by J. R. McLeay
O'Neill looked at the sniper file on his desk and cleared his throat.
“We'll start with yesterday's incident,” he said, flipping open the file. “The Union Square shooting. The location and time of day suggest he was targeting a random commuter. Same MO as before. Kate—what do you make of this?”
“It could be a possible reaction to the Today Show telecast two days ago. The interview with the stock trader showed that people were still commuting to work, albeit reluctantly. Maybe this was his way of closing the vice, to scare off the few people still braving the streets. This shooting may have been about consolidating his control.”
Joe thought back to his wife's comments the night of the telecast, where she speculated about the shooter's motivation. The killings were looking more like a power trip with every shooting. He swallowed hard, remembering their last tender moments together.
“And the other shooting...” O'Neill paused. “Joe, are you sure—“
Joe looked the lieutenant square in the eyes and nodded.
“What could he possibly hope to gain by targeting a…cop's wife?” O'Neill asked.
Kate looked awkwardly in Joe's direction. She knew it would be impossible to offer her opinion without striking some raw nerves.
“The sniper obviously already knew Joe was working the case from the incident outside the coffee shop three days ago. I think that was his way of telling Joe to stop chasing him, or at least that he was still in control. Joe's subsequent public appearance showing him leading the investigation and his comments about the shooter may have stoked his anger.”
“His anger?” Joe interjected. “Isn't it high time we stopped focusing on this guy's feelings and focus instead on the facts? All this speculation on what's motivating him isn't getting us any closer to figuring out where he's going to strike next. I think we need to change tack.”
O'Neill paused to give Joe a moment to calm down. He knew his detective was hurting and he didn't want to inflame the wound.
“What do you propose, Joe?”
“Kate's profile work has already uncovered a good suspect. I say we turn the screws on this guy. Let's bring him in and see what he knows. Everybody cracks under the right kind of pressure.”
“Joe, you're asking me to contravene direct orders. From the commissioner, no less. The district attorney was very clear with his opinion. We don't have a legal basis to bring this suspect in based on the evidence. All we can do is put a tail on him, which is already stretching our jurisdiction—”
“He wasn't moving the last time we checked,” Joe said, glancing at Hannah. “At least not that we could see. He put a tracking device on us—why can't we do the same with his vehicle?”
“Joe,” O'Neill shook his head, “you know we can't do that.”
“What about his phones then? If we could monitor his communications or movements more easily—”
“We'd need a warrant. Besides, the electronic devices we confiscated when we searched his apartment came up empty. He's obviously being very careful to cover his tracks. He's almost certainly using a prepaid cell phone to bypass any tracking efforts.”
Joe slammed his fist on the armrest in frustration.
“How do you expect us to catch this fucker if our hands are tied at every turn?”
He was overstepping his bounds, but he didn't care any longer.
O'Neill swiveled his chair and looked out his window before he responded.
“Look, Joe, I understand how much you want to catch this sniper. We all do. I think you’ve gotten a little too close to the situation. We don't know that this suspect is really the shooter. We can't divert any more resources than we already are chasing a possible red herring.”
Joe wasn't ready to concede the argument.
“If we can't find him ourselves, let's get the public working harder for us, then. We could release a police sketch of the suspect.”
“You mean of your suspect?” O'Neill said.
Joe stared at the lieutenant coldly.
“He matches the height and build of the suspect on the videos. His face, as much as is visible, also fits. We have someone matching his appearance tracked to the time and place of multiple shootings. He only has a solid alibi for one of those shootings. And his profile fits Kate's construction like a glove. Isn't that suspect enough?”
“None of that is good enough for a conviction or even an arrest. Get me an eyewitness, a murder weapon, DNA evidence—even a clearer video—and you can bring him in. Until then, we've got to explore all other avenues in this investigation. Let’s start by talking about how we can do a better job cordoning the crime scene to prevent future escapes.”
But Joe wasn't listening any longer.
He was already thinking about how he could bypass the legal system and take matters into his own hands.
34
St. Michael’s Cemetery, Queens
July 15, 11:00 a.m.
On Thursday morning, a long line of flashing police cars traveled silently eastward along Astoria Boulevard. On its flanks, motorcycle cops escorted the procession toward its destination. When the black limousine at the front of the line reached 49th Street, it turned into St. Michael's Cemetery and began making its way to the rear of the burial grounds.
The hearse stopped opposite a tree-lined plot with an open grave. As the other cars in the procession slowly pulled up behind it, people exited their vehicles and walked up a small knoll toward the marked grave. Joe led the way with his and his wife's parents, walking arm in arm. Behind him followed a huge contingent of police officers dressed in formal NYPD blues.
It seemed as if the entire force had come out to pay their respects. There was something especially symbolic about this murder, even more so than with the cop who was killed a week earlier. The equestrian cop had been killed in the line of duty, which, as unacceptable as it was, wasn't nearly as horrifying as the cold-blooded assassination of a cop's wife. Even the mayor had come to pay his respects in a show of support for Joe and the police force.
In view of the circumstances leading up to the event, security was boosted to an unprecedented level. The entire perimeter of the cemetery was monitored by beat cops spaced twenty feet apart, while flashing cruisers patrolled the adjacent streets. ESU teams had cleared all non-essential buildings on the grounds, and police sharpshooters lay positioned atop rooftops, scanning every tall building within a mile radius of the cemetery. Lieutenant O'Neill didn't think the sniper would be brazen enough to attack during the ceremony, but he wasn't taking any chances. If the sniper tried anything, the full weight of the police force would bear down on him within seconds.
Joe tried to put the sniper out of his mind and think about his wife. As the pallbearers carried the casket up the hillside, he clenched his jaw, fighting back tears. It was an almost impossible loss for him to bear after losing his only child so many years earlier. He had lost the two most important people in his life, and he had been responsible in one way or another for each incident.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. He was not a deeply religious man, but he believed in a higher power and that a person's soul never truly died.
Lord, forgive my sins and watch over my family, he prayed. I will bring justice to their memory and be with them soon.
From the opposite side of the grave, Hannah watched her tormented partner with sadness. After serving almost ten years together, she knew him like family. She knew he'd be filled with intense and conflicting emotions at this agonizing moment. Grief, anger, guilt—and a crushing sense of revenge. If Joe could get his hands on the sniper at this moment, she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to strangle him.
She looked around the gravesite. Hundreds of dedicated officers were on the lookout, but she still couldn't help feeling a sense of unease. With so many cops congregated in one location at one time, it would be a tempting target for a deranged killer so bent on flouting the law.
The mayor was flanked at the gravesite by the commissioner and the police
chief. Lieutenant O'Neill and the entire 18th Precinct stood just behind them. Joe had wanted a private ceremony for his wife but had agreed to the police escort at the lieutenant's suggestion. He knew the best way to ensure a peaceful ceremony was to cover the area with as many cops as possible. But he insisted on foregoing the trappings of a formal police funeral. This wasn't a line-of-duty killing, and his wife wouldn't want all the pomp and ceremony.
As the casket was placed on a platform over the open grave, the minister began his committal rites.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to lay to rest another departed soul...”
Joe's mind began to wander.
What kind of person could be so callous to take such a beautiful and innocent life? Whatever grudges the sniper may have harbored against him or the police, why take it out on his wife? How did she deserve any of this?
He clenched his fists tighter and tighter the more he thought about the sniper. He wasn't sure he'd found the right suspect, but he was damned if he'd let him slip through his fingers again.
This guy thinks he's above the law, Joe thought. If the law can't contain or capture him, then let the law of the jungle prevail. The predator will become prey. He's not the only one who knows a little something about guerrilla warfare.
As Hannah glanced at her partner across the grave, she could have sworn she saw a small smile form on Joe's lips.
35
728 East New York Avenue, Flatbush, Brooklyn
July 15, 10:00 p.m.
Joe hid behind a thick tree in the park across the street from Weir's apartment building, looking for any sign of the sniper. At this time of night, in the shadow of the tree’s heavy canopy, he wouldn't attract much attention. He'd already noted the position of the street cams in the area and parked his car many blocks away to avoid possible detection. For what he was about to do, he didn't want to take any chance being placed at the scene.
He'd monitored Weir's apartment most of the evening and hadn't see any movement. No lights had flashed on or off all evening, and there was no sign of Weir entering or exiting the building. Either he was out, or he was intentionally keeping a very low profile.
Joe grew weary of waiting and pulled his hoodie over his head. He walked across the street toward the entrance to the building's parking garage. Then he hid behind an abutment and waited for the automatic door to open. After a few minutes, the door began to roll up, and a car pulled out from the garage and turned onto the street. Joe ducked under the door before it closed and walked down the ramp with his head bowed.
He walked toward Weir’s parking stall with a key dangling from his hand so as not to attract suspicion from any other building residents. If Weir could track his movements, he could just as easily track the sniper's. Fuck the system, Joe thought. This guy doesn't abide by the rules of civilized society, why should he? The sniper had been picking people off with impunity, and there was nothing Joe could do to stop him.
Until now.
It was time to stop following protocol and time to play by his own rules. Joe had a tracking device in his pocket, and he was prepared to attach it to Weir's vehicle. Then he could track Weir's movements directly and catch him in the act—or at least follow him to his murder weapon. If he picked up the sniper's trail, he'd take a couple of days off work. The lieutenant would only think he was mourning his wife.
When he got to Weir's parking stall, it was empty. Joe looked around the garage to see if his locksmith truck was parked anywhere else. There was no sign of Weir or his vehicle.
Joe cursed under his breath.
There hadn't been another incident during the day, and it was too dark for another shooting. Was he out on a late-night locksmith call? Maybe he'd switched vehicles, Joe thought. Weir would have known that his locksmith truck could be traced back to him and might attract unnecessary attention. If he skipped town, it would be nearly impossible to track him. Joe had some business he needed to finish with the shooter. There was no way he was going to simply let the sniper slip away into obscurity.
Joe walked toward the underground lobby and entered the elevator area. He swung the door open to the stairwell and began making his way up to the seventeenth floor. If he couldn't track Weir's outside movements then he would catch him when he returned home. At least Weir had a dog that he seemed to care about. He'd have to return home every few hours or so to feed it and take it out.
When Joe got to the seventeenth floor, he opened the stairwell door to the hall and looked through the crack. The hallway was clear. He walked toward unit 1708 and reached into his pocket. As he neared the unit's front door, he slowed down and walked on the balls of his feet to make as little noise as possible. When he got to the door, he placed his back against the wall so as not to cast a shadow under the threshold. If Weir were inside, he didn't want to provide any warning.
He held his ear to the wall and listened. There was no sign of activity. No footsteps, no television, not even the sound of the dog breathing or snoring. Joe crouched down to the base of the door and placed the object in his hand near the bottom corner. It was a strip of bacon. He blew over the bacon to send the scent wafting into the room. If the dog were present, surely it would smell the food and move toward the door.
Nothing.
Joe looked up and down the hall to make sure no one was coming, then got on his hands and knees and peered under the door. The apartment was dark except for a digital clock on the stove projecting a pale glow into the living room. From what he could see, everything seemed to be in the same position he remembered it when he searched the apartment a few days ago. The furniture was still there, and Weir’s knick-knacks still lay undisturbed on the bookshelf.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief. At least Weir hadn’t moved out.
He got up and walked to the end of the hall. He opened the stairwell door and sat down on one of the steps. Then he took two black leather gloves from his pocket and pulled them slowly onto his hands.
When Weir came home, Joe would be ready. It didn't matter how long it took. The sniper's reign of terror would end tonight. Weir was going to disappear, never to be heard from again.
But not before Joe took one last measure of the man.
36
The Standard Hotel, Meatpacking District
July 15, 11:30 p.m.
Ten days after the sniper's rampage had begun, New York City had fallen ghostly silent. Few people dared to step outside in daylight hours for fear of being caught in the shooter's sights. He'd demonstrated a willingness to target any person from any walk of life, across all five boroughs. Nobody wanted to tempt fate. Even within their own homes, drapes had been pulled and blinds drawn to prevent prying eyes from catching residents off guard.
The only time New Yorkers were comfortable venturing outside was after dark. The one unifying theme among the killings was that almost all of them were executed outside in broad daylight. The exception with Detective Bannon's wife was viewed as a personal vendetta. As long as they stayed indoors during the day and kept their blinds drawn at night, most people felt they were safe from the sniper.
But it was a different story after dusk in New York's dance clubs. The restricted social contact from people staying locked in their homes had created a kind of cabin fever that needed an outlet. Just as the 9/11 attacks a generation ago had snapped New Yorkers’ apathy and stimulated an outpouring of love, so it was in the current crisis. Young people poured into nightclubs and partied as if there was no tomorrow.
One of the hottest nightclubs was Le Bain at the top of the Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District. Raised on stilts over the Highline elevated park along the West Side, it offered spectacular views of Lower Manhattan from its 18th-floor rooftop setting. One of its biggest attractions was a sunken hot tub pool where scantily clad partygoers danced and frolicked to pounding music.
On this late Thursday evening, the club was busier than ever. The dance floor was crammed with gyrating bodies, and the pool was overflowing
with half-naked people cavorting as other patrons looked on. Late at night and this high above street level, no one felt threatened.
Security in the main floor lobby and at the club entrance was extraordinarily tight. Everyone had to pass through metal detectors and have their bags checked. The club overlooked the Hudson River, and there were no other buildings as tall as the Standard for almost a mile in any direction. There was no safer place in New York to hold a party and let your hair down.
What the partygoers didn't realize was that the flashing strobe lights atop the hotel late at night acted like a beacon for other types of wayward souls. And not everyone was in a party mood tonight. Six blocks away, from the water tower atop the luxury co-op building at 627 Hudson Street, someone else was watching the merrymaking through his Smith & Bender rifle scope.
And he was not impressed.
Although the sniper was viewing the building at an oblique angle more than a half a mile away, the two-story high windows surrounding the 18th floor of the Standard Hotel provided a clear view of the activity inside the club. The hotel made no effort to block the view of the Manhattan skyline for its patrons, and the flashing lights of the interior illuminated the club like a bright stage in a darkened theater.
The sniper panned the room with his scope. Everyone was laughing and reveling as if they didn't have a care in the world. He sneered and exhaled slowly.
This was no way for frightened children to behave. Didn't they know the big bad wolf was still watching? Another disciplinary lesson needs to be administered to teach them to respect authority.
He swung his scope along the length of the floor toward the southwest side of the building. At the corner overlooking the Hudson River sat a large hot tub illuminated from below. Inside, scores of semi-nude bathers were dancing to the music in the bubbling waist-high water. On the walls surrounding the hot tub, red neon lights flashed faux flames toward the ceiling. He zoomed in closer. Two attractive young women were rubbing their naked breasts together as they danced, their lips locked in a passionate kiss while their hips gyrated to the music.
