Neil Caldera studied every detail of seven potential murder victims. Each a haunting echo of life perched on the brink of tragedy. The NYU students, dressed in an array of bright colors, engaged in animated chatter as they waited to place orders at the diner. Life continued its relentless march forward, even as the scent of a looming threat hung in the air, casting an eerie shadow over Greenwich Village on this Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
The drone of their conversation quieted when a haggard man burst into the deli. Neil turned his attention back to observing an apartment building south of Washington Square Park. The newcomer slammed a grimy hand on Neil’s table, while his other hand pressed against his side, obscured beneath a tattered coat. Breathless, he said, “He’s at the tavern on MacDougal Street, Detective. He has a gun.”
Neil pocketed the hour-old notes from his interview with NYU junior, Saniya Carta. Saniya’s family’s influence, and important information about her friend’s murder, led him to set up in the deli. He put two twenties in the man’s palm and sprang off the stool. He zipped his jacket on his way out and called in the sighting.
Procedure and common sense dictated each choice Neil made on the job. He planned out his strategy through the block-and-a-half jog to his destination. Adrenalin fueled his approach. His jacket’s zipper jammed as he angled across the street to business façades analogous to five-o’clock shadows on ruddy faces. Two men in overcoats rounded the corner. They moseyed toward the tavern.
The tavern’s front door ruptured open. The person Neil sought erupted onto the sidewalk like spewed vomit. He crashed into one man, staggered three strides, and darted past a hand-truck-wheeling delivery person into the street.
Neil ripped open his jacket and sprang off the opposite sidewalk in pursuit of the person responsible for the murders of five NYU foreign-exchange students in an eight-week span. The man fled in a direct line for two blocks while Neil closed the distance to ten yards. Pedestrian traffic increased at Washington Square. Cold air stung his cheeks. The wanted man shoved an elderly woman off a crosswalk. She stumbled into the path of a sedan and angled right across the intersection from Washington Square onto Thompson Street. Vehicle horns blared. Tires screeched.
Neil slowed. Two men rushed to the woman hunched over the car’s hood. Neil continued his pursuit when the woman waved them off.
The alleged killer strobed in and out of sunlight on the vacant, tree-lined stretch of Thompson north of Bleecker. At sun-blazed Bleecker Street, the thirty-nine-year-old ex-con faded left. He veered right, spun 180-degrees, and whipped out his left arm. Neil’s warning alerted nearby pedestrians. The blast from the killer’s handgun scattered them.
Instinct told Neil what to do. Training taught him how to do it. Calculated motion. Full awareness of the gunman and his surroundings. No immediate threat to bystanders. Two shots. Center mass. The killer sprawled in the intersection.
A scream relayed a message Neil hoped never to hear. A young woman crumpled in the gutter on Bleecker in front of the pharmacy. A middle-aged woman threw herself on top of her. The woman’s shriek and sobs reverberated between buildings.
Neil holstered his pistol. He put two fingers on the downed man’s neck, confirmed no pulse, collected the killer’s weapon, and rushed to the women. Sorrow flushed his chest when Saniya Carta, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Genovese family’s consigliere, touched her mother’s face. It worsened the moment he dropped to one knee and grasped her hand. Her gaze fixed on him. Saniya’s smile sliced through his heart before her body wilted on the asphalt.
A NYPD cruiser slid to a stop on Bleecker. Two uniformed officers hopped out. The sergeant raced up to Neil and the women. She radioed for emergency response. The other officer secured the killer’s weapon from Neil. Three additional officers cordoned off the intersection and ordered people back from the scene.
The mother lifted her head. “You’re that detective. Neil Caldera, right? I recognized you from the press conference.” She extended her hands and pressed his hand to Saniya’s. “I’m glad you are the one who killed the man who shot my daughter, Detective. I’ve been following the story on the news.” She released his hand and dabbed her eyes. “Saniya was just telling me about the interview you did with her. She expressed her belief that you are an honest cop.”
Neil frowned. “He did not shoot your daughter, Mrs. Carta.”
The mother’s body morphed from somberness to outrage. She pried off his hand from Saniya’s and flailed her arms. “Get away from us. How dare you act as if you care? I hope the full wrath of what’s coming terrorizes you for the rest of your life.”
The sergeant touched Neil’s shoulder and motioned him across the street. She strode alongside him. “What were you thinking, DT? You just admitted to killing a member of the most notorious crime family in the city. Did you not see them?”
Neil fought to not give away his emotional turmoil through his body language. “I can’t say how it happened with any certainty. They approached from the right. Neither was anywhere near the line of fire.”
“No matter, DT. It’s people’s perspective. Right now, the blame is on you. My advice to you is to contact a rep.” She stepped up on the sidewalk and faced him. “Do you have anybody in mind?”
“Never had a need for one.”
“I’ve heard that about you. You are a good person based on things I’ve heard at the house. I’ll take care it.” She pulled out a notepad and pen. “I need the facts for a scratch report. How did this go down?”
****
Arlo Messana, a sixty-one-year-old tamed beast, watched the incident unfold from a loan-shark’s third-floor office on the northeast corner. The elevation and angle offered a perfect line-of-sight between the shooter and his target. A grunt escaped his chest as if someone stabbed him. Arlo tightened his face at the sight. His niece, Saniya, pitched forward off the sidewalk.
Arlo hurried toward the door. “Get someone outside the pharmacy before the police shuts down the block.” His voice issued a formidable tone. “Saniya’s been shot.”
His brother blocked his passage. “You can’t go down there. You know what will happen if people see you.”
Arlo turned back to the window. He watched the increased response on the street as he studied the lines of sight from his location. The scene replayed in his mind. The outcome remained the same each time. The plain-clothes officer shot after the person he chased turned and fired a weapon at him. A bullet from the detective’s firearm somehow struck Saniya. Arlo considered the shooter-to-victim alignment. Any variation in the shooter’s position showed no consequential difference.
The raised scars on his face reddened in anger. Garlic on his brother’s breath wafted over Arlo’s left shoulder.
“The mayor and police commissioner will oust that detective. See to it he gets what he deserves.” Arlo turned. “I want a copy of his personnel file. Spread the word, Zeno. No one touches him.” He sat behind his brother’s desk, opened the center drawer, and pulled out a writing tablet.
Zeno squeezed in an armchair in front of the desk. “The family won’t like you taking this away.”
The fountain pen made a scratching sound on the paper. “Get this to Guido Carta. My regards for losing his daughter. I want no misunderstanding between us. If he questions anything in my note, tell him I’m calling Declan.”
Zeno pleaded. “That copper shot and killed his daughter.”
“I watched it happen, Zeno. No one will deprive me of this opportunity. I won’t allow it. I have my own plans for Detective Neil Caldera.”
