The Avenged

by Charles Prandy

  “That’s better than nothing.”

  I pulled out my radio and quickly spoke into it. “Lock everything down. We’re coming in.”

  Only a handful of people had been let out of the building, so there was a good chance that the shooter was still inside. I remembered the faces of the people who had left and I hadn’t seen anyone wearing a beard. Suddenly, I became excited about the chances of actually catching the shooter.

  I was told by the building’s management that ten companies occupied the building, and that each company had anywhere from twenty to seventy-five employees. Sifting through a few hundred people would be a daunting task, but one that I didn’t mind doing. But there was another problem. One company was hosting a conference with close to another one hundred people from across the country in attendance. The shooter was smart in picking this day, which leads me to believe that we were dealing with a professional. Hopefully the eyewitness would be helpful.

  I entered the building with Manny and another officer trailing close behind. The lobby was set up like a checkpoint at an airport, with officers frisking and waving metal detectors over each person. I felt the stares from the people in the lines. Some stared with anger that they were being forced to evacuate and wait in long lines, while others stared with intrigue.

  I informed the officers that Manny was a possible witness and that he would be standing near the exit and looking at each person leaving the building. We’d be paying special attention to men wearing beards. I seriously doubted that the shooter was a janitor, and if he were wearing a janitor’s uniform, it was just a means for him to enter the building.

  The police started the line moving again. Already, I saw three men near the back of the line with beards, but they were dressed in suits and were wearing a tag around their necks, most likely from the conference. I wondered how long it would take for someone to change from a janitor’s uniform to a suit. If he were wearing the suit under the janitor’s uniform, then it wouldn’t take long at all.

  I leaned over to one of the officers and asked him to pull the three bearded men aside. I wanted to see how they would react to my questions. As a detective, I’ve dealt with liars of all types and like to think that I can spot a lie from a mile away. I study the person’s overall posture.

  Generally, when people lie, their bodies are stiff and they use fewer hand movements. Liars also tend to avoid eye contact and move their eyes around to avoid meeting the gaze of the person questioning them. Sometimes, if a person stares too long, that’s another indication of a liar. They know eye movement may give them away, so they force themselves to keep their eyes fixated on the person questioning them. Liars also don’t like to stand directly in front of the person questioning them, so they tend to turn their shoulders so that they’re not squared.

  If one of these men lies, I should be able to tell, and hopefully I can put this to bed before dinner.

  Seventeen

  THE SNIPER STOOD TO the right of the lines with two other men who were, curiously enough, wearing beards. Someone must have seen him on the roof and now the police were focusing on men with beards. He assumed it was the man wearing the cable uniform who was the eyewitness. No worries. The officer moved him right in front of the painting where the gun was stashed. He fought every urge to rip the painting off the wall and shoot his way free. He’d play along with their games as long as he needed, but if he got the feeling that they were on to him, the gun would be his means of escape.

  Moving towards him was a man he recognized the instant he walked through the door. He had seen him through the scope as he canvassed the park, but didn’t pin him as a cop. He was probably the reason the police arrived so soon. He was a tall African American man standing close to six feet three inches with a lean frame. He wore his hair close to his scalp with a shadow beard covering his face. His statuesque build wasn’t intimidating by any means, but he carried an air of authority in his persona that begged to differ.

  The man gracefully moved to them and looked them up and down before engaging in verbal communication. The sniper was the first of the three he passed.

  “My name is Detective Hayden,” he said, standing near the third man. “I just have a couple of quick questions to ask and then you’re free to go. In case you haven’t heard by now, someone’s been shot a couple of blocks from here and we believe the shooter may have come from this building. All I ask is that you be straight up and honest with me and you’ll be on your way.”

  The sniper’s eyes followed the detective as he walked back and forth with his hands crossed behind his back. His body language seemed confident that he knew something the rest of them didn’t, almost cocky. But the sniper sensed what he was doing. It’s an interrogation method that’s used to trick people into confessing to crimes by making it appear that the authority has the upper hand. Basically, they’re looking for a reaction. If the one who committed the crime thinks that the police have evidence to substantiate a conviction, then maybe they’d confess without having to go through the hoopla of hours of interrogation. The sniper tried to hold back his smirk at the silliness of the whole charade, but nonetheless allowed a little one to form.

  The detective asked the third bearded man where he was an hour ago and what he was doing. The man nervously answered and then the detective moved on. The same questions were asked to the second man, and then the detective moved to the sniper.

  “So, what’s your name?” The detective asked.

  “Lindenberg, Harvey,” the sniper replied with a cockiness of his own.

  The detective didn’t move his eyes away from the sniper’s eyes.

  “And, Lindenberg, Harvey, where were you an hour ago?”

  “At a conference.”

  “Can anyone confirm you were there?”

  “I’m sure someone could.”

  The sniper was taking a chance at his boldness, but he quickly sized up the detective and believed this to be the best way to answer the questions. In his opinion, the detective was looking for someone obviously trying to hide his guilt by pretending to be afraid and nervous, like he could never do anything as atrocious as what had been done.

  The two shared stares for a few more seconds before the detective walked away.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The sniper nodded and followed the detective with his eyes as he headed back to the front door. Easy enough. A few more minutes and he should be out the door. Just then, he saw the detective speak in the ear of one of the officers, who gave the sniper a peculiar look. The detective then unlatched his sidearm and the sniper saw the officer do the same. Neither made a move, but the sniper suddenly knew this was going to end in a shoot-out. Acting on pure instinct, he spun around, knocking the painting off the wall, and reached for the nine-millimeter pistol. In the same movement, he grabbed the closest bearded man and took his first shot.

  Eighteen

  I FELL TO THE floor when I heard the echoing blast of the gun. I found cover next to the front desk and pulled my Glock free from its holster. Harvey Lindenberg was holding one of the other bearded men in front of him as a body shield as he sporadically shot around the room. The people in the lines screamed with fear. Some rushed the front, trying to break free, while others dropped to the ground.

  “Don’t shoot! He’s got a hostage!” I yelled.

  With the hostage as a body shield, I knew that none of the officers could get a clear shot. Harvey wasn’t shooting at anyone; he was shooting at the room, trying to cause a distraction.

  “Drop the weapon, Harvey!”

  The shooting didn’t cease. Harvey and the hostage rushed to the east side of the building, to the service elevator, and ducked inside. The doors closed with a ding.

  “Anybody hurt?” I asked.

  Everyone looked around the room and no one had been hit.

  “Clear these people out of here on the double.”

  The lobby quickly emptied, with the exception of the police. I gathered the officers around me
and barked orders.

  “I need eyes on the outside and ears on the inside. Someone get me floor plans to the building. I want sharpshooters covering every angle of this place.”

  I reached for my radio, remembering that SWAT units were already scouring the floors.

  “Tim, you read?”

  A heavy voice came through the radio. “Whatcha got?”

  “Our shooter is in the building. He’s wearing a dark suit and a beard. He’s got a hostage and he just entered the service elevator.”

  “10-4. I’ve got men on every floor. He won’t get far.”

  Nineteen

  BY NOW, THE SNIPER thought that he’d be at his safe house, preparing for the next kill. Instead, he was scaling a dark elevator shaft with a man who was crying his eyes out. The sniper stopped the elevator between the ground and first floors with the emergency button and then quickly climbed out through the escape door. Between the fourth and fifth floors, there’s a ventilation shaft that leads to the building’s maintenance room. The maintenance room is attached to the supply room where there’s a window leading to the fire escape. The only problem was that the police would have all of the exits covered and sharpshooters aimed at the building. A metal ladder climbs the length of the elevator shaft, with the only light coming from the elevator. The one thing slowing him up was the hostage.

  “Hurry up,” the sniper repeated.

  “Please, just let me go. I have a wife and family.”

  “And you’ll see them again if you do as I say. Now hurry.”

  The sniper continued looking below, expecting to hear the voices of the police in the elevator’s car. He pushed the hostage harder to reach the ventilation shaft, and once they did, they crawled in without incident. The ventilation shaft was three feet high and three feet wide. Without the dim light from the elevator’s car, the shaft was completely dark.

  “Keep going until you can’t go anymore and then we’ll make a right,” the sniper said.

  “I can’t see anything,” the hostage pleaded.

  “Just keep moving.”

  It didn’t take them long to reach the end and make the right. Ten feet down the shaft, light shined from the maintenance room. They shuffled on their hands and knees until they reached the vent. The sniper looked through the vent’s openings and then pried it loose. He carefully lowered himself to the floor and then waited for the hostage to do the same. They went through a door to their left and entered a small supply room.

  “Stand here. Don’t move.”

  The sniper went to the edge of the window and looked out. They were now at the back of the building, facing an alley. Two squad cars were parked at either end of the alley and there were two sharpshooters on the roof across from them.

  He looked back at the terrified hostage and smiled.

  “Well, my friend, this is where we part ways.”

  Without another word, the sniper swung the butt of the gun and knocked the hostage out.

  Twenty

  WE ALL HAD OUR guns aimed at the service elevator on the ground floor. Two officers with crowbars in their hands were ready to pry the door open upon my command. I stood a few feet away, along with the rest of the officers, making sure that everyone was in position before giving the go-ahead.

  SWAT leader Tim McDonald, a man built like a bull and who ran his squad as if he were still in the Marines, came down to the ground floor and confirmed that the elevator had not landed on any floor in the building. I instantly knew that Harvey was in the elevator shaft.

  Once everyone was in position, I gave the command and the two officers pried the elevator door open. The empty elevator was between the lobby and first floor.

  “Clear,” one of the officers said.

  I hurried to the elevator and looked inside and saw the trapdoor at the top of the elevator was open.

  “He’s in the shaft.” I turned my attention to Tim. “Tell your men to open all of the elevator doors on each floor. We’ll need all the light we can get.”

  I turned to one of the officers and asked him to boost me up so that I could climb inside the elevator. The opening between the elevator and the ceiling was wide enough that I could squeeze through. I reached up to the bottom of the elevator, and at the same time, the officer grabbed my leg and was about to push me up when Tim put his hand on my shoulder.

  “You should wait until my men can make sure the shaft is clear.”

  “No time to wait. Floor plans show that there are ventilation ducts on each floor. He could be anywhere in the building by now. And who knows what he’s done with the hostage.”

  Tim looked into the elevator and then back to me. “Ok, but I’ll lead.”

  He radioed the rest of his men. “I want bodies in the elevator shaft now. Check all ventilation shafts between each floor. And remember, there’s a hostage.”

  He turned to me, “Ready?”

  “Always.”

  Twenty-one

  AT THIS POINT, A reasonable person would say, I’m trapped, the building’s surrounded with cops and the only way out is either in handcuffs or a body bag. Not to mention that by now, the police would have swarmed the elevator shaft and were inching ever so close to pinning him in a corner. All of this would make a reasonable person give up. The sniper wasn’t that reasonable.

  He still felt that he could walk out the front door unnoticed, but the plan had changed.

  He stood with his ear pressed against the supply room’s door and listened for any sounds of movement. Convinced the coast was clear, he slowly opened the door and peered out. Sterile white walls lined the empty hallway. He looked back into the supply room one more time, taking notice that the unconscious hostage was duct taped pretty well, should he regain consciousness in the next few minutes.

  The sniper crept along the hallway, being careful not to make noise with his steps. His new plan called for a surprise attack, which was the only way he saw of making it out alive.

  Four feet in front of him was a hallway which, he knew, by making a right would lead him to the service elevator at the end of the hall. As he suspected, the closer he got to the hallway, he heard voices.

  He peeked around the corner and saw three SWAT police with their backs to him. The elevator door was open and the men were shining flashlights into the shaft. A thought came to mind, but he quickly dismissed it as it would only temporarily solve his problem. Rushing them and knocking them into the shaft would eliminate three officers, but he was sure that more would crawl out like ants in a anthill. By now, there were probably a dozen of them scaling the elevator shaft looking for him. He needed to draw them away from the shaft and deeper into the hallway for his plan to work.

  Luckily, the break came just at the right time.

  One of the SWAT officers climbed into the shaft, and while doing so, told the two others to sweep the floor again.

  The sniper quickly backed away and returned to the supply room. The hostage was still unconscious.

  He stood to the left of the door with his back against the wall, waiting for the door to open. Once the SWAT officer saw the unconscious hostage, the sniper would only have seconds to react. And then the plan would go into motion. But now he must wait.

  When the waiting game began, seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours. The sniper started to feel antsy, but did a good job of calming his nerves by slowing his breathing and closing his eyes. He envisioned how the event would unfold in his mind.

  The SWAT officer would slowly open the door, probably not expecting to see an unconscious man duct-taped on the floor. He should be alone because the other one would have taken the other side of the building. He would be surprised and then would rush to check the man’s vitals. At that point, the sniper would come from behind the open door and take out the cop. He’d dress in the cop’s uniform. Luckily, they’re wearing black masks under their hardhats. Then he’d approach the second cop and take him out, too. Then he’d take the stairs, being careful not to look too rushed, and wa
lk past the checkpoint where he’d be free.

  The plan was nearly perfect, given the fact that he had come up with it when he realized that he wouldn’t be able to go out of the fire escape. The only thing now was the execution.

  Suddenly, he heard a door from across the hall close. He looked to his doorknob and watched as it slowly turned. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he balled his fists and waited for the cop to enter the room. And just as he thought, one of the SWAT officers rushed in and knelt down next to the hostage. And just as he imagined, he leaped from behind the door and attacked the first officer. What he didn’t expect was that the second one was right behind him.

  Twenty-two

  TIM AND I CLIMBED to the fourth floor when we realized that the only ventilation shaft large enough for someone to fit in is between the fourth and fifth floor. Harvey’s on this floor. Call it intuition, but it’s the same feeling I felt when I sensed that the sniper shot came from this building.

  I met Tim’s eyes and confirmed the feeling without saying a word. Tim steadied his semi-automatic machine gun and I gripped my Glock.

  “Where are your men?” I whispered.

  Tim reached for his radio and quietly spoke into it. “Smith, Clayton, what’s your position?”

  Static filled the reception.

  “Edwards,” Tim said, “what’s your position?”

  “I’m on the fifth floor,” came a husky reply. “I told Smith and Clayton to search the fourth floor one more time.”

  “Something’s wrong.” I said.

  “We’ll split up,” Tim responded. “You check the right hallway and I’ll check the left and then we’ll meet back here in the middle.”

  I nodded and then turned left.