Summer of Fear

By Christopher McGarry

Meet Antonio Guardini: veteran NYPD homicide detective, devoted husband and father, devout Roman Catholic and prolife activist. A mysterious killer who believes he is receiving orders from God begins targeting abortion doctors in New York City. Antonio and six other detectives are assigned to a task force to investigate the murders. Caught in a moral dilemma, Antonio is forced to temporarily place his personal convictions aside in order to catch the murderer, who is closer to him than he could ever imagine…

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateSpace
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502348821

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 2013.

It had the effect of being trapped in a steam room. The smothering central Atlantic humidity that slowed downed the pace of life from Boston to northern Virginia during July and August. Only this year the stifling mugginess arrived in late May. And by the looks of things it was here to stay. Though the year for New York City’s large public school system officially didn’t end for another three weeks, the pre-summer heatwave forced the early opening of local swimming pools and beaches. With temperatures reaching 105 in the shade, businesses that sold air conditioning units were experiencing a miniboom. Excessive use of electricity was already putting tremendous strain on New York’s power grid.

Dozens of smiling residents and street vendors took little notice of the towering man walking amongst them. He stood at 6’5 with the physique of a twenty-five-year-old NBA point guard. His face was obscured by a semi-cropped beard. His eyes lurked behind dark shades. Underneath the light beige jacket he wore, a river of sweat poured freely through his back, chest and armpits. In his hand was a briefcase, not the type carried by the Wall Street barons but rather a low- level, perhaps even somewhat shady businessman.

The tall, unsettling-looking stranger stood on the corner of Ellis and Jefferson streets in Washington Heights, which straddled the border between northern Manhattan Island and the South Bronx. As far as the eye could see were hip, attractive apartment buildings with shining black, wrought – iron balconies and fire escapes as well as colorful storefronts.

This massive refurbishment of what had been for years a rundown, crime-ridden neighborhood had taken place over the past few decades. While the Tall Man waited to cross the street, a cluster of children and preteens screamed joyfully as they frolicked in the refreshingly cold water that spewed liberally from a fire hydrant. Not one of the local denizens could even fathom the storms that were brewing in his mind. And at this exact moment, his entire concentration was on the mission the Lord had commanded him to carry out.

*****

It certainly hit the spot. He would argue this point with anyone: his wife made the best Matzah ball soup. Every speck of her cooking he savored. Abraham Rabinovitch sat inside the lunchroom of All Women Health Clinic. Since coming into work at 8:30 a.m., the 69-year-old abortion doctor had performed seven procedures with very little downtime in between. With one more abortion scheduled in ten minute’s time, Rabinovitch was looking forward to putting down his tools for the day. After finishing his afternoon snack, Rabinovitch went into an adjacent washroom and ran the water until it was cold. He dabbed at his clammy, flush face. The high cheekbones, conspicuous hooked nose and dark-chestnut brown eyes had been inherited from several generations of Eastern European Ashkenazi Jews.

The fifth child of Polish shopkeepers who’d settled in Manhattan’s Lower East Side in the years directly preceding World War II, Rabinovitch had had the good fortune of being able to receive a university education. The general practitioner concluded his studies at Mount Sinai Medical School in the late 1960s. This was during the height of a grandiose though wildly turbulent social revolution whose goal was to shake the very foundations of America’s traditional morals and values to its very core.

In age, Rabinovitch was from a different generation than those free-spirited hippies and flower children who rebelliously thumbed their noses at conventional society and especially White Corporate America. At the same time, he felt an unlikely kinship with them. In particular, he found himself embracing the ideals of the burgeoning women’s movement, more specifically the right for women to have access to safe abortions. Over four decades had passed since the now well-established physician had made headlines nationwide. In 1970, in defiance of New York Law, Rabinovitch opened an abortion clinic in a poor section of Brooklyn. This action earned him two years’ incarceration in a state penitentiary. Imprisonment only served to strengthen the abortion rights crusader’s resolved and upon being released, he won a precedent-setting legal battle.

His days of fighting the system far behind him, Rabinovitch, while continuing to work, was beginning to enjoy his early golden years. He lived with his wife Aviva in a charming, turn-of-the-century brownstone in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Two of the couple’s children, Hannah and Adam, lived in Washington and Miami respectively and were married with families of their own. The oldest girl, Amelia, a professor of religious studies, lived in the city. After forty-five years of marriage, the veteran physician still deeply cherished the love of his life.

Chapter 2

It was fairly quiet on the hellishly hot street outside of All Women Clinic. Located in a fairly modern one-storey brick building, the clinic stood in stark contrast to the rundown Laundromats, seedy pawn shops and corner-side convenience stores that dotted the vicinity of Liberty and Monroe streets. A feeling of revulsion reverberated through the Tall Man’s body as he looked up at the barbaric knacker’s yard of death and butchery.

Those ungodly heathens will reap God’s judgment for their iniquities," he assured himself.

He averted his eyes away from the stares of locals who hung about on the steps of crumbling red tenements. Merely being a while male in this type of ethnic enclave was enough for people to be suspicious. Not that he had any intention of sticking around once his assignment was complete. The Tall Man took a brief recon of his surroundings. Kitty corner to All Women was a convenience store/eatery called Hamid’s Deli. Four men-two black, the others Puerto Rican – stood outside of the business talking. Their faces, t-shirts and muscle shirts were soaked in sweat.

The Tall Man walked further down Liberty Street. Directly across from the clinic stood two boarded-up high-rise tenements. Upon making sure he was not attracting any unwanted attention, the former Special Ops warrior slipped into the dark, narrow, garbage-strewn alleyway separating the buildings. At the end was a semi courtyard lighted by intense afternoon sunlight.

Long, thick tuffs of grass grew out of cracks in the concrete underneath of a bent basketball net. Rusted bicycles and abandoned children’s toys lay asunder. The entire area stood as a sad testament to the fall of the once unstoppable American Dream.

The Tall Man stood in the back entranceway to 187 Liberty. He made his way inside. A horde of aggressively squeaking and squealing rats scurried in his wake as he moved along the gutted walls of a corridor littered with cigarette butts, needles and debris. He reached a stairwell and continued to the third floor. In front of him were the remains of an apartment whose living room windows faced Liberty Street. Walking through the pitiful quarters hundreds of the city’s poorest residents were once forced to exist in was a nausea-inducing experience. Rusty, dripping sinks, corroded radiators and stoves, cramped kitchens and furniture ripped to shreds by the razor-sharp teeth of rummaging vermin.

*****

The day’s final procedure had gone smoothly. Her name was Sherry. Barely twenty-one and neither financially nor emotionally ready for the rigors of motherhood. Abraham Rabinovitch locked the surgical room door. Though he made it a rule not to get involved in the personal lives of the umpteen clients who passed through the clinic’s doors in the run of a month, the grandfatherly, pleasant-faced man often saw the human face of their suffering. In his opinion, many well-meaning though misguided prolife activists failed to see this aspect of the thorny hot-button issue.

Rabinovitch walked into the reception area. Francine, the vivacious, cheery executive office assistant and Sandra, who’d worked at the clinic for almost 10 years, were catching up on the latest news and gossip.

That was undoubtedly another interesting day. Every day it gets harder to keep up. As it is, I’m no spring chicken, he said with a chuckle.

Actually Doctor, some days we have difficulty keeping up with you, Sandra said lightheartedly.

What do you have planned for this evening Dr. Rabinovitch? Francine asked. She was in the process of shutting down her desktop computer as well as the office photocopier and fax machine.

Aviva and I are going to have a nice quiet candlelit dinner at home.

Wooo, Sandra replied teasingly. Sounds romantic.

It’s long overdue. In case you’re wondering, I’m going to stick around for a few minutes just in case an unexpected emergency arises before closing time.

Chapter 3

His hands were sheathed in black leather gloves as he set the briefcase on top of the flimsy table in the apartment’s kitchen area. He unclipped the brass fasteners. Inside, encased in silvery-grey Ethafoam, were the unassembled pieces of a Remington 700 sniper rifle. Fully aware that time wasn’t on his side, the Tall Man speedily attached the rifle’s stock, barrel and flash suppressor. Next, he slid in a magazine containing five three-inch 7.62x51mm 150-grain bullets. The last detail involved screwing on the EA LT 3-9x32AO scope. Testing to determine the extent of adjustments to parallax, elevation and windage that would need to be made, the Tall Man peered through the 30-millimeter scope’s ocular lens. By his calculations, the clinic was roughly 200 across the street. He shuddered at the prospect of unexpected parallax error at the moment of delivering the fatal shot. These scopes were tough and reliable but nowhere near perfect. He glanced at his watch: 3:57. Three minutes until the unrepentant sinner got off of work.

*****

The burning, late-afternoon sun caught Rabinovitch completely off-guard. His shaky nerves begged for nicotine. For a man who had always lived a relatively clean lifestyle, a daily cigarette or two was one vice he just couldn’t part with. He took out a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. It took some fiddling with the lighter until a spark touched the butt. Very slowly, he inhaled the strong tobacco. It certainly calmed down his body after an arduous day at the grind.

*****

For somebody about to take the life of another human being, the Tall Man was miraculously calm and poised. After all, Yahweh himself had decreed that this licentious, depraved son of Satan must be put to death. Sitting half-crouched in a rusty metal chair, he rested the Remington’s bipod on the frame of the living room picture window. It afforded a bird’s-eye view. He observed his mark taking his time smoking the cigarette. He concentrated the Mil-Dot scope an inch below Rabinovitch’s solar plexus. The tiny red dot focused on his chest. The reticles exactly where they were supposed to be, the Tall Man took a series of deep, controlled breaths. His right index finger squeezed the trigger.

The initial impact was entirely overwhelming. The aging doctor’s mind could not process what was happening. It had been silent-a poisonous projective travelling 4,000 feet-per-second tore through his chest. Rabinovitch lurched violently as the bullet ricocheted wildly against his lungs, liver, kidneys and stomach like an out-of-control pinball. Francine and Sandra rushed out to help. As the bullet continued to tear his insides apart, Rabinovitch clutched at his chest. He collapsed to his knees. Desperate for air, he gasped frenziedly, his surroundings gradually slipping away from him. As Francine frantically dialled 911, her colleague tried in vain to help their dying supervisor. In one cruel final act, the 7.62 round, famously used by militaries the world over, embedded itself in the elderly man’s heart, killing him instantly.

The Tall Man quickly disassembled the sniper rifle. His ears picked up the faint whining of fast-approaching sirens. He made sure no fingerprints nor the slightest trace of powder were left behind. He moved quickly down the stairwell and out through the back entrance in which he had entered.

Chapter 4

Would this day ever end? A wave of nausea overcame Antonio Guardini’s entire body. Only two more days to go until the weekend. His tired eyes picked through the files pertaining to the six homicides he was trying to juggle all at once. The haunting photo of an attractive debutante who had been found straggled in a Manhattan hotel room stared at him from the desktop computer’s dizzying screen. In the four days since the murder, no leads had materialized nor had any witnesses come forward with information.

The 42-year-old detective rubbed the days’ worth of springy dark stubble that peppered his smooth, slightly olive face. He’d logged several hours of overtime desperately trying to solve the murder of 50-year-old Annabelle Hampton, whose family had been prominent in New York for close to a century. Three years had passed since Antonio had moved from Narcotics to Homicide. Police work was draining-mentally, physically as well as emotionally. Though there were days he felt like throwing in the towel, being a cop was simply too embedded into this DNA.

The Guardini family’s five-generation relationship with the New York Police Department originated in the early years of the 20th Century. Salvatore Guardini, a penniless immigrant from the Naples region of Italy, arrived at Ellis Island in 1900 with his wife Maria and their children, Francesca, Julian, Theresa and Mario. For a newly-landed family who spoke little English, making a life for themselves in the crowded, disease-ridden slums of the Lower East Side was a challenge. Salvatore, who had served in the Italian army, applied for and was accepted into the NYPD.

At the time, Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, who would later become of the twenty-sixth president of the United States, was transforming the growing city’s police department into a modern professional law enforcement organization. Antonio’s grandfather, Peter, at the time a 23-year veteran, was one of only a handful of officers who had the courage to speak out publicly against rampant police corruption at the Knapp Commission in the early 1970s. His father, Danny, had retired ten years earlier with the rank of captain.

While Antonio stewed in frustration, his colleagues in the 33rd Precinct’s detective squad-Mike Robinson, Chad Henson and Paul Lewis-had their plates full with various homicide cases as well. Antonio enjoyed a stellar working relationship with the easygoing Henson and the comical, lanky Lewis. The same could not be said about Mike Robinson. The 6’2, 230-pound former high school quarterback and marine sported a hideous seventies-style porn moustache and displayed the brash persona of a pro wrestler. He also had one of the worst hair-trigger tempers Antonio had ever seen. In his opinion, loose cannons like Mike Robinson were a disgrace to the uniform.

Antonio was about to follow up on a lead when a baby-faced patrolman who appeared as though he’d just graduated from the academy rushed in.

There’s been a murder, the rookie exclaimed. On the corner of Liberty and Monroe.

Antonio got up from his desk. Wednesday nights were generally a quiet affair, even in this area of New York.

There are more than enough gangbangers in that part of town, Lewis commented. Hear the Street Kings and Wild Deuces are at it again.

I don’t know Detective, the rookie said. All I do know is that some elderly guy was shot in front of an abortion clinic.

Interesting, Antonio thought to himself. Antiabortion violence seemed to be on the wane over the past decade or so. If that’s even what had happened.

Isn’t this just dandy? Robinson grumbled as he took a .45 9mm handgun out of his desk and placed it in the shoulder holster he wore over his white dressy shirt. Another stiff to add to our already overwhelming workload.

Antonio looked over at Lewis and Henson.

Mike and I will get this one guys.

Thanks Antonio, Henson replied.

*****

The front wheels of the unmarked Sedan drove into a parallel parking spot on Monroe Street twenty meters from All Women Health Clinic. Antonio and Robinson hopped out. Crime scene investigators stood around the body of a man in his early seventies taking photographs from various angles and collecting fingerprints. As they approached the yellow police tape that cordoned off the murder scene, Antonio gazed upon the victim’s listless eyes, which appeared to stare straight up at the azure, blazing-hot late-afternoon sun. Brian Sampson, an investigator from the NYPD’s Crime Scene Investigation Unit whom Antonio thought he might have met somewhere before, came up to them.

The victim’s name is Doctor Abraham Rabinovitch, Sampson explained. He worked at the clinic here.

Robinson closely observed the sizable splatter of blood surrounding the exact spot where the 7.62 round had entered Rabinovitch’s chest.

Judging by the size of that hole, it’s very safe to say somebody didn’t walk up and plug him, Robinson stated. He took note of the two high-rise tenements across the street. I’m willing to bet the killer was situated in one of those condemned buildings when he sent Dr. Rabinovitch here into the next world, the former marine scout sniper said.

Then this murder was most likely planned, Antonio alleged.

Antonio walked over to where two uniformed officers stood getting information from Sandra and Francine. Abraham Rabinovitch. Where had he heard that name before? Then, all of a sudden it dawned on him: this was the Abraham Rabinovitch encased in a chalk outline back there. Back in the late 1970s/early 1980s, when Antonio was growing up in Queens, Rabinovitch had been almost as much of a household name