Unlucky Day Page 3

  7

  NYPD 18th Precinct, 306 West 54th Street

  July 6, 11:00 a.m.

  Lieutenant Brady O’Neill furrowed his brow as he pored over the latest homicide file. As Detective Sections Chief for the 18th Precinct, it was his responsibility to assign homicide cases within the Midtown North jurisdiction. Normally he wouldn't take such a direct interest in an individual case, but two similar sniper shootings in as many days had him concerned.

  In thirty years as a street cop and senior investigator, he'd never seen a case quite like this. After yesterday's repeat shooting, he called a meeting with his lead detectives to review their progress.

  A tap on his glass door snapped him from his thoughts.

  “You called, Chief?” Joe said, sticking his head in the doorway.

  Hannah peered over his shoulder and smiled at the lieutenant. The detective squad was a tight unit, and the three had a good working relationship. But O'Neill was in no mood for small talk this morning. He didn't waste any time getting to the subject of the meeting.

  “Come in,” the lieutenant said, motioning for the detectives to have a seat. “I wanted an update on these two sniper shootings. Have you coordinated with the First Precinct?”

  “Yes,” Joe reported. “Unfortunately, there are no leads yet on either end. But we've found some commonalities between the two cases. It definitely looks like the same shooter.”

  O’Neill nodded.

  “What have you got?”

  “Same bullet specs, same MO, same wound profile.”

  “You're referring to the head shots?”

  “Yes, but these weren't ordinary head shots. Both in the middle of the face, right between the eyes.”

  “That's nothing new,” O'Neill shrugged. “Lots of professional hits have that signature.”

  “Those are normally from close range using a handgun,” Joe said. “These were from an elevated position using a high-powered rifle.”

  O'Neill leaned back in his chair.

  “Have you matched the bullets with the rifle type?”

  Hannah passed some photos of spent bullet slugs across the table to the lieutenant.

  “Ballistics matches the slugs to a model L115A military-grade long-range sniper rifle. It uses special bullets, 8.59 millimeter caliber. Soft point, for maximum damage.”

  The lieutenant cocked his head.

  “So we're dealing with a military-trained sniper?”

  “Possibly,” Hannah continued. “These rifles are hard to come by on the street and require a certain degree of training to use. They have extremely sensitive settings and dynamics, with a range of over a mile. Anyone who can shoot a target from that far away with that degree of accuracy has obviously had some practice.”

  “You say the shots came from an elevated position? How far up?”

  “The ME estimates a four- to five-degree downward trajectory based on the position of the entrance and exit wounds," Hannah said. “But range and wind conditions can also affect the angle.”

  O'Neill nodded. His experience with murder cases over the years had given him a good working knowledge of ballistics.

  “Did you interview people in the area to try to narrow down the shooter's location?”

  Joe flipped open his notepad and reviewed his notes.

  “We found some people in the vicinity of 55th Street and 7th Avenue who reported hearing a muted gunshot nearby. They said it came from quite a few stories above street level.”

  O’Neill raised his eyebrows.

  “That's just a few blocks from here. Did anyone see anything suspicious? A rifle barrel sticking out of a window or someone carrying an unusual bag?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Nothing. The shooter maintained a low profile and covered his tracks cleanly.”

  The lieutenant stood up and walked to his office window. He separated the blinds with two fingers and looked outside in both directions.

  “What's in this neighborhood that a shooter could easily infiltrate and exit under cover?” he wondered out loud.

  He paused, focusing on an building upward and to his right.

  “What about the Wellington Hotel? Have you talked with their staff about any suspicious traffic? Maybe some of their guests can pinpoint which room or direction the sound came from.”

  “That’s on our to-do list today,” Joe said. “We've been busy interviewing the victim's family and checking the forensic evidence with the ME"

  “Any leads from the family?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Nothing actionable. The pregnant woman was unmarried and had lots of boyfriends. No obvious sign of malice or financial interest. The guys downtown are saying the same about the second victim. At this point, it looks like two completely random shootings.”

  O'Neill crossed his arms.

  “Except they appear to be from the same gun at the hand of the same shooter. That doesn't sound random to me.” He picked up the case file and leafed through the pages. “Anything else of note?”

  “One other thing,” Joe said. “Both shootings occurred at almost exactly the same time of day—right around noon. We haven't yet put together a plausible motive for that.”

  “What about the victims? Any similarities that might suggest a motive there?”

  “That's the strange part. You couldn't find two more dissimilar people. The first victim was a young lower-class pregnant woman from Staten Island. The other guy was a middle-aged Wall Street executive from Long Island. There just doesn't appear to be anything connecting these two events.”

  O'Neill turned his wrist and looked at his watch.

  “It's getting close to noon. I'm worried this shooter may be preparing to strike again. I'm going to put out an APB to our guys on the street to watch for any unusual sounds and movement. If there's another shooting today I want you two on the scene to cordon the area, Code 2.

  “In the meantime, I'm calling an FBI profiler in to see if they can help us connect some of the dots. Check with Ballistics. Maybe they can triangulate the shooter's elevation based on the firing distance and bullet angle. We'll scour every floor in every structure in the neighborhood if we have to. If we can't catch him in the act, we'll catch him through good detective work.”

  Joe and Hannah rose from their seats and glanced at one another nervously. They both had the same feeling in their gut.

  Neither expected today to be very quiet.

  Part II

  Raising the Ante

  8

  The Pierre Hotel, Room 1817

  July 6, 11:50 a.m.

  I love this scene in Inglourious Basterds, where the German sniper picks off American soldiers at will from his perch atop the clock tower. The really chilling part is seeing the unmitigated glee in the Nazi officers’ faces as they sit watching the propaganda film.

  Talk about schadenfreude.

  The Krauts seem to have perfected the art of taking pleasure in the suffering of others. But I don't get off watching others suffer. For me, it's about control: rebalancing the scales of justice with my oppressors. I've been on the other side. I know what it's like to feel helpless and abused.

  No longer.

  It's time to scope the kill zone. It's a sunny day in Central Park, and New Yorkers are enjoying the oasis within the city. A gaggle of children are kicking a soccer ball under the watchful gaze of their attentive mothers. A young couple lies napping on a blanket under the shade of an elm tree, their half-finished picnic lunch carted away by scurrying ants. Joggers in stylish running suits trot along the bridle path circling the park. It's such a peaceful scene, it almost seems a shame to shatter it with a random act of violence.

  It's strange that more people aren't worried about a killer in their midst. Haven't they heard about the previous days' shootings? It was front page in the Daily News. Perhaps not prominent enough to attract sufficient attention. There are almost four hundred murders every year in New York City, just about one every day. Perhaps New
Yorkers have become desensitized to violence in their city. Maybe they think it only happens to other people—or people running afoul of the law.

  I suppose they haven't yet recognized the new pattern of killings, where anybody is fair game under the all-seeing watch of the mysterious rooftop sniper. They’ll soon learn though—because today's act raises the stakes. This one will get everyone's attention. Especially those holding the levers of power.

  Authority is a perverse thing. The rules of civilized society impose order through unnatural structures and hierarchy. Lawmakers create rules governing socially acceptable behavior and the police impel citizens to comply. Children fall under the legal control of their parents or guardians, long after they've attained sexual maturity. Little mind is given to what happens behind closed doors in these supposedly protected homes.

  It's a strange irony that the so-called enlightened civilization created by humankind has produced its most horrific abuses. And the worst atrocities are committed by those with the most power. Priests take advantage of defenseless choirboys. Cops target minorities or anyone who doesn’t blindly submit to their authority. Politicians take kickbacks from the privileged class, maintaining the status quo and suppressing the very constituency they were elected to serve.

  It's time someone started shooting holes in the veil of artificial power. The time has come to expose the hypocrisy of the system and restore equality to the people. Authority figures who've abused the system must be held to account. The law can no longer be counted on to balance the scales of justice. The rules are far too entrenched, favoring the elite. Those vested with power have too much to lose from returning it to the people.

  Who's in control now? Step outside. Your fate lies in the wind.

  My field of vision shifts back toward the south end of Central Park. A dominant figure attracts my attention in the plaza on the southeast corner of the park. A cop on a horse mills about, chatting with tourists taking pictures of the iconic symbol. What better emblem of trusted authority than a mounted NYPD police officer?

  The perfect mark.

  There's just one problem. The cop is wearing a full helmet with visor. From my elevated position, I haven't got a clear shot at his eyes. The standard-issue equestrian helmet is only made of fiberglass and foam, but it's still dense enough to slow a soft-point bullet from penetrating for a clear kill. This calls for a sturdier projectile.

  I've got three minutes. Throwing the bolt back, I remove the soft-point cartridge from the breech. Reaching into my rifle case, I find a full metal jacket bullet with a hard brass coating. Inserting it into the chamber and throwing the bolt back into position, I'm back in business.

  The cop is still there. But he’s a bit blurry. Turning the calibration dials on the side of my scope, he comes into focus. I can read the NYPD motto inscribed on the front of his helmet: To Serve and Protect. That brings a smile to my lips.

  I center the crosshairs over the logo and pause. His horse is spooked by a passing carriage. It will take almost a second for my bullet to reach him. I don't want to take any chances that he won't be perfectly still during this critical interval. An inch or two off-center could deflect the bullet off the side of his helmet.

  I'll only have one chance.

  The time on my phone reads one minute after twelve. The cop is posing for a picture now. This should make quite the memento. I pull the trigger and a heartbeat later the cop slumps off his horse, his feet trapped in the stirrups. The horse rears up on its hind legs, unsure what to make of its dangling master. The crowd of onlookers staggers back in horror.

  Within a few short minutes, a car with flashing lights screeches into the courtyard and two familiar faces emerge to take charge of the situation. The senior detective checks the status of the officer still hanging from the horse then with the help of his female partner extracts the limp rider and lays him on the ground. He's conferring with a few onlookers, who point in my direction.

  Time to make my exit. See you again, my friend. Same time tomorrow?

  9

  The Pierre Hotel, 5th Avenue lobby

  July 6, 12:20 p.m.

  The sound of screaming police sirens surrounded the Pierre Hotel as scores of flashing patrol cars converged on the building. Joe and Hannah rushed into the front lobby and flashed their badges to the front desk attendant. Well-to-do hotel guests clustered together in the marble-floored foyer, looking confused as a loud alarm permeated the building.

  “Detective Bannon, NYPD,” Joe announced to a check-in attendant. “I need to speak with the hotel manager immediately concerning a possible shooting on the premises."

  The attendant's eyes widened as he watched uniformed cops pour into the posh lobby from all sides. He craned his head and scanned the pandemonium, looking for a familiar face. Catching the eye of a well-dressed man talking with some guests, he raised his hand and motioned urgently toward the detectives. The man excused himself and approached the front desk.

  “I'm James Aldridge, Manager of the Pierre,” he said, addressing the two detectives. “How may I help you?”

  Joe pulled his jacket aside to reveal his badge.

  “Detective Joe Bannon. A police officer was shot three blocks from here. We have reports of a gunshot coming from your hotel. Did you receive our message to lock down the building?”

  The manager sighed, not happy with the police intrusion.

  “Yes, but it will take us several minutes to finish locking all the exits. This is a large hotel—we have over thirty exterior doors to secure.”

  Joe signaled to a group of plainclothes detectives approaching from the 61st Street entrance.

  “Our team can help with that. Do you have a floorplan of the ground floor showing these exits?”

  The manager paused briefly then turned to his front desk attendant.

  “William, can you supply these officers with copies of our emergency exit plan?”

  The attendant rummaged under the desk and pulled out a stack of papers then handed them to Joe.

  Joe passed the papers to one of the Midtown Precinct detectives.

  “Tony, can you gather up some patrol officers and post a guard at each of these exits?”

  The detective nodded and headed off to summon a group of uniformed cops. After distributing the maps, the officers spread out in different directions.

  Joe turned back to the manager.

  “Have you received any reports of unusual noises coming from any of your rooms?”

  The hotel manager looked toward his front desk agent.

  “Have you heard anything out of place, William?”

  “A few of us on the front desk heard a loud crack about twenty minutes ago,” the attendant nodded. “It sounded like it came from across the street in the park. We haven't received any guest complaints, other than the usual noisy televisions and slamming doors.”

  Joe peered through the 5th Avenue lobby doors at the wall of trees lining the park.

  “That might have been an echo you heard from the opposite side of the street.”

  He turned to Hannah.

  “Han, can you check with the porters and see if they can more closely locate the source of the sound?”

  Hannah nodded and hurried off toward the 5th Avenue exit. Joe returned his attention to the hotel manager.

  “We'll need to interview every guest and staff member and inspect the guest rooms for unusual activity.”

  “That will take hours,” the manager said, crossing his arms. “We have seven hundred and fourteen rooms and over a thousand guests. Must we keep the hotel locked down during this entire period?”

  Joe’s face reddened in anger at the manager's indifference to the gravity of the situation.

  “A police officer has just been murdered by someone in your hotel,” he said, looking the manager squarely in the eye. “No one will be allowed to leave this building until they've been cleared by one of our officers. I’ll also need to see your security camera footage. Are all your exits and e
levators monitored?”

  The manager's arms slumped to his side, realizing the balance of power had moved out of his hands.

  “Only the unlocked doors facing 61st Street and 5th Avenue. The exits to the courtyard require a guest key to enter from the outside. All of our guest elevators are monitored.”

  “What about staff elevators?”

  “We have two at each end of the hallways. Both are unmonitored. They're used primarily by our cleaning and facilities crew.”

  “Do you monitor the stairwells and guest room hallways?”

  “The hallways on each floor have a dome cam at every corner. The stairwells aren't monitored. When we locked the elevators, guests began making their way down from the 41st floor.”

  “Good,” Joe said, satisfied with the manager's newfound cooperation. “We'll begin by interviewing the guests already in the lobby. You can help by reviewing your security footage of the elevators and hallways during the last sixty minutes. Watch for someone carrying a long bag or unusual case. The shooter will be looking to exit quickly, perhaps via one of the side exits.”

  Hannah returned to the front desk and nodded at Joe.

  “Two porters heard an unusual sound coming many stories above the 5th Avenue entrance about twenty minutes ago,” she reported.

  “Right,” Joe said. “Let's get started. Mr. Aldridge, can you supply our teams with a master key for an inspection of the guest rooms? We'll start at the top floor and work our way down.”

  The manager hesitated.

  “May I send a hotel representative to accompany them? I don't want to alarm any guests who may still be in their room. Couldn't you at least allow one of our guest relations managers to explain the situation before you barge in?”