by J. R. McLeay
Britten smiled.
“How far away and from which direction will the bullet be fired?”
“We have no idea. The sniper could set up virtually anywhere in a three hundred and sixty degree radius from the President's position. There are high-rise buildings surrounding Central Park on all sides. The shooter normally fires from a fair distance away—up to a mile off.”
“Great. With a high-powered rifle, that gives us almost exactly one whole second to move the President out of harm's way.”
Richardson snapped his head toward Britten.
“You have ballistics experience?”
“Just at the local gun range. It's kind of a hobby. I find it therapeutic to shoot real objects once in a while after spending all week making them miss in my shows.”
“That could be helpful,” Richardson nodded. “Now that you understand what the terms of engagement are, do you think this is possible?”
Britten paused for a moment to think.
“It's harder to misdirect a bullet than the object it's directed toward. But it's possible. A bullet's momentum is controlled by the medium it passes through. If you could sufficiently change the air conditions between the shooter and its target, you could theoretically bend the bullet's path.”
“How might you propose to do that?”
Britten reflected back to his physics course in college. His unusual experiments in thermodynamics had attracted the admiration of his classmates and led to his interest in magic.
“You could slow it down either by increasing humidity or making the air colder. If you really wanted to be imaginative, you could flood the field with a super-dense transparent gas, such as xenon or tungsten hexafluoride. Of course, you'd have to do all this without the shooter realizing what you're doing. A good sharpshooter with a sophisticated weapon would know how to compensate for ambient changes.”
Richardson shook his head.
“That would necessitate a large-scale engineering effort. I'm not sure we have that kind of time. What about the President? Can't you move him instead of the bullet before it gets to him?”
Britten reached for a danish on the buffet table and chuckled.
“That's ninety-nine percent of what magic is all about. Moving the target somewhere the audience can't see while making it appear to stay in one place. It's easy when the audience is in a fixed and known location. It's usually done with mirrors and curtains. But in your case, we won't know where the viewer will be, so we won't know how to position the mirrors to properly shift the location of the President.”
“David Copperfield moved the Statue of Liberty. How hard can it be to move one man?”
“He didn't actually move the statue,” Britten huffed. “He moved the stage the audience was sitting on without them realizing it, so when he pulled the curtain back they were looking somewhere else. We're not going to have the luxury of knowing where our subject will be viewing from. You're asking me to move a fixed object in plain sight in the blink of an eye.”
Richardson crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, I suppose that's exactly what I'm asking you to do. I was told you're the best. I've got appointments with three of your contemporaries lined up later this morning. Maybe they can figure it out.”
Britten took a glass of Mimosa off the buffet and swished it around in his mouth. He gazed off at the fountain while he pondered the challenge. He knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he couldn't pass up. If he could pull this stunt off, he might be able to leverage the trick for his Vegas act. When the final burst of water shot up from the fountain, he smiled.
“There might be a way,” he said. “But it will require some careful planning and it won't be cheap.”
“You'll have the full resources of the United States government at your disposal.”
Britten paused.
“If it works, can I have exclusive rights to use the technique in my own show?”
“Mr. Britten, if it works, the President himself might agree to perform in your next act.”
54
18th Precinct, Lieutenant O'Neill's office
July 23, 8:00 a.m.
Joe, Hannah, and Kate walked into Lieutenant O'Neill's office holding steaming cups of coffee. O'Neill motioned for them to sit down.
“You might want to have a seat before you take another sip,” O'Neill said. “I wouldn't want you to spill it when you hear the latest news.”
“How can it possibly get any more exciting than it already is?” Hannah joked.
“Unless we're being fired for neglect of duty,” Joe suggested. “I wouldn't blame the commissioner, under the circumstances. Our failure to stop the original sniper seems to have drawn out a whole new raft of hit men.”
O'Neill cocked his eyebrow.
“That, and every redneck vigilante this side of the Mason Dixon line. Thanks to your enthusiastic endorsement on live TV.”
Kate noticed Joe shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“With respect, Lieutenant,” she said, “I’m not sure these people needed extra encouragement to begin acting irrationally. Insecure and angry people eventually find an outlet for their emotions. Some people kick their dog. Unfortunately, this group is taking out their anger on innocent civilians.”
O'Neill leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee.
“Well, we've got a new civilian to be concerned about as of this morning,” he said. “The President of the United States.”
The three officers’ eyes suddenly widened.
“How is he getting mixed up in all of this?” Joe asked.
“I just got off the line with the commissioner. The President wants to make a public address here in New York in two days.”
Hannah’s brow creased.
“Wasn't the assassination of the mayor a strong enough signal to discourage politicians from making public appearances for a while?”
“Apparently not. The President's concerned about the spread of shootings across the country, and he wants to assure the citizens the situation is under control.”
“Sounds familiar,” Joe said.
“Exactly how does he propose to do that?” Hannah asked.
“By setting an elaborate trap,” O'Neill said.
“What makes him think he'll be any more successful than the mayor at keeping the plan secret?” Joe asked.
“He's not going to. He'll be making it public later today. He plans to deliver a public address on the Great Lawn of Central Park this Saturday.”
“You've got to be kidding me!” Hannah said. “Could he possibly pick a more exposed spot anywhere in the city? How does he expect us to protect him? Every two-bit sniper with a peashooter will have his choice of nests to shoot from overlooking the park.”
“That's exactly the President's plan. Apparently, he wants to make it easy to lay sights on him. The Secret Service has some master plan for ensuring he doesn't get shot.”
“Like jumping in front of the bullet?” Joe said.
“Something like that,” O’Neill grunted. “They're not telling us. I guess that's why they call it the Secret Service.”
“So how are we supposed to help?” Hannah asked.
“Our mission is twofold. First, do everything in our power to locate the sniper before he fires to neutralize the threat ahead of time. Second, be prepared to close in quickly once the President's detail pinpoints the sniper’s location after he takes the shot.”
“Exactly how are they going to do that?” Joe said.
“Again, that's strictly need-to-know. But we'll be sharing the same radio frequency with the Secret Service throughout the address, so we'll be able to coordinate our efforts.”
“If you call sharing half the available intel a coordinated effort,” Joe said.
“Let's not worry about what's already been decided. As crazy as this sounds, this might be our best chance to capture the killer for a long time.”
“Or killers,” Hannah said. “W
ho knows how many other closet anarchists will jump at this opportunity to take down the President?”
“That may be so,” O’Neill said, “but no other shooters have demonstrated the original sniper's pinpoint accuracy or evasive ability. Whatever the Secret Service has up their sleeve, something tells me the window of opportunity will be very tight. Plus, this time we'll have the entire New York City police force mobilized for the effort, along with the feds. If ever we'll have a perfect chance to snare our suspect, this is it.”
Joe, Kate, and Hannah looked at the lieutenant doubtfully.
“Of course,” the lieutenant added, “we could become heroes and bypass the whole production if we find the shooter before the President's address. Kate—has the FBI uncovered any suspicious activity for us to follow up on?”
“We've contacted every government agency to watch and listen for unusual activity. There’s been nothing suspicious reported other than the disappearance of a conservation officer recently on Long Island.”
Joe suddenly sat up on his chair.
“Where exactly on Long Island?” he said.
“Suffolk County, on the northern tip. The officer disappeared after investigating a noise complaint concerning a dog on a remote preserve—”
Joe stood up, throwing his chair against the back wall.
“Kate, can you text me the details? We've got to follow up on this right away.”
O'Neill looked at Joe, perplexed.
“What makes you think this has anything to do with the sniper?”
“His mother mentioned Long Island was one of his favorite getaway spots. The dog, the remote setting this close to the city, it all fits. Maybe we'll get lucky and save the President having to put his head on the block.”
As Hannah and Joe rushed out of the office, O'Neill looked at Kate and cocked his head.
“Not to mention a few other heads,” he said.
55
Stony Brook, Long Island
July 24, 11:00 a.m.
Joe tapped his foot impatiently as he and Hannah waited in the lobby of the Environmental Conservation Office for Suffolk County. They'd called ahead for an urgent meeting with the captain of the regional office, and Joe was eager to discuss their latest finding. Ten minutes later, a gray-haired man in a green uniform emerged from his office and walked toward the detectives.
“Tom Milburn,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m in charge of the Long Island office. How can I help you?”
Joe and Hannah showed their badges.
“Detectives Bannon and Trimble. NYPD, 18th Precinct,” Joe said.
“What brings you out to the big island, detectives?”
“We understand one of your officers disappeared recently,” Joe said.
“Yes. Officer Chris Hanley, four days ago. I was already worried, now all the more so. What's your interest in the matter?”
Joe chose his words so as not to alarm the captain any more than necessary.
“It's a longshot, but we have reason to believe your man may have had contact with one of our suspects, Todd Weir.”
Milburn recognized the name immediately from the FBI Most Wanted poster hanging in his office.
“The sniper who killed the mayor? Do you think Officer Hanley may have been shot?”
“More likely a chance crossing of paths,” Joe said. “We understand your officer was investigating a noise complaint when you last heard from him?”
“Yes, in Cranberry Bog, near Riverhead on the north side of the island. We've searched the area to no avail. If you have additional pertinent details, I'm all ears.”
“We'd like to examine the area to see if we can find any clues.”
“Of course,” Milburn said. “If you can help find our man, my department is at your disposal.”
Joe looked at some charts hanging on the captain’s office wall.
“Do you have a map of the preserve?”
Milburn walked over to one of the frames and pointed toward it.
“This is the one. It's mostly wetland. Doesn't get many visitors. There's a rarely used hiking path around the perimeter.”
Joe and Hannah looked at the maze of topographical symbols.
“Did Officer Hanley indicate where on the preserve the noise complaint was reported coming from?” Hannah asked.
Milburn drew a square outline over the glass with the back of his pen.
“No, but this is the boundary of the preserve. It's fairly small—less than a square mile.”
Joe studied the map and pointed to one of the features.
“Those green hash marks. Does that indicate a marsh?”
“Technically, it’s a bog. A miniature version of the Everglades. It's very dense with marine plants. The preserve used to be a cranberry plantation many years ago.”
Joe noticed a solid green circle in the middle of the light blue area.
“Is that an island?”
“A small one. It's surrounded on all sides by the bog.”
“You said your people have already searched the area?”
“Yes, although we had no reason to suspect foul play before. Under the circumstances, I think we need to undertake a more thorough search now.”
“Do you mind if we tag along? It's possible our suspect may still be hiding there.”
“I'll put together a team immediately. If your man is still there, I don't want to take any chances. Give me ten minutes—you're welcome to join us.”
Forty-five minutes later, Joe and Hannah waded through the hip-deep bog as Captain Milburn and ten other DEC officers converged on the small island at the center of the preserve. Joe held his firearm above the surface as he scanned the horizon in all directions for any sign of movement.
“Isn't this a bit of an unusual spot for your sniper to hang out?” Milburn asked the detectives following behind.
“His profile indicates he's an experienced hunter and that he frequently came to Long Island,” Joe said. “The proximity to the city would make this an ideal hideout for someone with a bounty on his head.”
“The sniper's picture was prominently displayed in our office,” the captain said, clenching his jaw. “If Hanley recognized him, it could have turned violent quickly.”
“That's what I'm afraid may have happened,” Joe said.
Milburn squinted toward the island.
“We found evidence of recent camping on the island. The fire pit appeared to have been used a few days ago. And there was a rather elaborate homemade shelter. Whoever was here looked like he had plenty of woodland experience.”
When they got to the edge of the island, Joe stepped onto the shore and noticed footprints in the mud.
“Someone's definitely been here recently,” he said.
“Those may be from the search team I sent out three days ago.”
Joe raised his pistol and looked through the dense brush toward the center of the island.
“Can you point me toward the shelter?”
Milburn escorted the detectives about one hundred feet inland. He crept to the side of a small clearing and motioned to a tangle of vines and branches. His officers raised their sidearms and pointed to the mound while the captain pulled some of the branches aside. Inside was an empty hollow the size of a small closet.
“It's not much,” he said. “But it's large enough to sleep one person and a dog.”
Joe shook his head at how well the shelter was camouflaged.
“I wouldn't have noticed this if you hadn't pointed it out to me,” he said.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to blend into the landscape,” Milburn said.
“Someone like a hunter,” Joe nodded. He motioned inside the burrow. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Knock yourself out. We found a few rabbit carcasses and some empty water bottles. Whoever built this thing appears to have made a hasty exit.”
Joe pushed the vines aside and ducked into the shelter with his partner. Hannah winced at the smell of decaying meat an
d swatted some flies from her face.
“Not the most comfortable accommodations on Long Island,” she said.
“This is probably as close to nirvana as it gets for a hunter looking to be invisible to man and beast,” Joe said.
Hannah nudged one of the rabbit carcasses with the toe of her shoe.
“If you say so. What are you hoping to find here?”
“Anything that connects us to the sniper or where he may have gone.”
The detectives got down on their knees and slowly crawled around the small enclosure. Joe stopped suddenly and pushed aside some loose material on the ground.
“Found something?” Hannah asked.
He lifted a piece of torn paper from among the twigs and looked at it carefully. He blew some dirt off it and held it up for Hannah to see. It was a hand-drawn sketch showing a rectangle with some notes and symbols placed on it.
“What do you think it is?” Hannah said.
Joe studied the sketch for a minute then looked up.
“I think it’s a drawing of Union Square.” He pointed to a circle near the base of the rectangle with the notation GW inside it. “That probably represents the Washington statue on the south side of the park.”
Hannah looked at the drawing and pointed to some notations on the outside of the rectangle.
“What are those blocks?”
Joe paused to examine the map more closely.
“I think they’re marking the position of the tallest buildings on each side of the square. The one marked BB on the narrow side of the rectangle is likely the Best Buy building on the south side. The two small boxes on the left side signify the twin towers on the east side of the square. And this long rectangle with a 'V' on the right side conforms to the shape of the Victoria co-op building on the west side of the square.”
Joe nodded more excitedly the longer he looked at the sketch.
“We heard a gunshot sound simultaneously from three sides of the square when the mayor was shot. I think the sniper planted some kind of audio device on top of these towers to misdirect his location.”