by Captain Sammitch
The Barrage, on Times Square
Techno dance music pounded throughout The Barrage as Tommy di Vecchio's establishment lived up to its reputation as the hottest dance club downtown. There were dozens of partiers from many different backgrounds. There were NYU freshmen who couldn't order a drink without getting carded. There were twentysomething girls from uptown looking for a good time - and a man if there were any that suited their tastes. There were thirtysomething executives celebrating what they hoped was the long-awaited return of the 80's. There were folks from overseas - exchange students, tourists, whatever - who were riding the wave of international dance music that was sweeping the East Coast and managing to add their own cultural flavor to an already diverse musical mix. And there were always a few weirdos, geeks, and misfits looking to fit in somehow.
And there was a killer walking among them. Actually, dancing. A killer dressed in baggy silver jeans, white New Balances, orange Oakleys, and an iridescent rayon tanktop, of all things. Phil prided himself on his ability to pass himself off as a number of different people at a number of different ages, and this was just one of many examples. And anyone who knew who he really was would find themselves rather stunned when they added breakdancing to Phil's list of skills.
At any rate, Phil found himself here, in the middle of The Barrage, breakdancing on a Friday night. He had gone a whole week without encountering any of the Colombians, and he was seriously considering giving up.
He had let Roberto Dominguez go. All this killing was really getting to him. He had gotten to a point where he was actually comortable with what he was doing, but the encounter at the Amtrak station had really thrown him.
Because it reminded him that he didn't know who he was.
Phil had thought that he could make an identity for himself by finding a task to perform and then going out and doing it. Using his special talents to find kidnapped girls and return them to their families seemed to be a worthy expenditure of his time. But rescuing kidnapped girls was one thing. Murdering their kidnappers was something entirely different. Had he been a Catholic, Phil might have sought some peace at a confessional. But Phil wasn't entirely sure what he believed anymore. In trying to silence his conscience, he felt like he had misplaced his soul.
Enough was enough.
Phil wasn't sure why he had come here. Maybe all this time out on his own had finally gotten to him. Being alone was all Phil had ever known - at least, it was all he could remember. He wanted - no, he needed - to try and live like a real person, just for tonight.
As far as he could tell, Phil was twenty years old. It was odd how he could remember how to shoot guns and steal cars and yet forget his own name and age. But all the information he had indicated that he was in fact twenty, so he decided to go where he was most likely to find a lot of people like him. And maybe that was why he was here at The Barrage.
No matter, really. The moves seemed to come naturally to him. And the people around him certainly enjoyed watching. So Phil figured he'd just try to enjoy himself for the time being.
The song ended, and Phil jumped up and headed for the bar.
"Sweet moves," the thirtyish bartender commented.
Phil nodded, catching his breath. "Thanks, man."
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked. "Something hard?"
Phil shook his head. "No thanks. I wouldn't be able to do any more of that," he said, gesturing over his shoulder at another breakdancer. He thought a moment. "I'd just like an iced tea with a little lemon for now."
The bartender nodded. Most bars didn't need to stock much soft stuff, but at most dance clubs like this, patrons were as likely to order a decaf mocha as a Jack Daniel's, so there was almost as much non-alcoholic stuff behind the bar as the usual fare. The bartender produced the tea in a tall frozen glass, with two or three lemon slices floating in it. Phil paid the guy with a five and told him to keep the change.
Three women came up to the bar next to him. "Hey, you've got some nice moves," a blonde in a micromini and halter top told him. She was tall, with a model's proportions, blue eyes, and slender dancer's legs that went on for days. She was accompanied by a short, curvy Puerto Rican girl and a slightly taller and equally busty redhead.
"Thanks," Phil said. "Glad you had fun out there, ummm..."
"Terri," the blonde said, shaking his hand. "These are my girlfriends Gabriela and Stacy." She motioned to the Puerto Rican and the redhead. "What's your name?"
Phil laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know."
The blonde stepped back, unsure of how to take that. Gabriela laughed. "The mysterious type, are you?" she said as she put a hand on Phil's shoulder. "I like that." She ordered a vodka and orange juice from the bartender. "I'm Gabi, and I'm a senior fashion design major at NYU. What do you do?"
Phil smiled. "I'm a... consultant. I'm responsible for searching for different people and putting them where they belong."
"Human resources, huh?" Gabi said. "Sounds interesting. How much do they pay you?"
Phil chuckled at the girl's openness. He whispered the answer in her ear. Gabi's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Phil grinned at her. "Not bad, huh?"
Gabriela shook her head.
Phil nodded toward the redhead. "Does she talk?"
"Stacy?"
"Yeah." Behind Phil, Terri was now flirting with a well-dressed executive type who was sipping a scotch. "She's kinda quiet, unlike your friend over there."
Gabriela smiled. "She's shy. Her boyfriend dumped her about two months ago, and it kind of threw her. She's a bit afraid of attachment."
"That's sad," Phil said. "Aren't you seeing someone?"
Gabi laughed. "Me? I wish." She looked at herself. "Check me out. I'm five foot three and I weigh one sixty six. What guy is gonna appreciate that?"
"Looks aren't everything," Phil argued. "Besides, there are a lot of men who appreciate a woman with curves. Skinny women aren't for everyone." He winked at her.
Gabi blushed. "You're racking up points right and left, you know that?"
Phil shrugged. "I just tell it like it is." He motioned to Stacy. "Hey, come here."
Stacy looked at him curiously, but walked over anyway.
Phil pointed to a tall, dark-haired man sitting by himself at the other end of the bar. "That guy over there has been staring at you for the past five minutes," he told the redhead.
"Really?" Stacy looked pleasantly surprised.
"Really," Phil reassured her. "You oughta go talk to him," he advised.
Stacy looked at Gabi. "Sounds like a good idea to me," Gabi agreed.
Stacy shrugged. "I'll give it a try." She headed over to the guy, and Gabi looked at Phil, clearly impressed.
"How did you do that?" she asked.
Phil shrugged. "I dunno. I just figured she had nothing to lose."
Gabi smiled at him. "Good call." She looked around. "You... you wanna go dance?"
Phil finished his tea and set his glass down on the bar. "Sure. Let's go."
Fourth Precinct
"Another one bites the dust," Patterson said. "But unlike the others, he held onto his souvenir."
Fisher walked over to Patterson's workstation. "Positive match?"
Patterson nodded. "Our guy keeps screwing around with the rifling, but it's pretty safe to assume that he's the only one in town right now who uses this kind of hardware." A three-dimensional image of the rifle round plucked from Victor Martinez's chest cavity appeared on Patterson's monitor. "Modified .322 rimfire cartridge, military issue sniper round. Extremely quiet round, rarely leaves much more than a muzzle signature. Very light and very accurate. Our man knows what he's doing. And I'm pretty sure he etches his rifle barrel with some sort of acid solution to alter the markings that get transferred to the round."
"Makes sense if you want to use the same gun more than once without anyone being able to match it to the separate crimes in a way that'll hold up in a court of law," Fisher commented. "But there's a drawback to that kind of a quick fix."
The ballistics expert nodded. "It wears down the barrel very slightly with each use. The gun still shoots, but there's a perceptible loss of accuracy. From reconstructions of the crime scene, we've seen that Unidentified Man has steadily reduced the distance between himself and his targets. There have been fewer and fewer long shots, and he's been positioning himself closer and closer to his victims."
"That won't last."
"I agree," Patterson concurred. "Sooner or later, Unidentified Man is gonna have to either change his rifle barrel or find another M.O."
"So what do you recommend?"
"I'm surprised you're asking me this," Patterson admitted. "I think we should give up on using the ballistics angle to try and get a handle on this guy. I'm betting he's going to switch weapons in the near future, and maybe then it'll be easier to track him down, but until then I won't be able to do you any good."
Fisher thought a moment. "You can still help."
"How's that?"
"You'll find that most people are far less reluctant to cooperate with the NYPD than the FBI. Maybe it's time you made some house calls."