to protect themselves from their predators. Turtles had impregnable shells, chameleons changed color to blend in amongst their surroundings, and winged animals could fly to safety. But frail and thin-skinned humans had no natural protection other than their supposedly superior brains. Man-made laws had lulled them into a false sense of security, their wits dulled by the soft lifestyle of modern-day civilization.
The flock still needed herding, Weir thought, as he watched a new trainload of commuters emerge from the MTA rotunda. Too many people were defying his power.
Something has to be done about this.
He looked around the square to scope out a suitable location for his next hit. Preferably an older building, one with old-fashioned windows that still slid open. None of those modern curtain-wall towers with hermetically sealed air circulation systems. A rifle sticking out of one of those would be far too conspicuous. It had to be a tall building, at least fifteen to twenty stories. High enough to have a commanding view of the Square, especially the Metro station entrance.
Weir panned around the Square and stopped when he caught sight of a large limestone building about a block to the west. It took up almost the entire block along 14th Street on the north side between Union Square West and 5th Avenue. It abutted smaller structures on the north side, with clear rooftop access between the buildings. And it had a tall, protective parapet on its roof.
Yes, he thought. That one's perfect. That will keep the cops checking room to room while I make my retreat to the other side. My new disguise should allow me to slip away unchecked.
Weir's gaze returned to street level. He glanced at the Best Buy building on the south side of the Square. Three stories up, its glass edifice shone the cryptic image of The Metronome, a digital art installation with fifteen large red numbers switching randomly like a broken bedside alarm clock. Most New Yorkers had no idea what the numbers symbolized, if anything. Some thought it was a kind of countdown clock, or a real-time update of the national debt. It was actually nothing more than an elaborate clock, measuring the time in hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths of a second. The first seven digits measured the time since the previous midnight, and the last seven digits measured it backward to the next midnight. It was the spinning digits in the middle that confused everybody.
Weir chuckled to himself at the irony of the image. Soon, it would represent a real doomsday clock, marking the exact time of his next killing in large, blood-red numerals.
Nine hours later, the peaceful quietude of Union Square Park was broken by the sharp crack of a rifle, as afternoon commuters crammed into the narrow portico of the MTA entrance structure. One of the commuters suddenly fell to the ground, coating the granite steps in a thick pool of blood. A terrified shriek rose from the crowd as people suddenly stampeded over one another to get to the safety of the inner lobby.
Within a minute, the entire Square was swarming with flashing police cars. Soon after, a black Emergency Services Unit van pulled up in front of the co-op building on 14th Street, and ten heavily armed special operations officers poured into the front entrance.
Forty-five minutes later, an old man hobbling on crutches slipped out the side door of a walk-up building one block away. He made his way to the Astor Place MTA station nine blocks to the south. Then he took the subway to the Jamaica station in Queens and transferred to the Long Island Rail Road, where he took the train all the way to the east end of the island.
It was past someone's dinner time.
33
18th Precinct
July 14, 8:00 a.m.
Joe walked through the detectives' workroom two days after his wife's killing with a changed attitude. Finding and capturing the sniper was no longer just part of his job. Now it was personal. He’d lost the two dearest people in the world to him through violent acts. Both times, he was in the service of protecting the public. But he was unable to save those who mattered the most to him. It was his job to find violent criminals before they could do more harm, but this one had gotten to him first. He was determined to put an end to this case and to this killer befo
re he could take another life.
He felt the weight of the room bearing down on him as he approached the lieutenant's office. None of his colleagues looked at him directly. Instead, they peered out of the corner of their eyes, pretending to be buried in their work. Everybody knew how Joe felt and that he needed space to process what had happened.
The lieutenant's door was closed. Joe walked right in without knocking.
“Joe,” O'Neill said, looking up surprised.
“You shouldn't be here today. I wanted you to take a few days off. We can take care of this. You've got more important matters to attend to. Go home and be with your family in this time of loss.”
“My family is gone,” Joe said, taking his customary seat next to Hannah and Kate. “This is the most important thing I've got to do right now.”
No one said a thing for a few long seconds as an awkward silence filled the room.
“Joe,” Hannah said, reaching out to clasp his hand. “I'm so sorry. Whatever I can do to help you through this, please let me know.”
“I'm sorry for your loss, Joe,” Kate added. “I'd like to offer my help as well. I know how hard it is to make arrangements at a time like this.”
“Thank you, everyone,” Joe said.
He paused as he choked up with emotion.
“I appreciate your concern. I've spent the last twenty-four hours making the funeral arrangements. The service will be held tomorrow. I wanted to get back to work as soon as possible. I don't want to be home alone. This is where I belong.”
O'Neill nodded solemnly.
“I understand. Are you sure you're ready to talk about the latest incident? This might be difficult—”
“I'm fine,” Joe said. “I'd like to get on with it. We've all got a job to do. Let's review the latest evidence.”
