by J. R. McLeay
Joe tapped the keyboard and a video began showing a young man entering the hotel lobby.
“Looks like the same guy,” O'Neill nodded. “No beard—only a mustache this time. His frame is the same size. But he's carrying a duffel bag instead of the black roller case.”
O'Neill stopped the clip.
“Kate, what do you make of that?”
“Do you mind if I rewind the tape?” she asked.
Kate flicked a couple of keys on the computer and moved in closer to watch the screen.
“He's walking differently,” she observed. “Stiff and jerky—almost like he's laboring to carry the bag. If the rifle's in there, it can't weigh that much.”
Joe nodded.
“We found three sandbags surrounding the gunpowder residue on the rooftop,” he said. “We're not sure what he used them for, but that could be what he had in the bag.”
O'Neill squinted his eyes in puzzlement.
“Where does he go next?”
Joe tapped the keyboard. The clip showed the man getting off the elevator on the top floor, walking to the end of the hall and disappearing into the stairwell.
“There's no video showing what he's doing in there?”
Joe shook his head.
“No cams in the stairways, like the other hotels.”
“Do you see him leaving the building?” Kate asked.
Joe nodded and continued the video. The four officers watched the same man walk out of the lobby thirty minutes later.
Kate pointed at the screen.
“Notice the change in the duffel bag?” she said. “And he's walking much more comfortably. He's taking a lot less out than he brought in.”
O'Neill hit the keyboard and stopped the clip.
“Yes, it almost looks empty. It's virtually collapsed in the middle. He must have left the rifle on the rooftop. When did he come back?”
“There's no footage showing anyone matching his profile entering or exiting the hotel over the next twelve hours,” Joe said.
“Maybe he used some kind of remote control device?” O'Neill said. “The sandbags could have been used to minimize recoil of the rifle at the time of firing.”
“We considered that,” Hannah said. “But we scoured the rooftop. There's no sign of the rifle.”
O'Neill looked at Joe and Hannah incredulously.
“So we're dealing with some kind of magician who can make weapons disappear? And escape from the rooftops of surrounded buildings. Can he fly too?”
O'Neill turned to the FBI agent.
“Kate, what do you make of the shift in timing of the shooting? Were you able to make any association with the 12:01 timing?”
“The only connection I could find pertains to Bible scripture. In the Book of Romans, Chapter 12, Verse 1, there’s a citation ‘offering one's body as living sacrifice to receive God's mercy.’”
“Great,” O'Neill said. “So now we're dealing with a religious fanatic also.”
The lieutenant turned toward Joe.
“When did the Whitehall cameras capture this morning's shooting?”
“Seven twenty-five.”
“What possible connection can there be there?”
“I'll see if I can dig up any other correlations,” Kate said.
“What about the military association? Did your database uncover anything suspicious there?”
“We tracked all active and retired military snipers living in the New York City area. It was a pretty short list—there were only five. I passed that information over to your team late yesterday.”
Joe looked at the lieutenant and nodded.
“Our guys interviewed each one of them this morning. All five can account for their whereabouts during the previous shootings. They've all been ruled out as a suspect.”
“And the specialized rifle? Were you able to track any black market activity?”
“If you can believe it,” Hannah said, “the manufacturer in question sells it freely through registered firearms dealers. It's not semi-automatic, so it doesn't fall under the assault weapons ban. You can even order the thing online. Anyone without a criminal record can get his hands on it. Assuming they can cough up ten grand.”
O'Neill shook his head.
“That's comforting to know. But ten grand is pretty steep for a single firearm. There can't be that many registered purchases.”
“Checked and vetted,” Joe said. “Of the two hundred and twenty registered purchasers, seventeen live in the New York metropolitan area. Every one of them has a lock-tight alibi. Some of the weapons might have been resold on the black market, but that's almost impossible to track.”
O'Neill looked at Kate.
“That pretty much only leaves us with your adoption scenario. Have you begun narrowing the list?”
Kate nodded.
“Our database scanned every resident of the New York City metropolitan area. Filtering all white male adoptees between the ages of twenty and thirty, we've narrowed the list to a little over one thousand candidates.”
O'Neill paused as he did some math in his head.
“Between the First and the Eighteenth Precincts, there's a total of fifty detectives on staff. That works out to roughly twenty interviews per detective. When can you supply me with that list? I'd like to share it with my counterpart downtown and get started interviewing each one immediately.”
“I'll send it as soon as I get back to my desk,” Kate said.
O'Neill turned back to Joe and Hannah.
“I'd like you to get the rest of our team on this right away. Identify the individuals with airtight alibis first to narrow the list. We've got five shootings. If anyone can't account for his whereabouts at the time of any of these killings, bring him in. Then we'll mobilize all our resources on building the case.”
O'Neill looked at his watch. It was just before noon.
“Let's hope this guy has broken with his midday shooting pattern. With any luck, we can find him before he strikes again.”
20
East Flatbush, Brooklyn
July 8, 6:40 p.m.
Todd Weir sat in his apartment watching the evening news with his black lab by his side. The morning's interview of Commissioner Pope was being rebroadcast amidst a blitz of media coverage after the ferry shooting. It was the top story on both the local and national news. Everyone wanted to know what the police were doing to find the killer.
Weir watched with bemusement as the commissioner squirmed while answering the host's questions. He smiled when Morrison suggested the killer had outsmarted his cops. When they showed a photo of the sniper leaving the Pierre Hotel, he leaned in closer to the screen. The man appeared unrecognizable behind a full beard and sunglasses.
He reached down and petted his dog.
“Recognize that guy, Jake?” he said, pointing to the screen.
The dog looked up and glanced toward the screen then back at his master.
“Yeah, me neither. Looks like he really is smarter than the cops.”
Weir's eyes widened when the commissioner mentioned the advisory for New Yorkers to stay indoors around noontime.
“Looks like it's getting dangerous out there, buddy. Don’t worry, though. Stick with me. We're untouchable.”
The broadcast returned to coverage with the news anchorman.
“Shortly after Commissioner Pope’s interview,” the anchorman said, “there was another killing at Whitehall Ferry Terminal. The sniper shot a morning commuter as he disembarked with thousands of others from the Staten Island Ferry. The timing was different, but the pattern was familiar. Another random killing from a mysterious murderer who’s picking people off seemingly at will. The police appear to be no closer to apprehending the sniper than they were five days ago, when it all started.”
A loud double-rap on the door suddenly snapped Weir’s attention from the TV. He got up and peered through the peephole. He took a step back and looked at his dog. Then he snapped his fingers and motioned toward his
bedroom.
“I need you to stay in the bedroom for a few minutes, buddy. This won't take long.”
The dog obediently followed his master toward the bedroom. Weir gently pushed the dog into the room and closed the door behind him. Then he went to the front door and swung it open. Two familiar faces stood in the hallway.
“Detectives Bannon and Trimble, NYPD,” Joe said, holding up his badge. “Are you Todd Weir?”
The dog howled from the bedroom at the sound of unfamiliar voices.
“That's my legal name,” Weir replied. “But my friends call me Brian.”
“May we have a few minutes of your time?”
“I suppose,” Weir said, pretending to be surprised. “What's this all about?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the sniper shootings.”
Weir shook his head, looking perplexed.
“I can't imagine how I could help you with that.”
Joe stood for a few seconds appraising the man at the door. He was clean-shaven and had the same general build of the suspect from the video. There was something about the shape of his mouth that looked vaguely familiar. Where most people had a double crease under their nose, his upper lip was completely smooth. Although that part of the suspect's face was disguised in the Pierre surveillance video, the shape was similar.
“May we come in for a moment?” Joe said. “We're simply gathering information from persons of interest.”
It was Weir's turn to hesitate. Legally, he knew the detectives needed a warrant to enter or search his apartment. But he didn't want to invite suspicion by appearing overly defensive. He looked at each detective briefly then stepped to the side and invited them in.
“Sure. I've got nothing to hide.” The dog barked excitedly from the other room. “Ignore my dog—he'll quiet down in a few minutes.”
Weir picked up the remote and turned off the TV. Then he motioned to the living room sofa.
“Make yourselves comfortable.”
Hannah took a seat while Joe walked slowly around the living room. He stopped beside a computer sitting on a small table beside a window. The computer was turned off.
“Nice view,” he said, looking across the street toward a football field.
Weir nodded.
“It’s part of the high school. I like to watch the kids play sometimes after class.”
Joe glanced derisively in Weir’s direction.
“I bet you do. Do you have a lot of free time? What do you do for a living?”
“I'm a locksmith.”
Joe's forehead crinkled in surprise.
“That's convenient.”
Weir tried to stifle his irritation at the detective's tone.
“How so?”
“The sniper seems to have an affinity for breaking into private places,” Joe said. “Your skills would certainly come in handy in these situations.”
The dog began howling from the bedroom, sensing the escalating tension in the room.
“I suppose,” Weir said calmly, “but you're barking up the wrong tree. My job involves helping people, not hurting them.”
“Uh-huh,” Joe said. “Who do you work for?”
“I operate my own business. Under the name Feeny Lock Services.”
“Why all the aliases? Don't you like your name?”
Joe was intentionally trying to get under Weir’s skin. He knew angry suspects were more likely to reveal incriminating details, if there were any to hide.
“I'm adopted, so it's not my real name. I never much liked it anyway. That's the beauty of being freelance. You can create any persona that promotes your brand.”
Joe stopped at a bookcase and tilted his head to read the titles of some books standing on the shelves. The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, and The Prince, by Machiavelli.
“Interesting choice of reading material. Exactly what kind of locksmith services do you provide? Do you do any work for hotels?”
“Basic stuff, mostly. I help people get into their homes and cars when they've locked themselves out. Change locks for landlords. No hotels. They mostly use fancy card readers these days.”
Joe nodded.
“Do you do most of your work in the city?”
“I take calls from anywhere in the Tri-State region. I don't discriminate about which customers I serve.”
Joe picked up a photo of a blond woman walking alone down a street.
“Can you tell us where you were this morning around seven thirty?”
“I was responding to a call in Jersey. Turned out to be a flake. Supposedly another lockout. But he wasn't there when I showed. Maybe he found a second set of keys.”
“So there's no actual record of you being in New Jersey at this time?”
Weir suppressed a smile.
“I went to a convenience store in Jersey City to buy a coffee around that time. A Seven-Eleven on Burma Road, as I recall. I suppose you could check their security footage if you wanted to.”
“Yes, we will,” Joe replied flatly. “Can you account for your whereabouts around noon on the four previous days?”
“I was responding to calls at various locations around the city. I don’t keep track of every emergency call. I’m a busy man.”
“I bet you are.”
Joe ran his hand over an empty shelf on the bookcase.
“You don't have many family pictures or personal mementos in your apartment. Where are all these friends you mentioned?”
Weir was growing weary of the detective's contemptuous attitude.
“Like I said, I keep pretty busy with my business. Not a lot of time for socializing. Was there anything else I could help you with, detectives? It appears I'm not such an interesting person after all.”
Joe paused as he glanced in the direction of the closed bedroom door. The dog was still barking, and he thought best not to press any further.
“I think we're done for today. Thank you for your time, Mr. Weir. We'll be in touch if we have any additional questions.”
Hannah stood up from her chair, and Weir followed the two detectives to the door. He looked Hannah directly in her eyes and smiled before closing the door.
“Ma'am,” he said.
21
Medical Examiner's Office
July 9, 9:00 a.m.
“God morgon, Dr. Lundberg,” Joe said as he entered the medical examiner’s autopsy room with Hannah.
The ME smiled upon seeing the two detectives.
“Valkommen, min vänner,” he replied in his native Swedish.
“Forgive me, Miles,” Joe said. “I can never quite bring myself to say good morning when I see you here. We always seem to meet under the most unfortunate circumstances.”
“It's the nature of the beast. We should get away from this godforsaken place and have lunch sometime. I'm sure you two could use a break from the pressure of trying to find this dispossessed killer.”
“He's dispossessed of something, that’s for sure,” Joe said. “Whether it's his mind, body, or spirit, remains to be seen.”
Miles nodded.
“What have your profilers put together so far?”
“All we've come up with is an angry white male with a troubled past.”
“Not many surprises there.”
“The FBI specialist has us chasing down every adopted male in New York City between the ages of twenty and thirty.”
“I'm guessing there's quite a few of those?”
“Only about a thousand,” Joe sniffed. “We've captured some grainy pictures of him moving about the crime scenes, so that's helping narrow the field. But without any physical evidence, we're not in a position to bring anyone in yet.”
“I'm not sure how much I can help with that, but I do have some interesting details to share about the latest incidents.” Miles led the detectives to his desk. “Come—have a look.”
The ME picked up a metal tray with five bullets. He pushed two over to the side.
“These two bullets were the o
nes used in the initial sniper killings that you've already seen. The other three are the slugs used in the new cases.”
Miles picked up one of the three new slugs and held it out for Joe and Hannah to see. It had a brass coating and a flat angled head.
“This one was used on the equestrian cop. Unlike the bullets used in the first two killings, it has a full metal jacket designed for maximum penetration. The sniper probably chose it to ensure it penetrated the officer's helmet.”
Miles placed the bullet back on the tray and picked up the middle one.
“This was the bullet used to kill the cabbie—also a full metal jacket. Chosen to maximize penetration through the windshield and minimize deflection to its target.”
Hannah squinted at the odd shape of the slugs.
“Why are the heads of these bullets so different?”
“The first one went straight through the officer's head and struck the hard pavement under the horse at an angle. That's why the top of the bullet is flat and slightly angled, with pock-marks from the uneven pavement. The other one appears to have gone through the driver's head, stopping in the soft upholstery of the rear seat. So it retained the pointed shape of its nose without deforming.”
Joe looked at the third bullet resting among the group, recognizing the familiar mushroom shape.
“The third bullet looks like the ones used in the first two killings.”
“Not quite,” Miles said. He picked up the third slug and placed it in Joe's hand along with the other two from the other side of the tray.
“See how this bullet is quite a bit shorter, and the top is more flayed than the others?”
“Yes, and it doesn't have the same brass shell.”
“Exactly. The one you're holding was used in the Staten Island Ferry shooting. It's hollow point. The other two are semi-jacketed soft point. This one was designed to inflict maximum tissue damage and stop inside the victim. The bullets used in the first two shootings were designed to kill their victims then pass through them. I'm not sure why the sniper chose this type of bullet in the most recent shooting.”