by J. R. McLeay
“What are those two small circles on the Victoria building? The one closest to the Square has an 'X' in it.”
Joe stopped a moment. Then he pumped his head angrily.
“Son of a bitch. Those are the twin water towers on the rooftop. The K-9 unit traced the sniper’s scent to the one nearest the park. I knew that's where he fired from.”
Hannah looked at Joe then pointed to a notation directly in front of the statue.
“I guess we know what this 'M' symbol represents.”
Joe folded the paper, placed it inside a specimen bag, and stepped out of the burrow.
“Our man was definitely here,” he nodded to Captain Milburn. “I think we should search the property thoroughly. If your officer surprised the sniper, it could have turned south quickly.”
Milburn motioned for his men to fan out and begin searching the island. Joe turned his body slowly in each direction then stopped as he faced east.
“What do you see?” Hannah said.
“If you were the sniper and you needed to dispose of a body, where would you hide it?”
“Somewhere hard to find, as far from prying eyes as possible.”
“Remember the hiking path we saw on the map? That side of the island is furthest away and would be the most protected from pedestrian traffic.”
“Let's check it out.”
Joe began hacking through some dense brush at the side of the clearing. Within ten feet he noticed a path of broken branches and trampled brush lying on the forest floor. The detectives followed the path until it stopped at the water's edge. Joe and Hannah looked up at one another and nodded.
They stepped into the water and waded out in forty-five degree opposite angles, dragging their feet along the bottom to feel anything unusual lying in the water. About twenty feet from shore, Joe bumped into something heavy. He reached under the surface and pulled the object toward the surface. When it emerged, he motioned for the captain who had followed their trail and was standing on the shore.
“Captain,” Joe said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
56
300 Central Park West, Upper West Side
July 24, 1:00 p.m.
Todd Weir peered through his rifle scope toward the Great Lawn of Central Park from the thirty-eighth floor of the Eldorado building. The iconic twin towers on the west side of Central Park had been a familiar Manhattan landmark since they were built during the Great Depression. Home to artists, celebrities, and famous socialites, virtually everyone who lived there was well known in Manhattan society.
Weir had little difficulty bypassing the building's security system. Entering via an emergency exit door after dark, he'd easily picked the old-style tumbler lock then taken the elevator to the upper floors. After watching the movement of residents from the stairwell, he'd targeted a frail older woman who appeared to live alone. Waiting until she was asleep after midnight, he picked her door lock and cut the security chain with a bolt cutter. Then he crept into her bedroom and quietly suffocated her. It would take forty-eight hours before the smell of the decaying body began to spread outside her unit, but Weir planned to be gone long before then.
Looking outside her living room window, he saw the platform upon which the President planned to deliver his address being constructed on the south side of the meadow. It seemed almost inconceivable to Weir that the President would take this kind of risk after the recent shooting of the mayor. But he knew the Secret Service had additional tools at their disposal and that they would go to extraordinary lengths to protect the President.
The stage was about fifty feet square and was enclosed in a transparent glass cube with only the front side open. Weir suspected the panes would be bulletproof, cutting off the line of attack from an incoming bullet. Depending on how deep inside the enclosure the President stood, the angle of opportunity would be as little as fifteen degrees in each direction. This cut off most of the possible shooting positions from either side of the park and also eliminated the possibility of shooting from high above the platform. That left the only effective angle of attack either directly in front of the platform or hundreds of yards away from an elevated position.
Weir nodded in admiration. The President's security detail had done their homework. For a wide-open venue, they had designed the logistics to minimize the size of the kill zone and maximize their chance of closing in on the shooter quickly.
A small lake lay directly in front of the platform. The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir covered almost the entire width of the park, extending a third of a mile toward the north end. Weir swung his scope to the north section. A wall of buildings ran along the narrow length of 110th Street at the top edge of the park. It had the most direct sighting to the stage and was far enough back to reach the President at a low angle.
But it was also a mile and a half away and would be the obvious location from which to take a shot. Although it was still within the firing range of his high-powered rifle, Weir knew this section of the park would be closely monitored. The New York City police department and every security agency of the United States government would be scanning any building within shooting range of the President. Satellite cameras would be looking at every rooftop, and sharpshooters would be peering through every open window searching for the sniper.
Weir also knew his echo trick that he'd used to distract spotters for the mayor's killing wasn't likely to work twice. The Secret Service had special technology to filter extraneous noise and home in on the real shot. This time, Weir would have only seconds to make his escape instead of minutes. He'd have to find a less likely firing position—one from which he could make a quick retreat.
He traced a line from 110th Street toward the President's platform. The northern section of the park called The Loch was heavily forested. Between the Loch and the reservoir was an open meadow dotted with baseball diamonds and playing fields. If he could find a tall enough tree, he might be able to get up high enough to find a clear line of sight to the President.
The Secret Service would most likely concentrate their search for the sniper among the tall buildings lining the far edge of the park. But Weir knew they were also likely to use tracking dogs to scour the interior of the park. If he was going to have any chance at avoiding detection and making a safe getaway, he'd have to find a way to hide his scent and outrun the cops if they pinpointed his location.
Weir scanned the bike paths and walking trails running through the northern section of the park. A cyclist was winding along the trails, weaving past the military monuments and sparse pedestrian traffic. The sniper looked up from his scope, paused for a moment, then smiled.
He packed up his rifle then calmly walked to the ensuite bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet. While the tub was filling, he walked over to the dead woman's bed and picked up two black-and-white framed pictures from her nightstand. They showed the woman performing a Broadway solo many years ago and standing next to the President and his wife backstage.
When the tub was full, Weir took off his clothes and submerged himself in the water. He picked up a loofah lying at the side of the tub and scrubbed his head and body vigorously for two minutes. Then he went to the kitchen, looked under the sink, and pulled out a plastic bucket. He carried the bucket to the bathtub and skimmed it across the surface of the water, filling it near the top.
Ten minutes later, he walked out the front door of the luxury apartment. He took one last look at the old woman lying on her bed, surrounded by pictures of her famous friends. Soon, he thought, she'd be remembered in the company of Presidents for another reason.
Not long after, the few pedestrians walking on the west side of Central Park paid little mind to an old man riding a wobbly bicycle along the sidewalk. No one noticed that the pail perched at the side of his bike had a slow leak and was leaving a trail of water drops all the way around the perimeter of the park.
57
The Loch, Northern Central Park
July 25, 11:00 a.m.<
br />
Late Saturday morning, a long motorcade of black SUVs made its way down 5th Avenue along the east side of Central Park. In the middle of the pack were two black limousines. Four flashing NYPD motorcycles and a marked squad car led the procession. Every intersection south of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge leading from LaGuardia Airport was blocked to allow unrestricted access to the convoy's final destination.
When the caravan reached 85th Street, it turned into the park just north of the Metropolitan Museum and wound its way to the Great Lawn. Scores of gray-suited Secret Service agents wearing dark sunglasses stood about the meadow craning their heads like owls looking for prey. Many more uniformed NYPD officers patrolled the northern section of the grounds and along the streets lining the edges of the park. On the rooftops of the tallest buildings on each side of the park, Secret Service sharpshooters scanned every building with a clear line of sight to the Presidential platform.
Eighteen hundred yards away, Todd Weir lay face down on a tall branch of an oak tree at the south end of the Loch. From his position near the edge of the North Meadow, he had a clear view of the Presidential platform across the open playing field and the large reservoir.
He'd climbed the tree using ropes and carabiners to avoid touching the trunk. His entire body was covered in camouflage clothing, making him virtually invisible in the thick canopy of the deciduous tree. His exposed skin was coated with camouflage paint, as much to prevent dead skin cells falling onto the ground below as to blend in amongst the dense foliage. On the branch below rested a small green bicycle, which he'd stolen the night before to pedal to the tree without setting foot on the ground.
He scanned the nearest trail leading from his tree to the west side of the park. It was lightly traveled by parkgoers enjoying the afternoon sunshine. The President’s planned appearance had drawn out just enough curious gawkers to help cover the sniper’s retreat. Weir knew everybody would be looking up for signs of the shooter. He had the element of surprise to his advantage. Before anyone would be able to place his position, he’d be racing off the grounds on his bike toward his escape route. If the security detail did happen to identify him, they’d be reluctant to shoot with so many civilians nearby.
Weir turned his scope to the motorcade coming to a stop beside a stand of trees next to the Great Lawn. He zeroed in on the limousines and watched for the President to emerge. A man and woman matching the height and build of the First Couple got out of one of the cars and moved to a covered shelter near the stage with their backs to his position.
No matter, Weir thought. In less than thirty minutes, he'd have a clear shot at the President's head on the raised platform. The pretty backdrop of Central Park visible through the clear transparent panes of the stage would soon be painted in more vibrant colors.
58
Central Park West, Upper West Side
July 25, 11:30 a.m.
The bloodhound tugged his handler forward as it sniffed the sidewalk next to the luxury co-op buildings lining the west side of Central Park. Joe and Hannah followed closely behind with their pistols at their side, looking for any sign of the sniper. The dog had picked up Weir's scent next to the Metropolitan Museum on 5th Avenue and led the team almost two miles half way around the park.
Joe looked at the handler and shook his head in frustration.
“What the hell, Lou? We're being led in circles.”
The handler stopped and instructed the dog to heel.
“I've seen this before. Fugitives sometimes double back over their trail and trace a circle to confuse the animal. It's hard to pinpoint where they stopped when it's a continuous pattern. But this is highly unusual for an urban environment. There's a lot of traffic on these sidewalks. Dogs usually have difficulty picking up the scent.”
Hannah watched the dog sniff the pavement and pull in the direction of the south end of the park.
“This one sure seems to know where he's going.”
Lou nodded.
“The scent's been uninterrupted for many blocks, and it’s particularly strong.” He resumed walking with the dog. “It's almost as if the sniper wanted us to find it.”
“As a diversionary tactic?” Hannah asked.
“Possibly,” Lou said. “But there's something else that's unusual. Normally the trail meanders, following the target's typically jerky movements. This one goes in a perfectly straight line.”
“Isn't that because the streets and sidewalks along the sides of the park are also perfectly straight?” Joe said.
“Partly. But dogs usually sniff the ground in a zigzag pattern matching the footsteps of the target. This trail is one solid line. It’s almost like it was painted on the ground.”
“He has to stop somewhere along the way, right?” Hannah said. She looked down the sidewalk at the uninterrupted wall of luxury co-op apartments. “There's virtually nowhere to hide at street level. Will the dog be able to sense if the target veered off the path?”
“It should, assuming he's still walking. But this pattern almost seems like he's floating.”
Joe looked at the pedestrian traffic moving along the sidewalk on the park side of the street.
“The only other method of conveyance would be on a bicycle or a stroller,” he said.
“City by-laws prohibit riding bicycles on sidewalks,” Hannah said. “The wealthy residents living in these co-ops would quickly shoo an itinerant rider onto the street.”
“There aren’t many people walking the lanes of Manhattan these days,” Joe said. “I can’t imagine many people would complain. Plus, the guardsmen wouldn't recognize it as unusual.”
Joe turned to the dog handler.
“What do you make of it, Lou?”
“A bicycle wouldn't leave much of a scent trail—only where the rider touched his body to the ground when he stopped. This is a strong and continuous trail. If the sniper was riding a bike, he’d have to drag a piece of his clothing behind him to duplicate this pattern.”
“He's leading us somewhere,” Hannah said.
“Probably in the wrong direction,” Joe mused.
The dog suddenly stopped at a gate leading to an alleyway between two large buildings.
“Got something?” Joe asked Lou.
The handler nodded.
“Yes. Your man definitely went in here.”
Joe raised his pistol and swung the gate open slowly.
“Watch for him to the sides and above. Lou, be prepared to release the dog if you see the suspect. We may only have a few seconds to react.”
The dog stopped by a metal door leading into one of the buildings.
“This is where the trail stops,” Lou said.
Joe pulled on the door. It was locked tight. He bent down and examined the lock.
“Weir wouldn't have much difficulty picking this. Let's go in the front and see if we can pick up his scent on the other side of the door.”
The team backtracked and entered the lobby. The dog quickly found the sniper's scent and traced it to the main elevator. They rode the elevator to the top floor then Joe pushed the buttons for the descending floors. Three floors from the top, the dog picked up the scent and led them to unit 2912.
Joe pulled out his Glock and nodded to Lou and Hannah. Hannah leaned in toward Joe’s ear.
“Shouldn't we call for backup?” she said. “What if he has the place booby-trapped again?”
Joe looked at his watch. It was ten minutes before noon.
“The President is scheduled to begin speaking in just a few minutes,” he whispered. “We haven't got time.”
He pointed two fingers at his eyes then turned them toward Lou and Hannah. He separated his two index fingers, indicating he wanted them to cover his flanks. Then he reared back and kicked the door as hard as he could. It didn't budge. He tried again. It didn't crack. He lifted his pistol and pointed it at the door jamb where the latch crossed and fired three times.
As the door flew open, Joe rushed into the apartment. The entrance foyer
and living room were empty. There was no sign of habitation. Joe glanced to his sides then moved into the living room while Lou and Hannah searched in the other directions.
“Joe,” Hannah called a few seconds later. “I've found something.”
Joe hurried to the end of the hall and entered the master bedroom, where Hannah was standing. An old woman lay still on her bed with her eyes open. Joe walked over to the bed. The woman was deathly pale and her skin was cold. She'd been dead for hours.
Hannah went into the ensuite washroom to make sure it was clear.
“That's odd,” she called.
Joe and Lou followed behind and looked at the tub full of water.
“The woman still had her nightgown on,” Hannah said. “Why would she leave the tub full?”
“Unless somebody else was taking a bath,” Joe said.
“You're suggesting the sniper killed the woman in cold blood then calmly took a bath?” Lou said. “That's cold.”
Joe dipped his hand in the water then rubbed his fingers together and held them up to his nose.
“No oil and no soap. That's not the kind of bath I’ve ever known a woman to take.”
“Maybe the sniper was trying to wash off his scent?” Hannah said.
“Or trying to concentrate his scent,” Joe said. “Lou, how do dogs normally track someone's scent? I mean—do they smell his breath, the smell of his shoes, or something else?”
“Actually, it's mostly dead skin cells. Our bodies slough off millions of dead cells every day. Every person's skin has a unique scent, like a fingerprint. Dogs track the path of dead cells left on the ground like a trail of breadcrumbs.”
Joe picked up the loofah floating on top of the water and ran his fingers over it.
“Looks like our sniper sloughed off a lot of dead skin cells.”
He ran to the bedroom window and threw back the curtains. The Central Park reservoir was directly across the street and the President's platform was two hundred yards to the south.
