Unlucky Day

by J. R. McLeay

  The mayor nodded, then turned to Joe.

  “Detective Bannon. Good to see you back on the job. Are you set to take the podium with me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe paused. “Will you need me to make any comments?”

  “No, I'll be controlling the narrative today. My team will position you to my side and slightly to my rear. I'll make a few comments about your heroism and your help tracking the sniper. I just need you to look brave and confident.”

  “I’ll try my best, sir.”

  The mayor and his entourage walked to the platform and ascended the steps onto the stage. After a few minutes conferring with the lieutenant and the commissioner, Joe followed suit and took his place beside the mayor.

  At precisely twelve noon, a sea of red lights popped up on the array of video cameras as the mayor stepped toward the microphone stand.

  “Fellow citizens of New York,” he began. “I've come to Union Square today to make an important announcement. I know many of you are concerned about what's been happening on the streets of our fair city these past two weeks.”

  Some of the reporters nodded and whispered among themselves.

  “It's true, there is a killer in our midst who has cowardly taken many innocent lives. But he is one man among a city of eight million. We have forty thousand dedicated New York City police officers focused on finding and capturing this individual.”

  The mayor turned and motioned toward Joe.

  “Such as Detective Joe Bannon, who lost those dearest to him in the service of his country and his city.”

  Joe clenched his jaw, trying to remain calm. He couldn't believe the mayor was using his personal tragedy to score political points.

  The mayor turned and pointed toward the cameras.

  “But you can help too. We're releasing a composite sketch of the suspect who we believe is responsible for these killings. If you encounter anyone with his likeness or see any other suspicious activity, please call 9-1-1 immediately.”

  The mayor paused while one of his aides unveiled a picture of Todd Weir on a large easel on the other side of the stage. The cameras focused on the image for a few seconds then turned back to the mayor.

  “But there is something else you can do,” he continued. “You can begin to go about your everyday lives and not be bullied into submission by this criminal. Staying away from your jobs and off the streets only feeds this behavior. We must not let him win the day. I implore you to return to your jobs and your normal routine as soon as you can.”

  Joe glanced at Lieutenant O'Neill standing below the stage and saw him grimace. Apparently, Joe wasn't the only one thinking the mayor's guidance was ill-advised. The commissioner stood ramrod straight and expressionless beside the lieutenant.

  Had the mayor even bothered to consult with any front-line cops before approving his speech? Joe wondered.

  “Our boys in blue are closing the net on the killer and will have him in custody soon,” the mayor said.

  Joe's mind wandered back to his earlier surveillance of the Square. There was something about the scene that didn't fit, but he couldn't place it. He peered over at the portrait of Todd Weir and wrinkled his forehead.

  The mayor spread his arms as he looked around the Square.

  “This beautiful park and public square needs to be reclaimed by those who rightfully own it—the citizens of New York City.”

  Joe racked his brain, trying to make the connection to what he'd seen earlier.

  The hipsters, the hobo, the old man.

  There was something about the old man and the way he walked. His gait was vaguely familiar. Plus his crutches looked odd, like they were made out of some high-tech metal.

  The mayor turned to look at the statue of Washington and raised his hand in salute.

  “Our founding fathers refused to submit to those who would restrict our freedoms, and neither will we. Citizens of New York, return from your homes, return to your jobs, and return to the streets of our beautiful city. Show the world that we are not afraid—”

  Oh my God, Joe thought. The old man! He was the sniper in disguise!

  Just as Joe set to run to protect the mayor, he felt a wet blob hit his face and he heard a loud bang echoing from three sides of the Square. Instinctively, he reached up to his face and looked at his hands. They were coated with blood. He looked toward the mayor, who crumpled to the ground like a collapsed marionette.

  Joe rushed toward the stricken mayor and called into his radio.

  “Secure the perimeter! Secure the perimeter! Look for an elderly man on crutches. Lock down the block and don't let anyone pass outside a four-block radius.”

  Joe kneeled over the mayor, but he could see that it was already too late. He held his fingers over Braxton's carotid artery and felt no pulse.

  The mayor looked up at Joe with vacant eyes. In the middle of his forehead was a gaping red hole.

  43

  Union Square

  July 17, 12:15 p.m.

  Seconds after the mayor was shot, pandemonium erupted on the south side of Union Square. Hundreds of flashing cruisers and emergency vehicles converged on the area. Every television reporter picked up a microphone and began reporting what they had just seen. The mayor’s assassination was replayed on a closed loop for millions of horrified viewers.

  As soon as Joe recognized that the mayor couldn't be helped, he pulled out his radio. His first call was to spotters on the west side, where he'd seen the old man on crutches go earlier.

  “Spotter-west,” he blurted into the radio. “Any sign of the shooter?”

  “We heard the rifle, but haven't been able to place the source. It seemed to come from all three sides. We're still scanning, but haven't seen any sign of the shooter.”

  That's strange, Joe thought. Witnesses at the scene of previous sniper killings had been able to pinpoint the general angle from which the shot was fired. Were the tall buildings surrounding the park creating an echo that made it sound like the gunshot came from all sides?

  “Spotters-south and east—what have you seen?”

  “Nothing here, Joe. We heard a loud bang on our side too.”

  “Ditto on the east. It sounded like the gun was fired right on top of us. But we haven't seen any suspicious activity on the rooftops or from any open windows.”

  Joe shook his head and stopped to think.

  How could the sniper have fired from three directions at the same time? Had he set up another remote-firing rifle in multiple locations? Had he planted a device to mimic a gunshot simultaneously from three different sources?

  It didn't matter. The sniper had created a diversion to distract attention from his location, but Joe already knew which building the old man on the crutches went into.

  He lifted his radio and pressed the talk button.

  “The suspect entered the large white building on the north side of 14th Street between Union Square West and 5th Avenue. I need all spotters to keep a lookout for an old man on crutches on any side of that block. I'm taking a team to lock down the building. If you see anyone matching that description, fire a warning shot then shoot to kill.”

  An ambulance came screeching to a halt in front of the platform as Lieutenant O'Neill and the commissioner scrambled onto the stage.

  “Joe,” O'Neill said, seeing the blood on Joe’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine, it’s just splatter.”

  Joe pointed toward the building across the street.

  “We need to lock down the block. I saw the shooter enter the white building just before the mayor was shot. We're looking for an old man on crutches.”

  O'Neill pulled out his two-way radio.

  “All officers from the 18th Precinct,” he ordered, “encircle and lock down the block on the west side of Union Square. Apprehend anyone carrying crutches. K-9 team, follow Detective Bannon to search the building.”

  Commissioner Pope looked at the fallen mayor, dumbfounded. It had been a long time since he'd been
in an operational role, and he was unsure what to do.

  “Brady,” he said to Lieutenant O'Neill, “what can I do to help?”

  “Coordinate other units to lock down traffic on a four-block radius around the park. Have them search every vehicle trying to exit the area. Tell them what to look for.”

  The commissioner pulled out his phone and turned aside to call the chief of police.

  Within seconds, three officers holding German shepherd dogs on leashes came up beside Joe. They were holding soiled clothing found in Weir's apartment to the dogs' noses.

  “Which direction, Joe?” one of the K-9 officers asked.

  “Follow me.”

  Joe began running toward the tall building across the street on the west side of the Square. Twenty other patrol cops followed in pursuit.

  Five minutes later, Joe flung open the door leading onto the rooftop of The Victoria co-op building at 7 East 14th Street. The dogs were pulling on their chains, following a strong scent.

  Joe stepped out the door with his sidearm drawn and pivoted in both directions. There was no sign of the sniper. He walked slowly out onto the flat rooftop, followed by the K-9 crew and the patrol cops. The dogs' noses were glued to the ground, following the trail.

  “They've definitely got something, Joe,” the K-9 officer said.

  Joe turned around the corner of an elevator shaft, holding his pistol close to his face. He knew if the sniper were nearby, he might only have milliseconds to respond.

  The dogs zeroed in on a spot near the base of the elevator shaft and sniffed furiously.

  “This is where the trail ends,” the K-9 officer said.

  Joe looked toward Union Square. The view to the platform was blocked by the overhang of the roof fifty feet east of the elevator shaft.

  “He didn't have a view of the stage from this vantage point,” Joe said.

  Then he looked up toward the top of the shaft. It was four stories to the crown.

  “But he would from up there.”

  Joe pulled on the steel door to the mechanical room. It was locked.

  He pulled a card out of his pocket and retrieved his phone. Then he tapped a few buttons and held the phone to his ear.

  “The building manager will have a key—”

  A voice suddenly spoke on Joe's police radio.

  “Joe, it's Lieutenant O'Neill. We've apprehended a suspect matching your description. Can you come down and confirm?”

  Joe looked at the rest of his crew.

  “I need to check this out. See if the dogs can pick up the scent anywhere else on the rooftop. The shooter may have rappelled over the side. The rest of you—secure the crime scene for a forensics sweep.”

  Joe opened the rooftop exit door and disappeared back into the building.

  Five seconds later, Todd Weir opened the lid to the building's water tank on top of the elevator shaft and quietly slipped inside.

  44

  Victoria Co-op building, 7 East 14th Street

  July 17, 12:45 p.m.

  In less than ten minutes, Joe was back on the rooftop.

  “Did the dogs pick up the scent anywhere else?” he asked the K-9 crew.

  The officers shook their heads.

  “Just here on the north side of the mechanical building and around the exit door,” one of them said.

  Joe pulled a key from his pocket.

  “The sniper hasn’t been identified. He may still be inside this tower. Exercise extreme caution. The K-9 team will lead the way.”

  The officers withdrew their sidearms and Joe unlocked the door leading from the rooftop into the mechanical room. The dogs immediately picked up the scent and pulled their handlers up the three flights of stairs to the water tank room. Joe flung open the door at the top of the landing. Sunlight streamed in from above. The room was about twenty feet square with a ten foot diameter water tank resting in the open air about one foot inside the east wall.

  The dogs barked loudly and sniffed at the base of the tank. Joe motioned to two officers. He made a slow circular motion with his left hand, indicating he wanted them to walk clockwise around the tank. He crept slowly in the other direction around the outside of the cistern, keeping his body close to the side. If the sniper was still in the room, he'd soon be cornered by cops approaching from opposite sides.

  It took about thirty seconds for the two teams to join on the other side of the tank. Joe dropped his gun to his side and looked around the room. There were no other places to hide in the small enclosed space.

  “Looks like we missed him,” one of the officers said. “Maybe we can pick up his scent outside the building.”

  Joe paused and thought for a moment. Then he looked up toward the top of the water tank. The only clear sightline to the Square below from the windowless room was from the top of the tower.

  He pulled out his two-way radio and pressed the talk button.

  “Spotters, this is Joe. Can you focus on the water tower on the top of the limestone building on the north side of 14th Street? Do you see anything?”

  There was a pause for a few seconds.

  “We see it, Joe. But there's no sign of the shooter. Just the clear canopy on top of the tank.”

  Joe looked at the tank and rapped the side of it with his fist. It was made of eight inch wide cedar wood planks fitted tightly together to form a ten foot high drum. At the top of the tank, wooden joists radiated over the sidewalls to support a large conical wooden lid.

  The officers looked at the detective, perplexed.

  “Joe, he'll be getting away—" one of the K-9 officers said.

  Joe held up his hand.

  “I want to check something. It will only take a minute.”

  He saw an aluminum ladder lying against the far wall of the room. As he approached it, he noticed fresh footprints on the dust-covered rungs. He propped the ladder vertically against the tank and began climbing the rungs. When he got to the top, he inspected the canopy. There was no sign of scuffing or smudging from someone climbing on top. Then he turned and looked at the near brick wall. He could see two small circular marks about six inches apart embedded in the soot covering the top edge. He recognized the pattern immediately.

  Bipod legs.

  Clever, Joe thought. The perfect sniper position. The overhang of the tank lid provided cover for this section of the wall. It would be hard for the spotters to see someone lurking in the shadows. The sniper probably scoped the platform manually then rested his rifle at the last second.

  He looked back toward the tank and squinted his eyes.

  Could he...?

  Joe holstered his gun and pushed up hard on the edge of the lid. It was heavy, but it moved up a few inches. He was able to push it a couple of feet to the side and peer inside. The waterline was about one foot below the top of the tank. He turned to the team looking up from below.

  “Can someone hand me a flashlight?”

  One of the officers scampered up the ladder and passed Joe his tactical flashlight. Joe turned it on and ran it over the surface of the water. It was clear and still. He pointed it upwards and scanned the support joists. Nothing. If Weir had managed to get himself inside this thing, Joe thought, the only place to hide would be under water.

  Joe knew that most people's limit for holding their breath was about three minutes. He pointed the light beam beneath the surface. His flashlight only penetrated a few feet into the murky water. He moved it slowly around the inside edge of the tank then ran a couple of cross patterns through the middle. He couldn't see anything other than dark emptiness. He scanned for another three or four minutes then pulled the lid closed and descended the ladder.

  “There's nothing there,” Joe said to the team. “Let's see if we can pick up his scent outside the building.”

  As the team moved down the stairs, Joe looked up at the water tank one last time. The sniper had eluded his grasp yet again.

  45

  Adirondack Wilderness Area, Upstate New York

&nb
sp; Twelve years earlier

  Twelve-year-old Todd Weir lay next to his adoptive father in a hunting blind in the Adirondack Mountains. He'd spent most of the morning building the structure from materials harvested from the forest. Under close direction from his father, he chopped small trees and vines to construct the shell of the burrow then painstakingly covered it with twisted branches, moss, and dead leaves. In the dense autumn foliage of New York State, the improvised hut was difficult to distinguish from the natural landscape, even to a practiced eye.

  Which was entirely the point, since they were using the lair to hide from the experienced eyes of mature white-tailed deer. Other hunters were content to erect ready-made camouflaged tents from which to spy upon wild game. But Weir's father insisted on following the purest rules in teaching his son the way of the wild. He viewed animals as sacred creatures, provided by God for the sustenance of man.

  Man will have dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the heavens and over every creeping thing on the earth, he quoted from the Book of Genesis.

  Everything they killed was harvested and eaten at the kill site or cleaned and packed to be consumed later. Virtually no part of the animal was wasted. Muscle and entrails were cooked up as main courses. Bones and cartilage were chopped to make soup broth. Hides were skinned for use as rugs, blankets, and knapsacks. Animal heads were stuffed and mounted as decorative trophies.

  Weir's father had initiated the boy into the rites of butchering captured game at an early age. A wild deer begins to deteriorate the minute it dies, he instructed his young son. It needs to be dealt with immediately. If the animal doesn't die of suffocation from blood choking its lungs with a properly placed bullet, a hammer blow to the back of the head will quickly put it out of its misery.

  Heat is meat's worst enemy, he explained. A felled animal had to be disemboweled and hung to dry in the shade as soon as possible.​ As soon as it was dead, the beast should be placed on its back and its abdomen sliced open from its breastbone to its anus. The vital organs should be removed and bagged. Then the carcass should be hung by its hind legs from a branch to cool and drain before removing the meat. Todd wasn't spared any aspect of the procedure. His father would stand over the boy, watching him gut the carcass until the entire animal was harvested.