by J. R. McLeay
Joe pressed his finger against the trigger. No one would fault him for ending the sniper's life here and now. Not the angry crowd and certainly not the cops looking on from the copter above. Everybody was lusting for revenge. Joe could justifiably say he acted in self-defense when the sniper reached for his gun, but it would hardly be necessary. Nobody would step forward to impugn the detective if he killed the sniper in cold blood.
Joe gripped his gun with shaking hands, deciding whether to empty the chamber. Weir lifted his hand and curled his finger beckoning for Joe to approach. The detective crept up to Weir with his pistol locked on the sniper’s head and kicked the gun and knives away from his body. Weir tried to say something, but he was too weak. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth as he tried to talk.
Joe kneeled down beside Weir. He looked him squarely in the eyes, placing the barrel of his pistol on the sniper's forehead. If he flinched one millimeter, Joe wouldn't hesitate to blow a hole in his head, just as the sniper had done to so many others.
“Do it!” he heard someone in the crowd whisper in the background.
“Kill the fucker,” another one said. “He doesn't deserve to live.”
“Joe,” Weir wheezed. “There's something you need to know...”
Joe looked into Weir's eyes, and the sniper nodded faintly. The detective bent down and moved his ear close to Weir's mouth. The sniper whispered something to the detective then his body went limp. Joe pressed his index finger against the side of Weir's neck and felt for a pulse. There was no sign of life. The killer of his wife and a dozen other innocent New Yorkers was finally dead.
Joe reached into Weir's pant leg and pulled out a cell phone. He pressed a button on the side and slid his finger over the surface a few times looking at the screen. Then he stood up and peered down at the lifeless body of the sniper. His face was expressionless. After a few seconds, he shook his head and walked through the parted crowd toward the cafe with his gun hanging by his side.
Hannah's car skidded to a stop on the drive above the cafe. She rushed out to see Joe trudging up the dock. He glanced up at her briefly then walked up the ramp to her position. When he got to the car, he looked into his partner’s eyes as he reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a set of handcuffs and slapped one end on her right hand.
“What—” Hannah said.
“Don’t even try,” Joe said. “I have incontestable proof you gave up the mayor.”
He swung Hannah around and connected the other end of the handcuffs to her left hand.
“Before I read you your rights,” he said, “just tell me one thing. Did you tell him where I live?”
Hannah’s eyes filled with tears.
“Joe, he threatened to kill my children. After your wife was shot, I was terrified. But I swear—I had nothing to do with Jane’s murder.”
Joe looked at Hannah coldly.
“You have the right to remain silent…”
67
18th Precinct, Lieutenant O'Neill's office
July 25, 9:00 a.m.
Brady O'Neill carried a tray of Starbucks coffee into his office the morning after the sniper chase. Joe and Kate were seated opposite his desk talking quietly.
“I see you're bringing us the good stuff finally,” Kate joked.
“Yeah, well, I thought we should celebrate and all,” O'Neill said.
“I'm afraid I'm not in much of a celebratory mood,” Joe said.
O'Neill looked at Joe steadily. He knew the detective was still grieving the loss of his wife and feeling conflicted about his partner.
“You might not want to mention that to the commissioner. He's nominating you for the department's highest award, the Medal of Honor.”
“Great,” Joe sighed. “That and two bits will get me...”
Joe held up his cup of coffee, signifying what he thought of the honor.
O’Neill ignored the comment and turned toward Kate.
“Kate, we couldn't have done this without your help also. I've called the director personally and recommended you for the FBI's Meritorious Achievement Medal.”
Kate sighed.
“I just wish we were able to include one other person in all this,” she said. “This just doesn't feel right without Hannah. We were a team all along.”
“Not as much as it seemed,” Joe said.
O'Neill paused to consider his words.
“It's unfortunate about Hannah. But the sniper presented her with an impossible choice.”
Joe cocked his head skeptically at the lieutenant.
“Really, Chief? She could have told us about the threat. We might have been able to use that to prevent the mayor's killing. Not to mention some of the other shootings.”
O'Neill paused, not wanting to address the elephant in the room.
“Possibly. But I'd be willing to bet that he told her if she mentioned it to anyone else, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her kids. After your wife was targeted, the whole department was on edge...”
Kate cleared her throat to deflect the subject.
“If the sniper hadn't recorded Hannah giving him the details of the mayor's scheduled address, we might never have known.”
Joe nodded.
“She started acting increasingly skittish after the explosion at Weir's apartment,” he said. “But I didn't suspect anything until she missed him at point-blank range during yesterday's chase.”
“You don’t think she hesitated because you were in the line of fire?” Kate said.
Joe shook his head dismissively.
“Weir was too clever to leave that to chance. He probably told her he'd go public about her treachery if anything happened to him. I think he was using her as his safety net all along.”
O'Neill leaned back in his chair and looked out the window.
“How long do you think he had her in the fold?” he asked.
“I didn't put it together at the time, but I think he approached her the morning of the mayor's assassination. I think he placed a threat in the card attached to a flower delivery at the hospital. The handwriting on the map we found in the Long Island camp was similar to the script on the card envelope.”
“That wouldn't have given him much time to prepare for the mayor's shooting,” Kate suggested.
“Four hours, to be precise,” Joe said. “Assuming she called him immediately after her visitors left that morning.”
“Clever, indeed,” O'Neill said. “It's impressive that he was able to set up the diversions in Union Square with so little time. We still don't know for sure where he fired from. The tracking dogs traced his scent to the top of three buildings in the area.”
Joe nodded.
“That's where he placed the remote-controlled gunfire simulators. I'm pretty sure he fired from the water tower atop the co-op building on the West Side. It had the clearest and most direct view of the platform.”
“How did he escape from there?” Kate asked. “Your team got up there within minutes. There was no closed-circuit video of him leaving the building.”
“I don't think he left the building. At least not that same day. I think he hid in the water tank until everything died down.”
“But you said you checked the tank when you were up there?” O'Neill said.
“I did. The flashlight didn't penetrate the full depth of water to the bottom of the tank. I waited long enough for any reasonable person to hold his breath. But the hose I found beside him at the Boat Basin suggests he rigged a breathing apparatus that allowed him to stay underwater longer than anyone would expect.”
Kate shook her head.
“I guess we got lucky he didn't jump into the Hudson River with that thing. It’s wide and fast enough that our divers might never have found him in that murky water.”
“It wasn't very sophisticated,” O'Neill nodded, “but just effective enough to work. This guy had the full bag of tricks.”
“Speaking of tricks,” Kate said. “How the hell did The President manage to dodge t
he sniper's bullet? I'm surprised the Secret Service even let him go into that situation. Their whole MO is using secrecy so no one knows where he's going to be speaking until the last moment.”
O'Neill took a sip of his coffee.
“I spoke with some of the agents at the scene. Apparently he never even got on the platform. The whole thing was an elaborate ruse. The President was speaking from a separate sound stage hidden from view.”
Kate's eyes widened in amazement.
“You mean they projected his image onto the platform? It was so realistic!”
“The glass surrounding the main stage had sophisticated electrochromic sensors. While simulating the image of the park setting in the background, they projected a 3-D holographic image of The President onto the stage.”
“A holograph?” Joe said. “Maybe our Commander-in-Chief isn't quite as courageous as his handlers would have us believe. Too bad the Secret Service didn't share this technology with the department a little earlier. We might have been able to save a few other lives besides the President.”
“Let's keep that secret between us,” O'Neill said. “The White House wants the country to think The President put his life on the line to catch the killer. We should be thankful it worked.”
“Just barely,” Joe said. “The sniper damn near got away again.”
Kate looked at Joe and nodded.
“You're the real hero here, Joe. If you hadn't single-handedly chased him down on that bicycle, we might still be looking for him. How did you know where he was hiding anyway?”
“That was just pure luck. The dogs tracked his scent to the Eldorado building on the west side of the park. When we found the dead woman in her apartment, I figured he'd scoped the park from that location to choose his sniper position. I guess he didn't count on anyone looking at the trees from above to find him.”
“That was pretty ballsy,” O'Neill said. “He fooled me, that’s for sure. Everybody was scanning the high-rises around the perimeter of the park. We figured the dogs had the park covered if anybody was stupid enough to try anything from the grounds.”
Joe nodded.
“If he hadn't tried to hide his bicycle in the leaves, I probably wouldn't have found him either. He was very ingenious using the bike to throw off the dog's trail.”
“We finally found the murder weapon there,” O'Neil said. “I guess he was in too much of a rush to get the hell out of the tree to take it with him. Speaking of dogs, were you able to track the sniper’s last location? I’m concerned he may have locked his pet up somewhere with no one to come back for it.”
Joe nodded.
“That dog was the only thing in the world Weir cared about. He left a detailed map on his phone with directions to his camp in the Adirondacks. I called the local SPCA and they retrieved the animal. He’s safe in their Albany shelter for now.”
Kate shook her head.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to be put down like his owner was. Hopefully, he’ll find a more stable caregiver.” She looked at the lieutenant. “Has ballistics traced the murders to the weapon? Is the case closed now?”
“All but the three most recent ones, for which we have the copycat killers in custody. Nobody else has proven to be as resourceful and slippery as the original killer. Now that he's dead, hopefully anyone else who was looking at him as some kind of antiestablishment hero will think twice about trying to copy him.”
Kate looked over and noticed Joe sitting pensively in his chair.
“If anyone gets any bright ideas,” she said, trying to cheer him up, “the A-Team is still at your disposal, Lieutenant.”
Joe looked at the empty chair opposite the lieutenant’s desk.
“It's the A-minus team now.”
Epilogue
Battery Park, Lower Manhattan
July 31, 7:00 a.m.
Joe rested his elbows on the promenade railing overlooking the Hudson River. He'd come to Battery Park to watch the sun rise over New York Harbor and clear his head. It had been almost a week since the rooftop sniper was captured, but he was far from settled.
The murder of his wife and Hannah's betrayal had opened a gash that refused to heal. He felt more alone than ever. In spite of the recognition he'd received from the police department, he still carried a heavy burden of guilt. As a peace officer, he'd been unable to protect the two most important people in the world to him. Thirteen people had died in New York because of his failure to stop the killer. Countless others across the country lost their lives at the hands of copycat killers who were encouraged by the success of the New York sniper.
Weir had not only managed to drive an entire city underground, he'd drawn out a new legion of killers to terrorize the country. Compared to his accomplishments, Joe's efforts seemed puny. His wife was right—the sniper had controlled the behavior of virtually everyone he targeted. His undoing had more to do with bad luck than Joe’s detective work. If the wind had shifted the leaves in a slightly different direction the day of the President's address, he might never have been found.
Joe looked toward the Statue of Liberty across the harbor. In the morning sun, she shined stronger than ever. Her raised beacon had provided hope for countless generations of New Yorkers. And yet, the promise of freedom and liberty on the shores just beyond her isle rang hollow. How could anyone ever feel truly free with the threat of violent death lurking past every corner?
Joe lowered his gaze to the water’s surface. It was a quiet morning. The harbor’s gentle waves reflected the rising sun like the facets of a giant gemstone. To any other observer, it was a beautiful scene. The copycat snipers had retreated back into the woodwork after their hero was vanquished. New Yorkers had emerged from their hiding places and resumed normal lives.
Joe peered a few hundred yards to his left. The first ferry of morning commuters was docking at Whitehall Terminal. He watched as the ship opened its prow and passengers streamed down the gangway. He glanced reflexively toward the top of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and shook his head. It had been too easy for someone to take the life of another. There would be more killings, because that is the nature of man. For now, at least, Joe could enjoy a moment of peace.
As he closed his eyes to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, he heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot. His eyes flew open and instinctively flashed toward the ferry terminal. The passengers had begun to stampede into the terminal. Two seconds later, their panicked screams wafted over the channel to Joe's position.
With sweaty hands, he reached for his police radio.
So it begins.
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1
The Cicada Prophecy
The Chief of Neurosurgery at Mount Sinai Medical Center hesitated with his microdissector poised to slice off the child’s pituitary.
Here it proudly stood, the so-called master gland, the one organ in the human body that charted the destiny of its host. The surgeon was about to remove it in an unnatural act that would forever change the course of this boy’s future.
How ironic, he thought, that nature—or God—would place it here. So easily accessible to artificial manipulation and so perfectly separated from the rest of the brain’s critical structures.
It seemed almost too easy to remove the body’s definitive organ for regulating growth and aging. Only to replace it with synthetic hormones designed to mimic these natural effects. He didn’t even have to slice open the pr
otective casing of the cranium. The gland could be easily reached through the nostrils via the natural portal of the sinus cavity, which led directly to the base of the brain.
Funny how only the human mind could figure out how to reconfigure the human brain.
He could see it clearly now, illuminated by the endoscope’s bright flashlight. A tiny pink appendage, no bigger than a pea, connected by a thin stalk to the brain’s central processor, the hypothalamus. Shining in the open cavern of the patient’s nasal sella like a ripe apple waiting to be plucked.
“Richard?” The attending anesthesiologist interrupted the surgeon’s thoughts.
“I’m sure you’re marveling at the wondrous nature of the human nervous system and your almighty role in its ongoing evolution. But I think there’s a patient here who'd like you to stop playing God for a moment and resume your responsibility as a surgeon.”
There were few people who could talk so candidly to the brilliant and celebrated Dr. Richard Ross. Harvard-educated, Professor Emeritus at NYU School of Medicine, and Surgeon-General of the United Nations—Dr. Ross's credentials were beyond peer. But Dr. George ‘Mac’ McAllister, Chief Anesthesiologist at Mt. Sinai, had been through many of these life-altering hypophysectomy operations with the neurosurgeon. He’d earned Dr. Ross’s respect and friendship.
“I’m just making sure we remove the right part of this lad’s brain,” Rick joked, without looking up. “I have a feeling he might want to keep the important parts.”
“Uh huh,” Mac replied, “as if you’re the slightest bit uncertain at this particular moment.”
The anesthesiologist had a point. Magnetic resonance imaging equipment surrounding the patient’s head provided three hundred and sixty degree visibility of the entire lower brain cavity. The delicate depression known as Turk’s Saddle, which housed the pituitary gland, was clearly visible on a bank of monitors mere inches from Rick’s keenly scanning eyes. And the tiny flexible penlight snaked carefully up the boy’s left nostril into the sphenoidal sinus gave an unmistakable close-up view of the organ in question.