Unlike the hallway, this space had obviously been upgraded. It was the size of a large corporate office, with faux-wood paneling and a conference table in the center of the room. There were twenty chairs, large phone consoles in front of each one, and a spider-phone that made external communication accessible to all participants in the room.
“What happens here?” Mike asked.
“This is where we come to figure out how to run the railroads when something else shuts them down,” Gleeson said with a laugh. “Hurricane Sandy in 2012, the great blackout in 2003. You can even go back to 9/11. It’s our command and control center, for times when things are out of control.”
“I know your trains are running today,” Rocco said. “But it’s clear we’ve got a situation here.”
“And I’m not exactly sure what that is, other than the body that was found this afternoon. I’ve been given information about this, but I’m afraid I’m not a crime buff. I don’t read the tabloids.”
“It’s our third homicide in as many days, Mr. Gleeson. Two didn’t happen here, although close by, but they’re linked to this victim because someone drew train tracks-at least, that’s what we think the design is-on each of the bodies.”
Gleeson picked up a remote control and turned from the head of the table to a wall off to the side, where eight television screens were mounted in two stacks of four each. With a single click they were on. Each one was tuned to a different channel, and all seemed to be in the middle of the evening news cycle. Five of the screens showed reporters standing somewhere within the landmarked terminal.
“I guess the news is out,” he said. “I’m a novice at this. Just holding a place while our terminal’s CEO gets a bit of a sabbatical. Tell me what you need.”
“So our first victim was found Tuesday night. Fiftieth Street, in the Waldorf Hotel,” Mike said. “A young woman who was probably drugged and kidnapped before she was murdered. No reason to connect it to Grand Central then. Now we’ve got this track thing going on-some kind of souvenir the killer leaves on their bodies, and like the girl in the railroad car downstairs, that one had her throat slit, too. Probably raped.”
Bruce Gleeson shook his head.
“Second victim is a guy. Stabbed in the back. Found up on DePew Place, right on the street, but we confirmed this morning that he lived in one of your tunnels.”
“That’s a story we don’t need to tell the reporters.”
“It’s all hanging out there by now.”
“Actually, Mr. Gleeson,” Mercer said, “the deceased didn’t seem to have anything to do with the station proper-I mean, with the terminal. By the accounts we have so far, he came and went by the Northwest Passage. He was more of a street hustler who burrowed in when he needed a place to stay.”
“So it’s this body on the private railcar that brings everything under our roof right now, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” Mercer said.
“This young woman,” Gleeson asked, “does she work in Grand Central?”
“We don’t know who she is yet. Not a whit of identification, just like the first one. We may not be able to answer that till we get her picture out in public tomorrow.”
“Do you think the killer could be an employee?” Gleeson’s fingers were nervously tapping on the table.
“Until an hour ago,” Mike said, circling the table as he talked, “we had no reason to connect this to the terminal. We don’t know whether this guy is a train buff or a conductor, a mole or a commuter. But I don’t like the direction the case is taking.”
“What direction is that?”
“Bodies getting closer to the terminal.”
“You’ve got a luxury hotel on 50th Street,” Mercer said. “The body’s found in a Tower suite, forty-five flights up in the air. Dicey because the president is due to take over that space in a few days, but it seems like the location is just a coincidence.”
Mike was running his fingers through his hair. “No such thing as coincidence.”
“Next guy is on a dead-end street. Stabbed in the back. In our business,” Mercer said to Gleeson, “there’s no reason in the world to connect him to the first victim-who turns out to be a well-educated girl from a stable family with a work history and maybe dating a bad guy.”
“Emphasis on maybe,” Mike said.
“The boyfriend didn’t like the breakup-that’s often cause for violence,” Mercer said, “and he happens to channel all his anger toward POTUS.”
“That’s a far cry from being able to organize all this shit,” Mike said.
“He fled, didn’t he?” Rocco said.
“Lousy timing, although I’m not sure he’s perp material.”
“But not just a coincidence, in your book.”
“Never is,” Mike said, shaking his head.
“Only the design of the tracks on both bodies,” Mercer said, “which we first thought was a ladder, is what connected them. I don’t think any cops would have linked the two deaths otherwise.”
Gleeson was trying to divert the crimes from his turf. “Could that be what they are? Ladders?”
“That’s what Coop thought,” Mike said. “Led us off course, like she often does. We’d all be happy if they were ladders.”
“This new case changes the whole dynamic,” Mercer said. “It happens in a railroad car that’s sitting on a platform directly adjacent to your terminal, two days before the president of the United States, who’ll be staying at the Waldorf, is due to arrive.”
“But we’ve got excellent security here,” Gleeson said, watching Mike as he did laps around the table.
“Like what?” Rocco asked.
“There’s an NYPD presence, as you know. Well armed and patrolling all parts of the terminal. There’s Metro-North police.”
“What, two hundred of them covering more than thirty stations?” Mike said. “Not exactly reassuring. Especially if you remember the midnight cowboys.”
More than a decade ago, the Metro-North police force was rocked by a scandal. Videos surfaced of officers patrolling the concourse of the great terminal on the late shift, wearing only their hats, neckties, shoes, and holsters. The building was nicknamed the Wild West. Massive firings that resulted led to the slow growth of an entirely new crop of officers.
“They’ve got K-9 units-dogs that sniff bombs and others that are trained to detect poisonous vapors. And they can bring in assault weapons if needed.”
Homeland Security had long ago designated major transportation hubs for heightened security measures. Operation Torch established teams comprised of six detectives and a dog-all trained in counterterrorism techniques-to patrol on New York City subways.
“Are they in place now?” Mike asked.
“I know they’re planning to saturate the terminal over the weekend, for the president’s arrival,” Gleeson said, counting off a list on his fingers. “Sniffers are installed all over, too.”
“You said that. Dogs.”
“No, I mean the electronic sensors. They’re called sniffers.”
“Where are they?” I asked.
“I’m sure you’ve seen those metal boxes around the concourse, and the wires dangling from some of the arches?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never noticed them.”
“That’s part of the plan,” Gleeson said. “They sniff the air for traces of poisonous gas or any kind of chemical that would signal a biological attack.”
“Someone actually monitors that?” I asked.
“No, Ms. Cooper. The sensors feed data to a computer system that runs constantly and is primed to alert security if there’s a positive result.”
“That’s happening now?” Mike asked.
Gleeson hesitated. “It’s supposed to be. I’ll have to check and get an answer for you. Occasionally the chemicals in the cleaning fluids set off the sensors, so they have to be readjusted from time to time. And we have surveillance cameras, as you know. With facial recognition capability.”