MANHATTAN – THE PRESENT
The old man didn’t deserve what happened.
Down around Piers 34 to 44 on the southern end of the island, there are still some old warehouses and fish markets, just a few blocks from Broadway and Wall Street. These sheds have probably escaped redevelopment because of the elevated highway running overhead. If anyone dared to attempt a remake of On the Waterfront, this location could be their set.
In his empty factory building, Abdel Moamer had nothing much to do, so he decided to start lunch early. While he was unfolding the greaseproof paper, which his wife had carefully wrapped around his sandwich that morning, a gun appeared around his office door.
‘Get the fuck out of my office, you bastard. I’m too old to be frightened by your type,’ snarled Abdel Moamer.
His visitor’s response was to point the Colt 45 at the old man’s face.
‘You’re mad. What do you want? I’m calling the cops.’ Abdel made a defiant grab for the telephone, but the gunman chopped his hand down on his thin arm, almost breaking it.
‘Aaargh, you shit!’ The old man winced in pain and doubled up, cradling his arm.
‘Such a pity, Abdel. I do not want to cause you unnecessary pain. Get up now and walk out to the factory floor,’ said the stranger in a low, cultured voice. Abdel Moamer raised himself slowly out of his chair, wincing as he heard a crack from his artificial hip.
‘Abdel, quickly please,’ said the man, waggling his gun.
Abdel Moamer assessed his options. Unfortunately, it had been many years since anyone else had worked in this place. There was no one here to help him now.
‘Turn around,’ came the calm voice from behind as he reached the factory floor.
The old man turned. For a second he thought of his beloved wife, Nina, singing as she cooked in their cosy kitchen at home. Would she be all right?
The gunman pulled the trigger and a .45 bullet crashed through Abdel Moamer’s forehead at approximately 1,500 m.p.h. It exploded out the back of his skull, spraying a large chunk of Abdel’s brain onto the steel vat behind him. His body crumpled backwards, falling partially under the steel container. A pool of bright crimson spread across the white tiles. His executioner bent to remove his victim’s wallet and Rolex watch.
In Abdel Moamer’s office he pulled open the desk drawers and threw a few handfuls of files and documents onto the floor. He then walked back around the pool of blood, pushed open a fire exit in the side wall, closed it behind him and strolled down South Street. He put his leather gloves into his coat pocket as he melted among the pedestrians on Market Street, making sure to avoid the traffic cameras on Manhattan Bridge.
*
When the call came over the radio in the unmarked Ford Crown, Detectives John Wyse and Michael Cabrini were halfway across Brooklyn Bridge, returning to the station, where Wyse had a potentially career-changing meeting scheduled with his boss. Wyse, the younger of the two, had joined the Fifth Precinct station three years previously. Last year he’d been paired up with Cabrini, whose partner had retired.
‘Pier 34, John, that’s gotta be us,’ said Cabrini, flicking on the siren and flooring the accelerator. Wyse hit the switch on the dash to activate the strobe lights in the front grille and rear window.
‘’Bout five minutes, tops,’ he advised the dispatcher. ‘Uniform’s already there,’ he told Cabrini, who was squeezing between two artics on the bridge.
‘Easy, Mike,’ he groaned and shut his eyes as the bridge narrowed and the two trucks began to close up. Cabrini dropped into second, rammed his foot down and shot through the gap. Wyse sighed and Cabrini raised his eyebrows to his pal.
‘Assertive driving, John,’ Cabrini explained, with a twinkle. ‘Everyone in Italy drives like this!’
Cabrini powered into South Street, where they could see a uniformed cop moving back a cluster of onlookers by stringing crime scene tape across the kerb. Cabrini pulled over behind the group and jabbed at the brake, causing the tyres to screech and the rubberneckers to turn around to gawp at them.
*
Thirty minutes later a routine murder investigation was underway. The late Abdel Moamer was being photographed from a variety of angles and a forensic team was dusting the office and the fire door for prints. Cabrini was in his element.
‘Looks like he went out the fire door,’ he said. He looked down at the distorted shell case in a plastic bag in his hand. ‘That’s a .45, just one shot. Make sure we get a list of any potential witnesses. And someone go round the back, pronto, and collect all the CCTV.’
‘On it,’ said one uniform, moving for the door.
‘And don’t forget the traffic cameras on the bridges. Brooklyn and the toll,’ Cabrini called after him.
‘I got it.’
Detective John Wyse glanced at his watch and cast an anxious last look at Abdel Moamer’s body. The old man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open in a futile stare. He almost appeared to be trying to read a brass plate, riveted close to the bottom of the steel vat. Manufactured in Sweden by Alfa Laval, declared the plate, through freckles of blood. Wyse noticed that the dead man wore an expensively tailored suit. Even in death, Wyse thought the man had the face of a kind grandfather. Poor guy. An instant later, his mind flicked back to his own problem.
‘Shit, Mike, I’m late for Connolly,’ he said, pointing at his wrist.
‘Yeah, okay, bud, I’ll stick with this; you go. We’ll catch up later.’
‘Okay, Mike, see ya,’ said Wyse, spinning around. ‘I’ll find a ride back.’
‘And good luck,’ called Cabrini at his buddy’s back.
*
Back on South Street at the front of the warehouse, there was still a cluster of locals hanging about, joined now by a couple of reporters and photographers. John Wyse left a voice message on Sergeant Connolly’s phone to say he was running late. He was looking around hopefully for a cab, when he got lucky. Paul Carter was coming out of the warehouse and heading for the tape.
‘Paul. Hey, Paul,’ Wyse called.
Carter turned around and waved.
‘You goin’ back towards Forty-Seventh?’
‘Yeah. Need a ride?’ replied Carter, slapping Wyse’s upturned palm with his own.
‘Sure do. I’m late for a big meet with Connolly.’
‘No problem, car’s over here.’ Paul Carter’s black 3 Series BMW was parked just a few yards down the street. Carter turned the ignition and muted the radio.
‘So, whaddya make of all that?’ he asked, inclining his head at the warehouse as he pulled out onto South Street.
Wyse shrugged, glancing at his watch again. ‘Routine one-off, I’d say, no biz for you guys.’
Paul Carter was a psychologist, one of three criminal profilers based at the NYPD’s Park Row headquarters, also in the Fifth Precinct. The profilers turned up at most of the homicides, in case they were linked to one of their investigations. Wyse knew Carter casually from drinking beers after shift, but hadn’t worked a case with him. Carter was in his early thirties with shoulder-length curly hair and an easy smile. He was one of those laidback guys who could look cool in a tuxedo or a T-shirt, without trying.
‘Yeah, I’d say you’re right, John. Looks like the old man surprised a burglar. Drug deal gone wrong maybe. No psychological profiling requirement likely.’ Carter took a left into Market Street.
Sometimes, down at Harry’s Bar, some of the older guys with a few beers on, would try and wind up Carter, mocking his profession. One memorable night Carter had finally retaliated by taking twenty dollars each from Cabrini and nine other detectives by correctly guessing seven of their ten star signs. ‘Party tricks,’ he’d winked to Wyse later. ‘Half of them are easy guesses. The other half have forgotten that they bought me a drink here on their birthdays last year – now they’re paying me to tell them their star sign!’
Wyse had laughed. He liked Carter.
‘So, what’s with this big meeting with Connolly?’ Carter asked him, carefully overtaking a delivery truck.
‘Uh, make or break,’ groaned Wyse. ‘I’ve pretty much decided to resign.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty radical – you not enjoying it?’
‘Dunno. I mean, I love the Force and all that, but it’s all becoming a bit, you know, same old.’ Carter nodded and stopped at a red on Center Street.
‘Take that homicide,’ Wyse continued, jabbing his thumb back in the direction of South Street, ‘I’ll lay any money it was some coked-up local kid. We put enough pressure on our snitches, we’ll have the guy within a month. I’m not gettin’ a buzz any more. Feel like I should be doing more.’
‘I gotcha,’ said Carter, turning right at the courthouse into Chinatown. The Fifth Precinct station was another couple of blocks ahead on the right.
Wyse kept talking. ‘Sometimes I get sick of all the violence. You know, like the whole world just seems to be getting crazier and crazier. You wonder where the hell it’s all gonna end up. When I was growing up I was taught to always do the right thing, that the good guys always win out in the end. These days I’m not so sure. There seems to be an awful lot of bad guys getting the upper hand. I mean, how the hell do you try and deal with someone who’ll walk into a concert and blow up a load of young girls? And themselves.’
Carter was shaking his head, tight-lipped. ‘I know. It’s next to impossible,’ he said. ‘Problem is, you’re fighting an idea, not a war. And, it’s almost impossible to identify the tiny percentage of people who might be radicalised. From the outside, they’re living totally westernised lives: same clothes, same dress, same lifestyle – even drinking alcohol.’
‘You’re right,’ said Wyse. ‘Hopeless. But then I think, well, what better place could I be than here, trying to do something about it?’
Carter nodded. ‘Like it’s your duty?’
‘Suppose so,’ said Wyse.
‘Can I take a punt here with ya, John?’ asked Carter.
‘Sure,’ said Wyse, puzzled.
‘Just bear with me. You got brothers and sisters?’
‘Yep, one of each,’ replied Wyse, seeing images of Jess, an architect in Malibu, and Larry, a coder in Silicon Valley.
‘Okay, well I’m going to bet that you’re the first-born, the eldest,’ said Carter. ‘Am I right?’
‘Right in one.’
‘Well, I’m guessin’ that’s why you’re unsettled. There’s a few leadership genes sparking there that ain’t gettin’ an outlet.’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘See, it goes like this. In those crucial early years, the first-born gets lavished with attention. The parents simply have more time. Then number two and number three come along and suddenly there’s less time for all the kids. But Mr First-Born had the head start, the special treatment.’
‘So, what’s all that mean?’ asked Wyse, growing interested.
‘So what happens next is, kids start growing up and playing together. But guess who’s always the boss? Guess who decides what game to play? Then guess who makes up all the rules?’
‘The first-born,’ ventured Wyse, seeing the light.
‘Exactly. So, from the time they’re a toddler, the first-born feels their own confidence and authority. And uses it.’
‘So?’
‘So, that’s probably why you joined the police. First-borns are attracted to jobs where they’re in authority. Where there’s clear rules. Like policing. And teaching.’
‘Aah, I see,’ said Wyse.
‘First-borns also tend to have a strong sense of duty,’ continued Carter, squeezing into a space on Elizabeth Street in front of the station, ‘but the bigger picture is that about eighty per cent of high achievers, the people who rise to the top leadership roles, in business, politics, you name it, are . . .’
‘First-born? No kidding.’
‘You got it, man. You’ve got some leadership genes goin’ on there and they’re not finding an outlet, cos you’re curtailed within the police force’s set way of thinking.’
Wyse nodded. It made sense.
‘It means “pathway”, you know, “leader”, in Latin,’ Carter continued. ‘Most pioneers, over-achievers, even the guys who walked on the moon, were first-born. I’d say you were born to find a new path and inspire people to take it,’ he finished, switching off the engine. ‘So, I suggest you look at something that gives you a chance to lead, take decisions and inspire others to follow you.’
‘Heavy stuff,’ said Wyse, ‘but makes sense.’ He shook Carter’s hand and headed up the steps into the station, calling over his shoulder. ‘Thanks for the advice.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Carter smiled, locking the car. ‘And John,’ Carter called after him.
‘Yeah,’ said Wyse, turning.
‘When you have kids, make sure they all feel special!’
‘I will. Thanks again,’ said Wyse, laughing, as he hurried inside to find Sergeant Connolly.