TEN

FIFTEEN minutes later, feeling helpless and useless, I was pacing the hospital break room with the nurse’s words still echoing in my ears.

“Friendship has no legal status . . .”

She wasn’t wrong, and I didn’t blame her. But, like a badly aimed bullet, the statement continued to ricochet inside me, hurting me for reasons I didn’t want to face.

When the sketch artist finally arrived, I was grateful for something new to focus on besides my fears and worries.

All right, I thought, here’s something concrete to do. A way to help!

Not that Sergeant Barry Sitko was similarly motivated—at least not outwardly. The sergeant looked more like an absentminded academic than most law enforcement officers I’d encountered.

For starters, he wore lenses so thick I couldn’t understand how he’d passed the Police Academy vision exam. He’d totally forgotten to shave—for several days, apparently—and his graying hair hadn’t seen a comb since he’d tumbled out of bed. Sitko’s shield was buffed and shiny, but his blue uniform was rumpled and lightly dusted with powdered sugar, no doubt from a donut he’d grabbed on the way to our meeting.

As he introduced himself, he set a chair mere inches in front of me, and set down his backpack. When he took a seat, he produced a computer tablet.

“First, I need to know if you got a good look at the suspect’s face. Could you determine sex, age, and race?”

“I was crouched behind a parked car to stay hidden, and I didn’t glimpse him long, but I could tell the shooter was well-built with muscular arms, lean legs, and a strong-looking chest. He moved quickly and gracefully—like a cat. As for his face, he was wearing a mask.”

“Then I needn’t have dragged this along.” Sitko set aside the tablet. “And I don’t have to ask my next question, either.”

“What’s that?”

“If the person resembled someone famous, a celebrity, an actor, a sports figure, or a rock star.”

“He did resemble someone famous. I recognized him instantly. It was Panther Man.” When a lengthy pause ensued, I took a breath. “I know. You think I’m crazy, right?”

Sitko shook his head. “If anyone’s crazy, it’s the person running around dressed as the Caped Cat and shooting police officers.”

“So you believe me. This isn’t a waste of time?”

“It’s the exact opposite, Ms. Cosi.”

Sitko reached into the bag and pulled out an old-fashioned sketchbook and some pencils. “Why don’t we draw a picture together. You tell me everything you remember from when you spotted this person until they fled the scene. I’ll put pencil to paper and come up with a portrait . . .”

Ten minutes later, we both stared at the results.

“Yeah,” Sitko said. “That’s Panther Man. Too bad you didn’t see his face. We could have narrowed it down to Adam West, Michael Keaton, Matt Affleck, that Aussie bloke, or any of the other actors who’d played the role over the past forty years.”

“Ben. It’s Ben Affleck.”

“Your Panther Man looked like Ben Affleck?”

“No, I told you. I never saw his face. And making fun of me won’t help us find the shooter any faster.”

“I wasn’t making fun. If this person is a maniac, he likely has some kind of obsession with aspects of Panther Man, the same way the Colorado movie theater shooter immersed himself in the Batman universe before portraying himself as one of its characters.”

The sergeant sat back in his chair. “You know it’s possible that you didn’t see Panther Man, either. What if you misinterpreted what you witnessed?”

He ripped his first sketch out of the pad and tossed it into the shallow wastepaper basket. Then he gripped the pencil. “We’ll start again. First, let’s talk about this cape business—”

“I saw a dark cape.”

“Was it ribbed, like Panther Man’s?”

“No, now that you mention it.”

“It looked cheap?”

“The material did seem a bit flimsy . . . by the way it fluttered—” I paused, suddenly remembering Matt’s drenched state when he first arrived at the Village Blend. “It rained this morning. A real downpour.”

Sitko nodded. “And?”

“And, well . . . I suppose, in theory, what I could have seen was some kind of rain cape or poncho, even a garbage bag the shooter wrapped around himself to keep dry.”

Sergeant Sitko nodded enthusiastically, and then frowned. “Now what about those ears?”

“He really was wearing a Panther Man mask, Sergeant.”

“Then I’d say that fellow who poses as the Caped Cat in Times Square had better have a good alibi.”

He began sketching again. The next portrait he showed me was still not right. “You moved the pointy ears down, to where human ears normally are—”

“I actually drew noise suppressors. These devices are used in conjunction with the type of high-powered rifle you saw over the perp’s shoulder.”

“That makes rational sense. But that’s not what I saw. The long, pointed ears were sticking up, like a cat’s, out of the top of his head.”

Sitko sketched again, and showed me the result.

“That’s him.”

Quinn entered just then, and I forgot everything else.

“Mike! How’s Sully?”

“Stable, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. The doctor is hopeful, but he lost a lot of blood, so . . .”

I took a shaky breath. “Poor Fran.”

“Her plane just landed at LaGuardia. A police escort is rushing her here.”

Quinn faced the other man. “So, Barry, how did she do?”

“Great.”

“He’s being kind,” I said. “I wasn’t any help at all.”

“On the contrary. You were enormous help. Because of you, we know the shooter’s location, where we can look for forensic evidence. We know the shooter has the build of a strong man with lean legs, muscular arms, and a built-up chest, and we know he’s athletic enough to rappel down a rope from the top of a building.” Sitko paused, then shrugged. “And we know he was wearing a Panther Man mask.”

He showed Quinn the sketch and they both shook their heads.

“If the press gets wind of this, we’re in for a citywide circus.” Quinn frowned at the door. “Reporters are already swarming outside. They know a sketch artist was consulted. With the police commissioner arriving any minute, I think it’s best if I get you both out of here.”