detested the idea of sirens always blaring in the city, saying it put crime and accidents at the forefront of everyone’s minds – while he tried to navigate his way through heavy traffic.
He’d been called out on an emergency.
A mass shooting, they’d said.
It was the cops of the 25th precinct who’d contacted him. An unidentified individual had opened fire in the middle of a high school, less than half an hour earlier. Homicide. Harlem. A sensitive situation. This was the kind of tragic scenario that called for Lamar Gallineo.
The sky was barely light when he arrived in front of the school, which was cordoned off with yellow police tape and bathed in the red and blue of the emergency lights. Two police officers immediately came over to meet him as TV vans drew up with a screeching of tyres outside the building.
‘Over here, Detective, come inside,’ said the first officer, who was squeezed into a uniform that could barely contain his impressive paunch. ‘The most seriously injured have been taken away in ambulances, the rest are being treated in the classrooms. We’ve started taking witness statements.’
‘Are you sure the shooter isn’t still in there?’ demanded Lamar in his deep baritone.
‘We know where he is,’ replied the second police officer sharply.
Lamar frowned, surprised not to see more activity. If the gunman was still in the building, they would have to organise a complete evacuation, and a SWAT team would first have to seal off all the exits.
‘Is that it?’ pursued Lamar. ‘You know where he is – what does that mean? Is he still here?’
‘Yes. We’ve been told he went into a room on the first floor and didn’t come out again.’
‘How can you be sure? Is there a camera trained on the door?’
Lamar was hurrying now, more and more anxious at the thought that an armed psychopath might be holed up in a high school still full of students.
‘It’s a janitor’s closet and it only opens from the outside,’ explained the officer. ‘And witnesses say they saw the shooter go inside. Then it went quiet for a minute or two before the gun was fired again, and then it was over.’
They’d arrived at the school entrance where firefighters and paramedics were going in and out of the swing doors.
‘Have you been inside to take a look?’ asked Lamar, one hand on the door.
The two officers exchanged a brief embarrassed look. ‘No,’ replied the man with the large belly. ‘We thought we’d better wait for you.’
Lamar pursed his lips. ‘I see.’
He reached for his weapon and entered the building. He heard moaning and crying.
There were dozens of figures in the hall, sitting on the floor, lying down or huddled up receiving medical attention or answering the questions of the six or so police officers who had responded to the emergency call.
Lamar made for the large wooden staircase opposite the entrance.
The landing on the way up to the first floor was used fordisplaying student notices. A crimson sun about three feet in diameter had exploded over the area. Its core consisted of little particles of molten brain that now stuck to the board, and its rays were made of blood, glistening in the harsh light. The linoleum was also streaked with swirls of blood that stretched towards the stairs where pools stagnated, dripping softly.
A beige blanket covered a body. A hand was sticking out.
A hand with short stubby fingers and several rings. And varnished nails.
Lamar stepped over the body, his Walther P99 at the ready, the two police officers at his heels. They climbed the remaining stairs and found themselves in a long corridor with classrooms leading off it.
There was a lot of blood all over the floor, and panicked teenagers and teachers had skated in it, spreading macabre flower patterns as far as the stairs.
Lamar immediately noticed the three bodies. Two boys and an adult.
Most of their body fluids pooled around them, still warm.
The black man looked at them
He’d been called out on an emergency.
A mass shooting, they’d said.
It was the cops of the 25th precinct who’d contacted him. An unidentified individual had opened fire in the middle of a high school, less than half an hour earlier. Homicide. Harlem. A sensitive situation. This was the kind of tragic scenario that called for Lamar Gallineo.
The sky was barely light when he arrived in front of the school, which was cordoned off with yellow police tape and bathed in the red and blue of the emergency lights. Two police officers immediately came over to meet him as TV vans drew up with a screeching of tyres outside the building.
‘Over here, Detective, come inside,’ said the first officer, who was squeezed into a uniform that could barely contain his impressive paunch. ‘The most seriously injured have been taken away in ambulances, the rest are being treated in the classrooms. We’ve started taking witness statements.’
‘Are you sure the shooter isn’t still in there?’ demanded Lamar in his deep baritone.
‘We know where he is,’ replied the second police officer sharply.
Lamar frowned, surprised not to see more activity. If the gunman was still in the building, they would have to organise a complete evacuation, and a SWAT team would first have to seal off all the exits.
‘Is that it?’ pursued Lamar. ‘You know where he is – what does that mean? Is he still here?’
‘Yes. We’ve been told he went into a room on the first floor and didn’t come out again.’
‘How can you be sure? Is there a camera trained on the door?’
Lamar was hurrying now, more and more anxious at the thought that an armed psychopath might be holed up in a high school still full of students.
‘It’s a janitor’s closet and it only opens from the outside,’ explained the officer. ‘And witnesses say they saw the shooter go inside. Then it went quiet for a minute or two before the gun was fired again, and then it was over.’
They’d arrived at the school entrance where firefighters and paramedics were going in and out of the swing doors.
‘Have you been inside to take a look?’ asked Lamar, one hand on the door.
The two officers exchanged a brief embarrassed look. ‘No,’ replied the man with the large belly. ‘We thought we’d better wait for you.’
Lamar pursed his lips. ‘I see.’
He reached for his weapon and entered the building. He heard moaning and crying.
There were dozens of figures in the hall, sitting on the floor, lying down or huddled up receiving medical attention or answering the questions of the six or so police officers who had responded to the emergency call.
Lamar made for the large wooden staircase opposite the entrance.
The landing on the way up to the first floor was used fordisplaying student notices. A crimson sun about three feet in diameter had exploded over the area. Its core consisted of little particles of molten brain that now stuck to the board, and its rays were made of blood, glistening in the harsh light. The linoleum was also streaked with swirls of blood that stretched towards the stairs where pools stagnated, dripping softly.
A beige blanket covered a body. A hand was sticking out.
A hand with short stubby fingers and several rings. And varnished nails.
Lamar stepped over the body, his Walther P99 at the ready, the two police officers at his heels. They climbed the remaining stairs and found themselves in a long corridor with classrooms leading off it.
There was a lot of blood all over the floor, and panicked teenagers and teachers had skated in it, spreading macabre flower patterns as far as the stairs.
Lamar immediately noticed the three bodies. Two boys and an adult.
Most of their body fluids pooled around them, still warm.
The black man looked at them
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