The Siege

by Stephen White

  “Gotcha,” says Moody.

  APRIL 18, FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  Sam

  I popped up at the sound of the gunshot, looking for cover.

  I backed up against the nearest building, hugging its side as I walked toward the grassy area in the center of Old Campus. A few kids were running toward buildings for cover. Others were standing, looking around, frozen, unable to process the meaning of the ominous craaack and the extended ping and echo of the ricochet.

  A kid called out to a friend who was stuck in place in the middle of the lawn, “I think it was a gunshot, man. Get out of here. Run, man, run. That was a fucking rifle.”

  I wanted to know what the cop in the cruiser thought. He was out of his car, crouched behind his vehicle, his handgun in his left hand. He was scanning the landscape, unsure where the rifle retort had originated. When he saw me, he said, “Take cover, sir. We have a situation here. Find a building. Away from Old Campus. Now!”

  I heard sirens nearby and knew things were about to get complicated, especially for someone like me determined to keep a low profile.

  I said, “Thank you, Officer,” and began following at least a dozen students who were running toward an arched gate on the Elm Street side of Old Campus. I detoured to encourage a couple of girls who were crouched behind a big bronze statue to come with me to get out of the open. They ran toward the arched gate at full speed.

  A second shot rang out. Another ricochet. More echoes.

  I broke into a jog, urging the girls not to slow.

  Someone yelled, “Harkness! It came from Harkness!”

  The gate turned out to be an arched tunnel that ran through a building from the open area I had just crossed, toward Elm Street. I joined about thirty students inside the tunnel. “What’s Harkness?” I asked the kid standing closest to me.

  “The tower,” he said, pointing toward the residence hall that was adjacent to Skull & Bones. My trusty map assigned Harkness Tower to Branford College. I had to figure out this college thing. I thought Yale was the college. What the hell were all these other colleges I’d never heard of?

  For many years, I’d made my living as a city cop in the university town of Boulder, Colorado. Until Columbine and Virginia Tech changed the rules of academic tragedy forever, few things put more fear into the town/gown law enforcement community than the possibility of a repetition of the horrors of the University of Texas tower shootings.

  Even weighed against modern high-bar carnage and inhumanity scales, the UT sniper had left a horrendous legacy on academic law enforcement. I’d been part of two training exercises with the University of Colorado campus police to coordinate resources in the event we ever had the misfortune to be faced with a campus sniper.

  “Is anyone hurt?” I asked loudly.

  “There was somebody down in front of Dwight,” one girl said. “I don’t know, though. I don’t know. Oh God.”

  Dwight, I remembered, was a building on Old Campus. “Which one’s Dwight?”

  Most of the students around me were already on their cell phones. Three girls were hugging each other. A couple of kids pointed at a building across the wide lawn.

  The law enforcement response was picking up steam. Officers—campus and city—began appearing from all sides of Old Campus. Body armor was on. Weapons were drawn. Students were being escorted from hiding places into buildings. The boy who was down in front of Dwight was half-carried into the building. I didn’t see any blood on him.

  A bullhorn bounced the soprano voice of a female cop off the stone faces of the old buildings. “Students, stay away from windows! Go into your center halls.”

  Behind me, a New Haven cop’s voice—this one male—echoed like a clap of thunder. “Police. Clear out this tunnel. This way now! That’s an order. To your right! Right! Elm to College. Get away from Old Campus. Go. Go.”

  The cop was a black man about thirty-five. His voice carried authority the way Ben & Jerry’s carries calories. I’m an expert on both.

  Before I’d taken the steps I’d need to clear the tunnel, he blew past me into the open area. The way he moved, I was sure he was ex-military. He ran low and fast in a manner that only looks natural after some serious training. He looked natural.

  A young man—hell, a kid, he didn’t look old enough to be attending college—was crouched down behind a tree about thirty yards from the tunnel. “I dropped my card,” he yelled. “I can’t get into the entryway.”

  A third shot pierced the chaos. This one was different. Echoes, but no ricochet.

  I kept my eye on the cop and the kid. The cop joined the kid in the shadow of the tree. He put his gloved hands on the sides of the kid’s face and he told the kid what was going to happen next. I heard him say, “You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the kid said.

  “We go on my three. One, two . . .” Another shot. The cop didn’t hesitate. He did not want to get pinned down by the sniper. The duo stayed low while they ran to the tunnel.

  To me, he said, “Get this kid someplace safe. The Green. Off campus. You, too.”

  “My pleasure, Officer.”

  “Durfee’s?” the kid asked me. “Can I go to Durfee’s?”

  I didn’t want Ann to hear about the sniper on the news. After I escorted the student to safety, I found her number, hit SEND. When she answered, I said, “It’s Sam.”

  “Hello, hello. One moment, please,” she said in the same pleasant voice she’d used to introduce herself to me on the yacht. I heard her make an excuse to someone about needing to take the call. The golf tournament was over by then. I hadn’t memorized the rest of Friday’s party schedule, so I didn’t know what her hostess responsibilities were for the remainder of the day.

  Fifteen seconds later, she said, “I’m here, Sam.”

  “First,” I said. “Do you have any news? Have you heard from Jane? Any new contact from . . . ?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Next, there’s a sniper in New Haven,” I said.

  “At Yale? Oh my God. Where?”

  “Harkness ring a bell?”

  “Of course it does. Jane’s in Jonathan Edwards. Oh my God!”

  I pulled out my map. Jonathan Edwards was the college between Harkness Tower and Skull & Bones. Perfect. I was temporarily suspending my belief in the possibility of coincidence in the universe. If a lightning bolt struck me down right then, I planned to blame it on the guy who wrote the note to Ann Calderón.

  “Just happened,” I said. “Last five minutes. Three shots so far. I haven’t seen any casualties. Right now I’m on the edge of Old Campus, across the street from the New Haven Green. You know where that is?”

  “Sure. You’re near Phelps Gate. Are you safe?”

  I didn’t know from Phelps Gate. Back to the map. “Reasonably. I’ve walked around campus some, figured out where things are. Before the sniper started, there were two patrol cars on the street outside Book & Snake, one outside Skull & Bones. Mostly campus police, but some New Haven cops. That’s all I saw. That means a couple of things. First, it means that independent of Jane, the police have reason to be concerned. Two, they aren’t fully mobilized—they’re not convinced, for instance, that any students are being held against their will. There would be a much more visible response if they suspected a hostage situation.”

  Ann said, “It also means they’re slightly more worried about Book & Snake than they are about Skull & Bones. You saw the Book & Snake tomb?” she asked.

  “I did. It appears quiet, but there could be a rock concert and an orgy going on inside that place and I think it would appear quiet. The place is a fortress.”

  “I never thought I would say this, Sam, but I so wish that Jane was at an orgy . . . at a rock concert. You have a theory? Do you know where the sniper fits?”

  My impulse was to make something up. Something that might provide some solace. Instead I said, “No. I’m still in the dark. The sniper could be part of what’s going on with Jane. Or it could be unrela
ted. I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “This will be on the news,” Ann said. “I should go find a computer or a TV.”

  Another shot clapped. This one was more muted. A fat stone building—some chapel that looked older than our republic—was separating me from Harkness Tower.

  “I heard that,” Ann said.

  “That makes four,” I said.

  Five, six, and seven followed in quick succession.

  “I’ll call again when I know more, Ann. If you see anything on TV that you think I might not know, give me a holler.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ann,” I said, “if Jane is inside the tomb, at least she’s safe from the sniper.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” Ann said. “You are so much more of an optimist than I gave you credit for.”

  Ann Calderón called back in ten minutes.

  The number of rifle shots was holding steady at seven. I wasn’t in position to know what the law enforcement strategy to locate the sniper entailed. At least one helicopter was in the air. Media or law enforcement chopper? I couldn’t tell. I would have bet media. They have more resources.

  “Have you seen a television?” she asked.

  “No, I circled by Book & Snake—right now I’m in front of Commons near the cemetery. Wanted to see if they pulled that patrol car to respond to the sniper. They haven’t. That means that the stakeout of the tomb continues to be important to the Yale Police.”

  Ann said, “Ronnie and I have a suite at the hotel so we don’t have to constantly run home. That’s where I am. CNN is showing a local feed from one of the New Haven affiliates. I could be seeing things, Sam. It’s a long camera shot, but I think there’s something orange up there. A knit hat, something. On the ledge at the top of the tower. Near the belfry.”

  Orange will show my disappointment. God. “Thanks. I’ll find a TV.” “I’m thinking I should make an anonymous call to let the New Haven Police know about the color thing. So that they’re not completely in the dark. I mean, they may not know that the sniper and whatever is happening in the tombs might be connected.”

  I went from A to Z in about three seconds.

  “Don’t do it, Ann. His instructions may be color-coded. If there are other kids involved, the notes he sent to their parents may have used colors other than blue and orange. If the police start making sense of the orange clues he’s leaving, he will know it was you who talked to them. It could be a trap to test your cooperation. You can’t tell anyone anything that’s in that note. Nothing. If you do, he may retaliate against Jane.”

  I could hear her breath catch in her throat. “I almost called them two minutes before I called you.” Her voice cracked. “Sam. I am so grateful for your help.”

  “Ann, I’m not helping. I’m trying. Those are two different things. Don’t act without talking to me, okay?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She knew it was good advice, but she didn’t like that it was good advice. I could tell she was a woman who didn’t take orders well. In most circumstances, my kind of gal.

  “Ann, are you covering for me with Dulce? If she knows I’m here, Carmen will know I’m here. This sniper story is going to go national. I don’t want Carmen worrying.”

  “I will make sure Dulce doesn’t miss you.”

  I went back down College Street, intending either to find a television or to get as close as I could to the perimeter that had been erected around Old Campus in the vicinity of the sniper. The tunnel that opened onto Elm Street would have been ideal, but Elm had already been blockaded by patrol cars.

  I followed an open path down the center of a grand lawn that my map labeled as Cross Campus. From the walkway, I couldn’t see Harkness Tower. That meant the sniper in Harkness Tower couldn’t see me. Which meant he couldn’t shoot me. That was good.

  I walked past two more residence halls. The first one was called Calhoun College, and then one called Berkeley College. Yale Security had moved personnel into position at the entrance to each of the colleges. I was beginning to wonder how many freakin’ colleges there were at this place. This being Yale, I was also thinking that some more creative energy might have been invested in naming the primary open green spots on campus. “Old Campus” and “Cross Campus” were not the most imaginative of labels.

  I had Cross Campus to myself. The student body wanted nothing to do with the sniper. Smart kids.

  I cut behind a flat, round, black granite fountain, but I wasn’t able to make the left I was hoping to make. A Yale cop with sergeant’s stripes appeared out of nowhere. He was a little older than me, about my size and build. He had a good cop aura—his presence on the path was about twice the size of the physical space he consumed. I knew he was having a legendarily bad day. I had no intention of making it any worse.

  He raised his right arm and pointed his index finger. He said, “No. Go back the way you came.”

  His uniform identified him as a campus cop, but his badge said he was with the New Haven PD. I was completely confused. I said, “Yeah, sorry. I’m kind of . . . lost.”

  His eyes flared. “You can go that way”—he pointed toward Beinecke—“or you can go that way”—he pointed back down Cross Campus the way I had arrived—“but you can’t come this way.”

  As I turned my back to leave, his shoulder-mounted radio rumbled with a call from Dispatch. The report was succinct, and delivered with an admirable lack of inflection, considering the content. The call was: “New report, possible one eighty-seven, male student, Ingalls, seven-three Sachem.”

  I forced myself to take another step. I really tried to force myself not to turn back around. I failed. I rotated my upper body, holding out the map as a prop. I wanted to see the sergeant’s face.

  His expression had hardened, his eyes had narrowed. He touched the button on his shoulder-mounted microphone and confirmed the transmission.

  I started to say, “Could you show me—”

  “Get out of here,” he said. “Now.” His voice was in full don’t-fuck-with-me mode. He had to feel like his peaceful campus world was crumbling at his feet.

  In cop radio parlance, a one eighty-seven is a suspected homicide.

  The Yale cops were thinking that a male student had been murdered at Ingalls.

  That would be my next stop.

  Ingalls, it turned out, was already on my must-visit list if I ended up having any free moments during my time in New Haven. I just didn’t recognize the formal name of the building. I knew the building only by function, and by nickname.

  Ingalls was the Yale hockey rink. Legendarily, the Yale Whale. Among college hockey fans—I’m one of those—the place is a celebrated sheet of ice.

  The map revealed that I would find Ingalls on the other side of the cemetery, so I headed in the direction of Beinecke Plaza. The pulsing shrieks of one siren, and then another, were starting to move away from Old Campus, toward Grove Street Cemetery.

  Those would be the first responders to the one eighty-seven.

  I followed the footpath that led toward Beinecke, pausing for a fire department pumper truck steaming in the direction of Old Campus. The plaza in front of the rare book library was deserted. I climbed the stairs to High Street, passing within feet of the Book & Snake tomb before I crossed over to the cemetery. The earliest headstone I spotted on my way across the graveyard was marked “1806.”

  A couple of blocks past the rear boundary of the cemetery I eyed the distinctive outline of the Yale Whale—the home of Yale hockey.

  I smiled at the form. Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help it. It was an even more joyful building than I had guessed from the pictures I had seen over the years. I thought it was terrific that someone had put so much creative energy into designing a barn for playing hockey.

  Three patrol cars—two Yale, one New Haven—were parked in front of the building along with a rescue rig from the New Haven Fire Department. A patrolman was already stringing crime scene tape. He had completed a run of yello
w ribbon from one street corner to another. He was busy extending official territory all the way down the sidewalk in front of Ingalls. I could hear more sirens firing in the distance. I couldn’t tell whether they were heading toward the hockey rink or toward the sniper on Old Campus.

  The local cops were being yanked every which way. I wondered, of course, if that was someone’s intent.

  The hockey arena was the center of an obvious construction zone. A long wooden barricade blocked the entrance to the building from the sidewalk. Two immense roll-away bins for construction debris were planted along the curb. Pallets of building materials were staged outside the long line of entrance doors. Trailers for the general contractor and the plumbing and electrical subs were on-site, farther down the block.

  I asked a passing student if he knew what was going on. I’d startled him. He pulled iPod buds from his ears before he said, “What?”

  He was scruffy. Clean, but scruffy. A week’s worth of growth on his cheeks, more than that on his chin. Old black jeans, a stretched-out gray sweater over a thrift-store dress shirt. Tails hanging out. Black horn-rimmed glasses. The pièce de résistance of his outfit was a well-worn brown felt fedora. It was a fine fedora—the feather was a little moth-eaten, but it was intact—and the kid wore the topper with aplomb.

  I recalled the way my son had recently described a man his mother was dating. Simon had said, “The guy thinks he’s a hipster, Dad. But he’s just an old poser.”

  That worked for me. I gestured toward Ingalls and asked the hipster, “Do you know what’s going on over there? Ingalls?”

  He glanced across the street. His eyebrows came out of hiding from behind his horn-rims. “No,” he said. “Cops? Lots of cops. Whoa. No. Sorry.”

  He apparently hadn’t noticed all the hoopla across the street. He apparently also had an antipathy to verbs.

  His eyes were puzzled. He looked at me and said, “Biker ninjas? Here? Shit. This time of day? Whew.”