Unlucky Day

by J. R. McLeay

  “Maybe, but without the murder weapon, we've got nothing. It’s questionable whether we’ll even get a warrant to search his property.”

  “He couldn’t account for his whereabouts for four of the five shootings. Together with the video match, I think we’ve got enough.”

  Hannah shook her head.

  “I wish I shared your conviction about this guy, Joe. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  As the two detectives got into their car to head to the courthouse, they didn't notice the young man watching them from behind the window of a cafe across the street. When their car pulled out of the police lot, he looked at his phone’s screen and followed the blinking red dot as it moved away from his location.

  24

  Crown Heights, Brooklyn

  July 10, 12:45 p.m.

  It's a lot quieter today.

  Even out here in the burbs, not many people are venturing outside. Just a few hardy souls driving cars and delivery vans. Looks like word's finally getting around. I've been upgraded in the local papers. The Post's headline today read ‘Sadistic Sniper Shoots Schoolboy’. Nice alliteration.

  Everything stopped around noon, but only for a few minutes. Looks like I'll have to mix it up a bit to fully assimilate the animals. People are just like dogs. At first, you have to be predictable to elicit the desired reaction. Once they see the linkage between the behavior and the response, you can change the frequency and timing. It becomes hard-wired. Pavlov eventually got his dogs to salivate at the sound of the dinner bell. I guess my subjects need a bit more training.

  The prospects are getting thin, though. The only ones braving the elements are those who absolutely have to be outdoors.

  Here we go.

  You can always count on your trusty letter carrier. What's their motto? Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom will stop them from the completion of their rounds.

  This postie’s definitely a trooper. Pulling his trusty mail cart, wearing his USPS cap. The public loves their neighborhood mailman. Especially now with everybody housebound. People can send and receive packages without even leaving home. Let someone else bear the risk. There's a madman roaming the streets of New York.

  You'd think the postal service would equip their employees with better protection. This is too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. I just have to wait for them to come near the surface. And there are plenty of mailmen floating about the neighborhood, walking door to door. This one will be my easiest mark so far.

  Pop.

  Whoa. That wasn't me. Just a passing car backfiring.

  So much for the cool letter carrier. He almost jumped out of his skin. The poor guy's shaking like a leaf now, trying to collect himself. It's gotta be terrifying, not knowing if you're being watched and if you'll have any warning when your time is up.

  Not to worry, buddy. I’ll make this quick. You won't hear a thing. My bullet flies faster than the speed of sound. It's actually a pretty good way to go. Fast and painless, with no needless suffering. It's the natural order of things, the alpha animal dispatching the weak and defenseless.

  I just need you to turn in my direction. After all, I've got a reputation to uphold. People are expecting another head shot from the sharpshooter who never misses.

  That's it. Coming down the front steps of another satisfied customer, walking along the sidewalk toward your next delivery. I can't see your eyes, but no matter. The USPS emblem on the front of your cap is a perfect target.

  Maybe tomorrow's headline will read ‘Psychotic Sniper Stops Snailmail.’

  Yeah, that's a good one.

  Time to meet your maker, my friend. See you in the afterlife. We're all sinners.

  Bam.

  What the fuck? I blew his cap clean off. But there’s only a bruise on his forehead.

  Smart, very smart. Maybe the postal service gives a damn about their employees after all. Very ingenious, lining their caps with protective material.

  He's out cold. He'll wake up with a nasty concussion. That's gonna hurt. But that's not my style. It’ll tarnish my reputation. We can't have that.

  This might work out better than I hoped. Everyone's looking out their window at all the commotion. They're probably dialing 9-1-1 right now, summoning help for the defenseless letter carrier.

  Watch carefully, everybody. This is what awaits you when you step outside.

  25

  728 E New York Avenue, East Flatbush, Brooklyn

  July 10, 5:30 p.m.

  Todd Weir held his barking dog at his side as he swung his apartment door open to face a phalanx of police officers. Joe and Hannah stood at the front of the group. For a few awkward seconds, Weir and Bannon stared at each other without saying a word. The rest of the officers looked ahead with clenched jaws, barely concealing their contempt for the suspected cop killer.

  “Mr. Weir,” Joe said, “we have a warrant to search your premises.”

  He handed the court document to Weir.

  “Please step aside and secure your dog.”

  Weir stepped back and attached a leash to his dog's collar as the police officers flooded into his apartment.

  “What's this all about, Detective?” he said. “I thought you said I wasn't very interesting on your last visit. Were you able to confirm my location during the ferry shooting?”

  “You've only accounted for your whereabouts during one of the murders,” Joe said. “There are plenty of suspicious circumstances surrounding that incident. You still have six other ones to account for.”

  Weir watched a team of detectives head into his bedroom while Hannah unplugged his laptop and placed it into a plastic bag. His dog growled and pulled against its leash toward Detective Bannon.

  “As I said last time, Detective, I can't account for where I am every moment of every day. My job takes me all over the five boroughs on short notice.”

  “So you've said. But don't worry, all that may be unnecessary if we find what we're looking for today.”

  Weir heard the sound of drawers opening in his bedroom. He looked down the hall and saw the detectives flip over his mattress and pass a metal detector over it.

  “You won't find anything here,” he said, shaking his head. “I hope I'm not under suspicion just because of my job. That seems like a flimsy proposition for a murder investigation.”

  “That's just one of many incriminating factors,” Joe said. “You also match the physical description of the killer at the crime scene.”

  Weir pulled his head back in surprise.

  “Really? Do you have eyewitnesses? Because I know for a fact nobody has seen me commit any murders.”

  Joe glared at Weir.

  “You're the one who's obligated to answer questions, Mr. Weir, not me. Where were you today between noon and 1:00 p.m.?”

  “Having lunch in the park. I usually take a break around noon from my daily routine. One needs sustenance for hard physical work, don't you agree?”

  Joe ignored the comment as he watched his team deconstruct the living room.

  “Which park?” he said.

  “Prospect Park.”

  Joe's head snapped back to Weir.

  “That's only a few blocks from the site of today's shooting.”

  “Really? What unfortunate soul was shot today?”

  “A letter carrier. In broad daylight, doing his rounds. I don't suppose you'd happen to know anything about that?”

  Weir pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “You didn't even hear the sound of gunfire? There were two shots, seconds apart.”

  “It's a noisy city, Detective.”

  “Yes—a lot more so over the last few days.”

  The detective team returned from Weir's bedroom and looked at Joe, shaking their heads.

  “We'll need to search your vehicle also,” Joe said. “Where do you keep it parked?”

  “In the underground parking garage. I can save you the effort though—you won't find anything there either.”

  “We'l
l be the judge of that. Please fetch your keys.”

  Weir's dog growled and bared his teeth at the detective. Weir pulled the dog into the kitchen and retrieved a ring of keys from a hook on the wall. When he returned, he handed the keys to Joe.

  “Do you mind if I stay here with my dog? All this commotion has gotten him pretty worked up.”

  Joe shook his head.

  “You'll need to come with us. There will be plenty more questions for you to answer.”

  Joe escorted Weir to the elevator. When the door slid open, all the detectives squeezed into the small compartment. Nobody said a word during the ride to the bottom floor. When the elevator reached the underground parking level, Weir led the officers to his parked van. The words Feeny Security Services were emblazoned on the side, with the "F" fashioned in the shape of a keyhole.

  Joe pressed the unlock button on the key fob and the detectives piled through the side doors to begin searching the van. He walked around the back and looked inside. The van was clean and well organized. Every tool, part, and piece of equipment was stored in neatly labeled plastic bins or securely bolted to the walls of the van. He reached into one of the bins and pulled out a couple of unusually shaped tools. One was a thin L-shaped wrench, and the other was a knife-like tool with deep serrated edges.

  “These look like lock-picking tools,” Joe said.

  “Every locksmith worth his salt has those,” Weir nodded. “Half my jobs are lockouts. Not everybody has a key when they need one.”

  “I'm sure they don't,” Joe said sarcastically.

  He opened another bin and shifted some objects around inside. He pulled out a transparent acrylic cube that was about one-inch square and held it up.

  “And what do you use this for?”

  Weir looked at the object and paused.

  “It's just a damper,” he said. “Keeps the metal keys from banging together and making too much of a racket while I'm driving.”

  Joe inspected the cube carefully. It had parallel scratches along two sides and a small indentation on the third side. He pulled out a plastic bag and dropped the cube in the bag then zipped the top closed.

  “You don't like loud noises when you work, Mr. Weir?”

  Weir's lips curled up as he looked at Joe silently.

  After twenty minutes, the detectives came out of the van and shook their heads.

  Joe looked at Weir.

  “I'll need your mobile phone.”

  Weir paused for a moment, then reached into his back pocket and handed the device to the detective.

  “This won't do you much good without my passcode. You'll get locked out after too many false attempts.”

  “There are plenty of other ways to track your activity, Mr. Weir. We don't need your passcodes. But if you'd like to volunteer them, you might get your personal effects back much sooner.”

  “My Fifth Amendment rights protect me from having to provide that information,” Weir said.

  Joe looked at Weir evenly. He knew he hadn't found enough to arrest the suspect, and he was running out of options.

  “That doesn't stop us from bringing you in for further questioning,” he said.

  Weir looked at the seized items in the detective's hands.

  “Other than my encrypted electronic devices and a piece of clear plastic, it looks to me like you've come up empty-handed. Do you think there's anything you can get from me at the station that you weren't able to find here? But if you feel like wasting more of everyone's time, knock yourself out.”

  Joe scribbled something on his notepad and handed Weir three slips of paper.

  “These are receipts for the three confiscated items. We'll return them to you in due course.”

  Joe began to walk toward the underground parking exit with the other officers then stopped and turned around.

  “And Mr. Weir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful out there. It's a dangerous city. You never know who might be pointing a gun at you.”

  Joe turned his back and walked away as the officers snickered under their breath.

  26

  Gregory’s Coffee Shop, Midtown Manhattan

  July 11, 11:15 a.m.

  Joe and Hannah sat in their favorite coffee shop, taking a break from their routine. The morning's update meeting with Lieutenant O'Neill and Agent Palmer hadn't revealed any new insights into their case, and they were both feeling frustrated. The preliminary examination of the evidence seized in the Weir apartment raid had come up empty. O'Neill had asked the team to continue interviewing and ferreting out the long list of adoptees, but so far no new suspects had emerged.

  Joe sat opposite Hannah at their table, cradling his warm coffee in his hands. He noticed someone reading a newspaper at the next table. The front-page headline read ‘Sniper Takes Seventh Victim’.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Hannah interjected.

  Joe paused as he watched a thin flow of pedestrians pass by his window. New Yorkers were slowly returning to the streets of Manhattan, emboldened by the unpredictable timing of sniper shootings.

  I guess people figure their chances are pretty good now, he thought. There are almost ten million people living across five boroughs. What are the odds someone will be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Especially now that the sniper has broadened his range and schedule.

  “I was just thinking how well this guy is controlling the narrative,” Joe said. “He's taken the high ground, so to speak, and we have no way of touching him. The scariest thing is New Yorkers are beginning to feel immune once again.”

  Hannah swirled the coffee in her cup.

  “You’ve got a golden opportunity to take back control of the narrative and influence public opinion tomorrow morning.”

  “You're referring to my scheduled Today Show appearance?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “The lieutenant says you can use this to get the citizens of New York working alongside us rather than just being passive pawns.”

  Joe scrunched his brow.

  “I think the brass is just trying to shift the blame down the line. The mayor’s not willing to expand the curfew—what else can we possibly say?”

  “He can't close the whole city down. That would be playing directly into the sniper's hands. It made sense to issue a temporary curfew when he was shooting at the same time of day. Now he's become unpredictable. We have to treat him like every other killer and use good detective skills to flesh him out.”

  Joe sighed.

  “That's the problem. I feel like we've already found him. This wild goose chase the lieutenant’s got us on, interviewing every adopted person in New York City, is insanity. He's right there in front of us.”

  “You mean Weir? You heard the lieutenant this morning. The forensics team found nothing incriminating on his phone or his laptop.”

  “And the plastic cube? Don't you think that’s a little incriminating?”

  “Suspicious, yes. But it's not enough to hold him culpable.”

  “What about the scratches on the sides? Just what you'd expect from sliding it in and out of tight door latches.”

  “Forensics said there were too many random scratches. They don't align perfectly with the hotel rooms we identified from the CCTV footage. It would never hold up in court.”

  “What about his appearance? His build, his facial structure, his oddly shaped upper lip. Not to mention his attitude. It's almost as if he's baiting us. Everything fits. Surely you must have suspicions as well?”

  Hannah took a long sip of her coffee.

  “It's true,” she said. “There's a lot that fits. But it's all circumstantial. He's definitely a bit…off. His foster record shows he moved around quite a bit as a child. That would screw with anybody’s head and make them suspicious of authority figures.”

  “Jesus, Hannah. I think your motherly instincts are clouding your judgment. It almost sounds like you feel sorry for this guy.”

  Hannah placed her coffee mug down an
d looked Joe directly in his eyes.

  “Look, I agree he's suspicious. We just don't have enough to bring him in. In the meantime, I think the lieutenant is right in asking us to exhaust all the other possibilities. Without a murder weapon or an eyewitness, there's nothing more we can do.”

  Joe looked outside the window and tapped his foot. Hannah noticed the deep creases in his forehead and his bloodshot eyes.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I'm fine. We've had tough cases before.”

  “You can't fool me. This one is different. I know this strikes a little closer to home. I saw how you looked at the corpses at the coroner's office. The boy in particular—”

  Joe slammed his fist on the table and glared at Hannah.

  “That's not fair.”

  He looked around the room, suddenly aware of the attention he was attracting.

  “You know I don't let that get in the way of my police work,” he said, lowering his voice. “That was a long time ago, and I've put it in a box. I've processed my grief and moved on.”

  Hannah looked at Joe sadly. After ten years of working together, she knew him well enough to know that he was still racked with guilt over the loss of his son.

  “I worry about you sometimes,” she said, placing her hand over his. “You and Jane never had another child. I see how personally you take some of these murder cases. Sometimes I think you internalize your loss and project your anger onto your suspects.”

  Joe leaned back and looked out the window.

  “The last thing I need now is another shrink. We've already got one too many working on this case.”

  “Hey, come on,” Hannah said, trying to lighten the mood. “Kate's profile of the shooter led us to your favorite suspect.”

  Joe allowed a slight smile.

  “So you're admitting this Weir character is a valid suspect?”

  “You're not the only tenacious bugger once you set your sights on someone. Maybe we'll find some actionable evidence if we dig a little deeper. Why don't we review the security footage once again? Maybe we’ll find something new you can share with the public tomorrow.”