“I could use Nadine Furst—for media spin, for research.”
He hesitated only a moment. “Tread carefully, but do what you feel needs doing. You’d be wise to coordinate with Kyung.”
She nodded, and thought: Not an asshole. “Roarke. If he’s available.”
“Without question, and with appreciation from the department.”
“Commander, if I’m on track, and Officer Russo or one of the other victims is connected to Michaelson—because it damn well has to be Michaelson, someway, somehow—this isn’t over. It can’t just be two. It’s some sort of mission, and their connection will connect with someone else. Someone will know one of the shooters. Someone will recognize them. I need Yancy’s sketches four-walled. You can push it out everywhere.”
“Believe me, when we have those faces?” He once again glanced up at the jumbo screens, now unprecedentedly blank. “They’ll be everywhere.”
“They might dive into a hole once that happens. But the hole won’t be deep enough.” She looked around at the four bodies, curtained now from the gawkers. “I swear it won’t be deep enough. Excuse me, sir, Morris is here. I need to speak with him.”
As she walked away, Whitney stepped over to the fallen officer, pulled off the NYPSD lapel pin he wore, and laid it—reverently—on the shielded body.
7
Morris’s topcoat flapped as he stood over the body of the first victim. He pulled a can of Seal-It out of his own field kit, lifting his gaze to Eve as he coated his ungloved hands.
“I’ll take them in order. Do you know if this is how and where she fell?”
“The bodies and the scene have been compromised.” She stopped, shook her head. “Compromised, hell. They’re FUBAR. I’ve called for any and all security feeds so we can reconstruct. The crowd panicked, and some, including at least some of the DBs, were trampled.”
“An attack here?” He pulled gauges out of his kit. “We’re lucky it isn’t worse.”
At the moment, Eve didn’t want to think about worse. “ID’d as Fern Addison, age eighty-six. She was hit first, then the boy—Nathaniel Jarvits, age seventeen; then Officer Russo; then the male, David Chang, age thirty-nine. Another was hit, but survived—so far—she’s in surgery.
“Four out of five then,” Morris murmured, kneeling down by the body. “You’ve done your on-site on her?”
“Yes, all of them. We have TOD on all of them. You can verify.”
“In this case, I will. It’s best to be thorough.” He arranged his gauges, engaged his recorder, and began. “Mid-body, deadly force. TOD thirteen-twenty-one. I can tell you more once I have her in my house. From this cursory examination, I’d say she was gone before she hit the ground.”
He signaled to the morgue team. “They can be bagged, tagged, transported as we go.”
Rising, he moved to the second victim. “Seventeen, you said.”
“Yeah, seventeen. Today.”
“Ah, Christ, life can be so cruel. Parents?”
“Yes, and a sibling. He was airboarding with friends, took the strike in the back, and—similar to Ellissa Wyman—the force and his own momentum propelled him forward into a group of pedestrians. Minor injuries, treated or being treated on scene.”
“Mid-back, again from this on-site, similar to Ellissa Wyman.”
Still he verified TOD.
“According to his partner, Officer Russo attempted to shield the boy, shouted for people to take cover. He was struck seconds later—at least according to my TOD results, he died seconds after the boy.”
Once again Morris looked up, looked around. “You’ve contained this area quickly.”
“Not quickly enough.” She crouched beside him, decided she didn’t give a rat’s ass about the official record. “They had me and the victims on the goddamn jumbo screens. This kid’s mother or father? They may see that replayed before we can notify them. I had to give that to Peabody.”
Understanding, he touched her hand briefly, then rose to go to the fallen officer.
“He’s young, too.”
“Twenty-three.”