by J. R. McLeay
Whoever kills an animal shall make it good.
Young Weir had his baptism in blood—literally.
From their blind's vantage point on top of the escarpment, father and son had a commanding view of the river valley below. The river drained into a quiet lake, which was a favorite respite for deer, moose, and black bear. The hunters looked through the scopes of their Winchester M70 rifles and scanned the valley. The big prize was a mature white-tailed buck. Although moose and bear were larger, venison meat tasted better.
Deer were also smarter and faster. There wasn't much sport dropping a big dumb moose or a foraging black bear. Deer were far more skittish and aware of their surroundings. Perhaps they'd learned the dangers of human predators who felled so many of their kind every hunting season.
The bigger and more mature the deer, the more prized the kill. Male deer were easy to age based on the number of points on their antlers. Since antlers never stopped growing, the more branches on its stem, the older and wiser the animal had proven itself in avoiding predation.
“See anything?” Weir senior asked, as they scanned the valley.
The boy shook his head.
“Just rabbits and squirrels.”
Normally, this rite of passage would be a great bonding opportunity for father and son. But there had been an uneasy tension between the two from the earliest days of Todd’s adoption. The boy never felt comfortable being alone or in close quarters with his adoptive father.
“That will hardly get us through the night,” the father said.
His general rule was that they would remain out on the camping trip until they captured the targeted game. That often meant sleeping overnight together in their makeshift shelter.
“We'll need a bigger meal than that to fill our gullets,” Weir continued. Then he looked at Todd and smiled. “There’ll be a special treat for you tonight if you bag an eight-pointer or better.”
Todd grimaced. He knew exactly what his father meant. The old man always took advantage of these excursions away from prying eyes to take his measure of the boy. That involved more than just butchering wild game.
Todd looked through his rifle scope and scanned the valley to quell the ache in his stomach. After a few minutes, he saw another hunter weaving among large boulders along the river bank. The man stopped for a moment and crouched behind a large rock. He lifted his rifle from the sling behind his back and pointed it at something farther down the bank. About five hundred yards away, a large whitetailed buck lowered its rack to the water for a drink.
“Do you see that?” Weir whispered excitedly to his son. “He's a beauty. I count at least ten points.”
The old man panned the bank to see if there were more deer in the vicinity and noticed the other huntsman.
“There's another hunter closing in from upstream,” he said to his son. “But you've got the cleaner shot. Take him while you've got the chance!”
Todd swung his rifle sight between the hunter and the deer.
“Don't be a pussy!” his father said. “Forget the other guy. Take the shot.”
Weir had gotten reports from his son about being bullied at school. He'd hoped that teaching him to hunt would make a man out of him and teach him to stand up for himself.
“Kill that buck, or you'll be the one stuck like a pig tonight,” he snapped.
Todd breathed heavily as he tried to purge the vision from his mind. He saw the hunter creeping closer to the buck using the cover of the boulders. When he was about three hundred yards away, the hunter knelt beside a rock and rested his barrel, taking direct aim at the animal.
Weir thumped his son in the chest with his fist.
“You're always letting someone else take advantage of your weakness. Kill or be killed, boy.”
Todd clenched his teeth and took aim at the deer, pointing toward the center of its chest. At least it will be a humane kill, he thought. He paused for a moment.
Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you, his father often said.
Suddenly the boy swung his rifle twenty degrees to his right, took aim, and fired. The hunter's head snapped backward, and he crumpled to the ground. At the sound of the rifle report, the deer bolted upright and darted into the woods.
Weir turned to look at his son, dumbfounded.
“What have you done?!” he screamed.
“You said not to let others take advantage of me,” Todd replied.
Weir looked at the boy with his mouth agape. Then he hurried out of the blind and scanned the camp. The last thing he wanted was cops digging around asking what they did on their hunting trips.
“Gather your gear!” Weir snapped. “We've got to get out of here before anyone figures out what happened.”
He grabbed a can of kerosene and poured it over the blind then lit a match and threw it at the dry tinder. It lit up like a bonfire within seconds.
“Come on,” Weir said, grabbing his son's arm. “We'll double back around the back of the mountain to cover our tracks. Neither one of us can afford to be connected to this.”
As the two scrambled towards the north, Todd’s lip curled into a grin. He'd finally found his source of power over his oppressors.
46
Lieutenant O'Neill's Office, 18th Precinct
July 18, 8:00 a.m.
Lieutenant O'Neill entered his office carrying a cup of coffee and closed the door behind him. He sat down and stared into the cup for a long time, stirring the contents silently. Joe, Kate, and Hannah watched him without saying a word.
The events of the previous day had placed everyone at a new level of tension. Every media outlet across the country was replaying the mayor's assassination, with pundits criticizing the NYPD for gross neglect and incompetence. The embattled new mayor had fired Commissioner Pope and appointed a retired US Army general in his place. In consultation with the governor, a state of emergency had been declared, and the National Guard was called up. Heavily armed soldiers wearing full battle gear carrying M-16 assault rifles now patrolled the streets of New York.
O'Neill looked up from his desk and noticed Hannah shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
“You look a little green, Detective Trimble. Are you sure you're ready to return to duty?”
“Yes, sir. I'm just feeling a little queasy about what happened to the mayor and Bruno.”
O'Neill nodded.
“You two were the lucky ones. Unfortunately, there'll be another funeral tomorrow for one of our fallen. Officer Moretti served with distinction.”
The three officers nodded solemnly in recognition of the slain ESU officer from the Weir apartment raid.
“Let's review where we stand,” O'Neill said. "We've got twelve dead citizens, including a mayor who placed his life in our hands. And a suspect we're no closer to catching, who always seems to be one step ahead of us.”
An awkward silence filled the room.
“What I'd really like to know is how the sniper managed to find out where the mayor was going to be ahead of time. There's no way he just happened to find himself in the same place at the same time.”
“He must have been tipped by somebody,” Joe said.
“I agree, but from whom? The only people that knew about this were the mayor, the commissioner, and this precinct. Even the press wasn't notified until a couple of hours before the announcement. That would hardly be enough time for the sniper to get to the site and set up. And how the hell did he escape yet again?”
“The dogs tracked him to the top of the building on the west side of the Square,” Joe said. “But the trail went cold a few feet from the rear entrance.”
“Which suggests he had wheels. I’m assuming you've checked all the street and commercial cams in the vicinity?”
Joe nodded.
“The building's CCTV shows an old man on crutches entering via a back door a half hour before the shooting. But there's no record of his leaving the building.”
“Are you a hundred percent sure this old man
was the sniper?”
“It took me a while to make the connection, but yes. Among all the other cops in the Square that morning, he only looked at me when he exited the MTA station. And those were no ordinary crutches.”
“Is it possible he could still be hiding inside the building?”
Joe shook his head.
“We searched every nook and cranny and checked every unit. He simply disappeared.”
O'Neill slammed his fist on his desk.
“What is it with this guy? How is he always one step ahead of us? I'm starting to believe the media might be right, that he really is smarter than us.”
O'Neill buried his head in his hands and massaged his temples. Then he looked up at Joe and Hannah.
“Sorry. I know you're doing everything you can and have made tremendous sacrifices. I'm just frustrated, as I know you are.”
The lieutenant leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.
“So what's our next play?”
“We've been monitoring the suspect's apartment building,” Hannah said. “It looks like he's gone into hiding. There's been no sign of him for over forty-eight hours.”
“What about his family? He's adopted, right? Have you checked with the parents?”
“That's next on our list,” Joe said. “I’m sure he knows we'll be checking the obvious places. Still, maybe they can provide some clues to his whereabouts.”
O'Neill turned to Kate.
“Kate, have you got any ideas based on his profile where else we should look?”
“Now that his picture's being circulated around the country, it won't be easy for him to rent another apartment. Plus, he has a dog to care for. My guess is he'll find some place off the grid to pitch a tent. We might have to wait for someone to recognize him when he surfaces to replenish supplies. Or catch him when he strikes next.”
“Any clues who or where that might be?” O'Neill asked. He looked outside his office window. “The only people roaming the streets are heavily armed soldiers and cops. Who can he go after next—the governor?”
Kate cocked her head and shrugged.
“He's definitely escalating his targets. First Joe's wife, then the explosion at his apartment, and now the mayor. I think with each new success, he's becoming more confident. The higher the profile, the more press he gets to feed his ego. I wouldn't put it past him to target another public figure.”
O'Neill stopped to take a sip of his coffee.
“I don’t think the new mayor or the governor would be dumb enough to try another trick like Mayor Braxton pulled. Nobody wants to have their brains blown out on national TV for the whole world to see.”
He looked out his window as a National Guard truck rumbled by.
“At least we now know who we're looking for. Joe and Hannah, keep me advised if you uncover any useful intel from Weir's parents. Kate, can you notify your agents across the country to keep an eye out for our suspect? If he's set up camp outside the city, we'll need every law enforcement resource at our disposal to find him.”
“Already on it,” Kate said.
O'Neill stood up and placed his hands on his hips.
“Assuming we all still have our jobs tomorrow, we'll reconvene here for our usual update at 9:00 a.m. Watch your heads out there.”
As Kate and Hannah exited O'Neill's office, they glanced at one another. Hannah raised her eyebrows and forced a smile.
“Good luck with that.”
47
Cranberry Bog, Long Island
July 18, 8:00 a.m.
Todd Weir woke up to the sound of splashing water in the shallow marsh surrounding his island. It wasn't unusual for him to hear the occasional splash of a mallard or a loon as it dove underwater to catch a morning meal. But this was a sustained sloshing sound and much louder. And it was approaching his camp.
He squinted through a crack in his shelter and saw someone wading through the bog in his direction. The man was wearing hip waders, a dark green uniform, and a trooper hat. He was walking purposefully toward Weir's outcropping. When he reached the edge of the island and emerged from the water, Weir saw the holster on his hip.
Shit, Weir cursed under his breath. A ranger. What does he want?
Weir had camouflaged his shelter and placed it far enough away from the water so as not to be visible to stray hikers or birdwatchers. And he’d been careful to enter and exit the camp under cover of darkness. But he also knew if the ranger was aware who was on the island, he would have brought more support.
He threw on some cargo pants, pulled a baseball cap over his head, and stuffed his hunting knife into his side pocket. The ranger turned his head from side to side. He was definitely looking for something. Weir slipped his rifle inside his sleeping bag. Then he picked up his Browning pistol and stuffed it under the belt of his trousers behind his back. He wouldn’t give the ranger any reason to suspect foul play, but he’d be ready in any case.
For a few moments, Weir thought the ranger might not notice his shelter. But he obviously had experience tracking poachers. His head stopped as he looked at Weir’s blind. He squinted for a moment then began walking directly toward the shelter.
Damn, Weir thought.
Weir's dog stood up at the sound of footsteps approaching their hut and began barking. Weir snapped on a leash and pulled him out of the blind. He stretched and feigned surprise when he saw the ranger.
“Good day, Officer. What brings you to this patch of wilderness so early in the morning?”
Weir's dog pulled on its leash, snarling at the man.
“These wetlands are part of a nature preserve. I'm an environmental conservation officer with Suffolk County. We received a complaint about a barking dog. Pets aren't allowed within the preserve other than on marked trails.”
The officer looked behind Weir toward his shelter.
“Neither is overnight camping, for that matter.”
Weir spread his arms in supplication.
“I had no idea, Officer. My dog and I were just trying to enjoy some solitude. There aren't many places this close to the city where you can find this kind of peace.”
The officer scanned Weir's camp. Fifty feet away, he noticed a fire pit and two dead rabbits hanging from a tree branch.
“How long have you been camping here? It looks like you were planning to settle in for a while. An experienced hunter such as yourself should be better informed of the local regulations, especially this close to civilization.”
“We've only been here a couple of days. We weren't planning on staying much longer. I'll be happy to pack up and move on.”
The ranger looked at Weir suspiciously. He hadn’t yet recognized him as the sniper. He wasn’t sure if the camper was just an avid outdoorsman or a homeless person.
“You'll have to disassemble your shelter and remove the dead animals. This is a nature preserve, not a hunting range. And I'll need to see some ID.”
“Of course...”
As Weir reached around to his back pocket, he let go of the dog's leash. The animal lunged toward the conservation officer. With only a few feet between them, the officer didn't have time to pull out his sidearm, and he turned defensively to the side. Weir swiftly extracted his hunting knife and closed the distance.
He stabbed the knife deep into the officer's back just above the kidney and grabbed his mouth to muffle his cries. Then he pulled the knife out and made three more hard uppercut jabs into the man's abdomen just below his ribcage. The officer went limp, and Weir lowered him to the ground. He sputtered a few times then rolled his eyes, drowning in his own blood.
Weir's dog barked loudly. Weir grabbed it by the back of the neck to make it heel.
“Shhh, boy,” he said in a quiet voice. “It's okay. You did good. I need you to be quiet now like we do after we capture deer. Be still while I prepare the kill.”
Weir went into his shelter and came out with some nylon rope. Then he went to the edge of the water and retrieved four large flat rocks fr
om the shore. He wound the rope between his elbow and his hand a few times to measure the length and cut four ten-foot sections. Then he laid the rope in parallel lines on the ground and placed one rock over each section.
He wrapped the rope sections in a cross pattern over each rock, then flipped them over and tied a secure knot. He placed one rock on top the officer's chest and turned his body over and wrapped the rope tightly around his torso a couple of times to bind them together. Then he placed another rock on the officer's thighs and repeated the procedure with the two other rocks, tying them to his back.
Weir threw his dog a bone to keep it busy then dragged the officer's lifeless body to a secluded side of the island. He submerged the body in four feet of water until it rested on the floor of the marsh. When he returned to his camp, his dog was still gnawing on the bone. He went into the blind, packed his gear, and came out with a stuffed duffel bag.
“Come on boy,” he said. “We need to find a camp farther away from prying eyes. I think I know just the spot.”
48
Jackson Heights, Queens
July 18, 9:00 a.m.
Joe and Hannah stood on the porch of a red brick row house in Queens, waiting for the occupants to answer the door. Joe looked through the windows for any sign of movement. He knew it was unlikely that Weir would return to his childhood home, but he wanted to be ready if their paths crossed.
Hannah's right hand rested nervously over her holster.
“Are you sure we shouldn't be covering the back exit?” she asked her partner.
