by J. R. McLeay
Joe walked briskly through the detectives' workroom toward Lieutenant O’Neill’s office. The detectives looked up from their desks, swiveling their chairs to follow his movement. Some smiled at him, others simply nodded.
He was a few minutes late for his daily update meeting, already pushed back a couple of hours to accommodate his appearance on the Today Show. The lieutenant didn't suffer latecomers lightly, and Joe didn't need any more enemies after an irate mayor called following his TV interview. The mayor was not pleased when he learned how Joe had put himself in the line of fire, saying it made the police force look unprofessional. He could still hear Braxton’s curse words ringing in his ears.
O'Neill's door was open, which was out of character for the lieutenant. He usually closed his door at the start of every meeting to block out distractions and to single out anyone who showed up late. But this time, as Joe approached O'Neill's office, he heard laughter emanating from the room. He could see Kate and Hannah chuckling about something with the lieutenant.
Everyone suddenly made a straight face when he walked in.
“Detective Bannon,” O'Neill said. “How nice of you to join us. Have you had a busy morning?”
“Um—yes. I was delayed a bit after my TV interview. The mayor called. Apparently, he wasn't too impressed with my performance—”
“Yes, I heard all about it. He just contacted me a few minutes ago. You've become a media phenomenon. You've gone viral, as they say.”
Joe's eyes widened.
“You mean beyond the millions of viewers who saw me put my foot in my mouth on live TV?”
O'Neill picked up a tabloid newspaper from his desk and held up the front page for Joe to see. The top headline in the New York Post read ‘Hero Cop Taunts Sniper.’
Joe groaned.
“Not only that,” Hannah said. “You're tearing up Twitter. Your story is already a trending topic, with over a million tweets in the last hour. You've even got your own hashtag: #notyouraveragejoe.”
“Are you going to make an appearance on the Tonight Show next?” Kate kidded.
“Apparently, not everybody thinks you bombed today,” O'Neill said. “Though that was definitely a foolish stunt you pulled outside the coffee shop yesterday. Have a seat—we've got some work to catch up on.”
Joe slumped into his chair and exhaled heavily. The last twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind, and he was exhausted.
“I'd sure like to know how the sniper traced Hannah’s and my steps and knew we'd be at that coffee shop when we were,” he said.
“We've been working on that,” O'Neill said. “I had your patrol car swept in the shop, and the technicians found a tracking bug inside the rear wheel well. Who knows how long this guy's been following you two. I'm assigning you a new car. We're keeping it in the garage to make sure no one tampers with it. And from now on, I want the two of you to wear bulletproof vests at all times when you're on duty.”
“That won't help much with a killer who always aims for the head,” Joe said.
“Nevertheless, I want you taking every precaution. I think you should keep a low profile for the next few days. Try to limit any unnecessary outside exposure. At least until we know you're no longer being targeted. You didn't exactly endear yourself to this guy with your comments on TV this morning.”
Joe frowned.
“You want me to hide indoors like everybody else who's afraid of this killer? Isn't that playing right into his hands? Are you saying you don't want Hannah and me responding to any new attacks?”
O'Neill held up an open hand.
“Of course not. Carry on as you were. The two of you have been making good progress and have almost caught the shooter more than once. Just be careful out there and don't try any more stunts like the one yesterday.”
Silence filled the room as everyone absorbed the lieutenant's comments.
“Kate,” O'Neill said. “What do you make of the sniper's actions yesterday? Do you agree with Joe that he didn't intend to kill him?”
“From his description of the events, yes. The sniper's been far too consistent up to this point for such a random break in his pattern. There's no way he could have missed by such a wide margin with two successive shots. Both landed just in front of Joe, halting his forward movement. I think this is the sniper's way of saying he still has total control and can stop anyone he wants.”
“Why Joe and Hannah though? Until today, we didn't broadcast they were heading up the sniper investigation. And why wouldn't he kill them when he had a clear opportunity, as he did with the equestrian officer a few days ago?”
“He obviously has a powerful rifle scope if he can shoot someone between the eyes from such a long distance. He probably saw them respond to previous shootings, collecting evidence at the crime scene. He could have easily recorded their badge numbers and called to see which precinct they were assigned to. Then it was just a matter of following their patrol car to monitor their movements and routine.”
O'Neill looked at Joe and Hannah.
“Do you normally go to that coffee shop around the same time every day?”
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Hannah said. “It's kind of our go-to place for lunch when we're on patrol.”
“Well stop that, as of today. In fact, I'd like you two to become as unpredictable as possible. Be like the President—mix up your routine and travel routes as much as possible. If the sniper doesn't know where you're going to be and when, he can't find you.”
Joe and Hannah looked at one another and nodded.
O'Neill turned his attention back toward Kate.
“So why the warning shots, instead of taking them out?”
“That's a tougher one,” Kate nodded. “He's looking like more of a control freak with each successive attack. Meticulous disguises, carefully scoping camera placements, the remote firing of the rifle. Like many serial killers, he thinks he's smarter than everyone else. He's probably starting to enjoy the cat-and-mouse aspect of the chase.”
“He's clever, all right,” O'Neill said, looking directly at Joe. “What does the CCTV footage from yesterday show? You traced the shots to the Millennium Hotel, right? How did the sniper escape another locked-down building while you were supposedly holding him in place?”
Joe was about to answer when Hannah stepped in.
“He didn't exit on the ground floor. That's why our team didn't find him. We locked all the exits and began sweeping the rooms as per protocol. The hotel's CCTV footage showed him going into a guest room on a lower floor than normal. We found a room with a broken window leading onto a utility terrace. We believe he rappelled onto an adjacent rooftop across the street then waited until things calmed down before leaving the area.”
O'Neill couldn't believe what he was hearing.
“Did you check the street cams to confirm this?”
“Yes. We have footage of someone matching his appearance exiting a restaurant next door at 7:00 p.m.”
O'Neill shook his head.
“So besides his superhuman firing accuracy, now he can swing from rooftops like Spiderman. What the fuck. Maybe he really is smarter than us, after all. Who knows what other tricks this guy has up his sleeve?”
“We'll get him, Chief,” Hannah said. “They always slip up eventually. It's only a matter of time.”
“That's what I'm worried about. Time is not a luxury we can afford. I suspect this coffee house diversion yesterday was just a short intermission. I fully expect he'll strike again before another day is over. Unfortunately, his timing and locations are becoming increasingly unpredictable.”
The lieutenant sat back in his chair.
“Where are we in vetting Kate's profile list?”
“Almost done,” Hannah said. “Our team has interviewed nearly a thousand adoptees in the New York City area. There's just a handful left. We haven't found anything suspicious or actionable yet.”
“Except that guy in Flatbush,” Joe said. “I still don't understand why the d
istrict attorney won't let us bring him in.”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“We've been through this,” O'Neill said. “I agree that on paper he looks suspicious. But we can't arrest someone just because he matches the general build of the suspect in our video footage or because he has a cleft lip. We don't have any eyewitnesses who can tie him to the scene of a crime, and the videos don't show a clear shot of his face. Without a murder weapon or DNA evidence, we've got nothing.”
“Can't we at least bring him into the station and lean on him a little?” Joe asked. “I think I could be pretty persuasive—”
“That's what I'm afraid of. This guy’s gotten under your skin. It’s too easy for you to cross the line. We're all under a microscope right now. The commissioner says we have to go hands-off until we have more concrete evidence, so that's what we're going to do.”
Joe turned his head and cracked his neck.
“What if we discreetly shadow him for a while?” he said. “We're running out of leads. At least we'd have a chance at stopping another killing if it does turn out to be him.”
O'Neill turned his chair and looked out the window for a long time. He looked down at his desk and thumbed the sniper dossier, then glanced up at Kate. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, suggesting approval.
O'Neill turned back to Joe.
“Okay, but keep this under the radar. The commissioner will have my badge if he finds out we're contravening his direct orders, not to mention the mayor. Do not engage this guy under any circumstances, unless you recognize a clear indication of intent to harm.”
Joe felt his phone buzzing in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.
“It's the mayor,” he said.
“I suppose you should answer it,” O'Neill said.
Joe held the phone up to his ear.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Joe said. “Thank you...Just doing my job, sir. Yes, I'll try to be more careful…If you insist, sir.”
Joe tapped the screen to end the call and placed the phone back in his pocket.
“The mayor says he wants me to go back on TV as soon as possible. Apparently, there's been a bunch of requests from media outlets and thousands of incoming tips since my appearance this morning. He seems to think I'm a good face for the department.”
“Well, you do have a pretty face,” Hannah kidded.
O'Neill smiled.
“Just try not to get it blown off, will you?”
29
Cranberry Bog, Long Island
July 12, 4:00 p.m.
Todd Weir trudged through a wet marsh on the east end of Long Island with his dog by his side. He wore high rubber hip waders and a heavy pack on his back. His clothing was green camouflage from head to toe, including a spotted hunter's cap. He wasn't taking any chances he might be noticed or found in his new hideout.
He knew the police would soon be keeping a watch on him, if they weren't already. But it didn't matter. He only needed another week or so to complete his business. Then he would pack up and move to another city to start over again. His skills were easily transferable. Every town needed a locksmith, and most customers were happy to pay cash. He could easily stay under the radar with a new trade name and pseudonym. Worst case, he could retreat back into the bush and lie low until the cops gave up the chase.
Weir was used to roughing it and living off the land. The one thing his adoptive father taught him that was useful was how to hunt and set up camp in the remotest of wilderness. He could kill and eat just about anything that flew, swam, or crawled. And he knew how to set up a blind to remain invisible to man and beast. This camp wouldn’t require such elaborate arrangements. He was still close enough to civilization to run out for fast food if necessary.
Long Island was sparsely populated this far from the city. But the rich local residents with their country estates created a whole cottage industry of support businesses to cater to their needs. The bog was only a few miles from the Hamptons and would provide perfect cover. Heavily forested and surrounded by thick marsh, no civilians were likely to venture far off the hiking trails circling the area. Weir was more concerned for his black lab, who'd grown accustomed to the creature comforts of city living.
Weir looked down and saw his dog breathing heavily as he paddled through the thick bog.
“Don't worry, buddy. We'll be on dry ground soon. It'll be just like the old days, when we hunted for game, upstate. Maybe you can help me catch a few ducks and we'll roast them up for dinner later. It'll just be for a little while. You know I always come back for you, right?”
Weir patted his dog's head.
“You're the only one who's worthy of love and respect. You don't judge me for how I look or where I came from. You're always faithful, not like the others who don't care who they hurt along the way. I've been abused and ridiculed since I was too young to fight back. Not any longer. The balance of power has shifted. We're the alpha males now.”
Weir noticed an elevated patch of ground on a small island in the middle of the bog a hundred feet to his left. He waded to the island and pulled his dog onto the shore. The lab shook himself dry then snorted noisily to expel the water from his nose.
“Come on boy, let's find a comfortable spot to set up camp.”
Weir hacked his way through the thick brush at the edge of the island until he found a small clearing about thirty feet inland. He immediately set to building a shelter. He cut some saplings and arranged them in a rough cube shape, connected with baling twine. Then he covered the structure with leafy branches and moss until it blended in with its surroundings.
He placed his gear inside the burrow and retrieved two rubber Frisbee-looking disks from the pack. He pulled their accordion sides up to form deep bowls, then filled one with water and the other with two cups of dog food.
"There you go, buddy. This ought to get you through the next couple of hours. I've got a few things I need to take care of. I need you to be quiet and still until I get back, okay? We don't want to attract any unnecessary attention to our new home. There are some bad people out there who will take us away if they find us."
Weir attached a leash to the dog's collar then drove three stakes deep into the ground to secure the other end.
“Lie down and take a little nap until I return.” He patted the dog down with a dry towel and rubbed his ears. “Good boy. I'll be back soon.”
Weir covered the blind's entrance with some tree boughs then made his way back across the bog to where he parked his car. It was a two-hour ride back into the city, and he had one last bit of business to take care of while it was still light.
30
Astoria, Queens
July 12, 8:00 p.m.
Joe sat on his living room couch with his feet propped on the coffee table and a glass of brandy in his hand. He'd taken the sniper file home to study the details and see if he could uncover any new clues. His shadowing of Weir's apartment with Hannah had shown no sign of any movement all day and the investigative trail had grown cold.
Fortunately, there'd been no new shootings during the day and dusk was rapidly approaching. He wondered if his comments on the Today Show had driven Weir underground. The whole city was on the lookout for the sniper, and they finally had something specific to watch out for. If it really was Weir, Joe thought, surely he'd want to lie low for a while.
Joe could hear his wife cleaning up in the kitchen after they'd shared their first home-cooked meal together in over a week. He'd been so preoccupied with chasing the sniper and working late vetting Kate's list of suspects, he'd barely given her any of his attention. It felt good to spend some quality time with her and slow down over a glass of wine.
Jane rarely spoke of the incident so long ago that took their only child. She knew Joe carried a heavy burden of guilt for not being home to protect them. Neither of them wanted to relive the painful memories. They hadn't been able to conceive again after the horrible event; Joe wondered if Jane simply was too wor
ried it could happen again. She kept herself busy by throwing herself into her work as the Communications Director for the Metropolitan Museum, but she never recovered the same zest for life she'd felt as a young mother.
“I hope you're not going to work on that sniper case all night again,” Jane called over the clattering of pots. “You do realize you can't save the whole world single-handedly, don't you?”
“Well somebody has to do it,” Joe joked. “But now that I'm a big media star, I've got the whole city helping me. So maybe I can afford to put my feet up for a little while.”
“That was quite a performance you put on today,” Jane chuckled. “Coming from a communications specialist, that was masterful. You had that pompous host eating out of your hands by the end of the interview. But I thought you weren't supposed to publicly talk about that suspect you've been so obsessed with these past few days.”
“I didn't.”
“Well not exactly by name. But you might as well have, by mentioning that whole facial deformity thing.”
“I didn't specify what kind of facial deformity...”
“I sure hope you're right about this character,” Jane said. “Because if you're not, whatever hang-ups he may have had about his appearance before this are going to be magnified by every suspicious New Yorker looking at him even more askance now.”
“That's the idea. Hopefully, it'll be a little harder for him to sneak into his usual hiding places carrying that odd rifle case from now on. At the very least, we'll have a better chance of receiving a tip before he does any more damage.”
Joe flipped through the case file slowly. He was looking for any pattern that might foretell where the sniper would strike next. The shooter's timing was no longer as predictable as it was when he started his reign of terror. The one-minute-after-noon pattern had stopped after the cab driver killing in Washington Square. Kate thought it might be a Biblical reference—the exact quote from 12:1 in the Book of Romans read: