room.
“Chief?” he heard Hilton call out urgently.
“Bedroom is clear.” Marelli did not broadcast his intention to check the bathroom. As he continued across the room he heard his men close in behind him; one after another. Pomerantz swept the right side of the room; Hilton covered the left. Marelli stopped at the bathroom door. It was open a crack. He used his left foot to swing it the rest of the way and led with his gun. Nothing. Pushing aside the shower curtain he reluctantly and gratefully called out another, “Clear!” Another fifteen seconds had elapsed.
“Don’t touch anything,” Marelli said as he re-entered the bedroom. Hilton had already checked the closets. “Holy shit. This guy’s fast,” he said to himself more than his men. Then he told Hilton, “Seal the building! He could be anywhere.” Marelli realized nervous sweat had soaked his shirt. “We’re going room by room.”
Hilton nodded and left.
Marelli bent over the assault rifle. Practical, he thought, still not recognizing the exact model. Slick. The shooter’s no crazed wacko. We’ve got a real pro on our hands.
Marelli clicked his radio again, calling his dispatcher a few blocks down Warren Street. “Pam, get Velz to shut down the Rip Van Winkle.” That was the bridge which spanned the Hudson River between Hudson and Catskill. “And I want squad cars to seal the city. Route 9 North at Fairview. 9 South at the old Price farm. 9G at the base of Mount Marino. Route 66 at Greenport School. 23B at the Cement Factory. Copy?”
“Copy, Chief.”
“Fast. Then get me the FBI in Albany!”
“What’s going on? All hell’s breaking loose on the street.”
Marelli didn’t explain. “Just do it!” Then to Pomerantz he said, “You stay here. No one comes in unless authorized by me. And only me.”
With that Marelli was out the door. He took the stairs in a bounding leap. A crowd was growing in the lobby, peering out the windows at the horrifying scene outside. “Listen up, everyone. No one leaves. No one!” he stated to the dozen or more people. Marelli called his officers to guard the doors; two in the front; another along the side entrance.
“Has anyone gone out this door since the shooting?” he yelled.
“No, no, I didn’t see anyone,” a waitress volunteered through her sobbing.
“Me either,” said a father holding his young boy. “We’ve all stayed inside.”
Next Marelli ran to the check-in desk at the back of the hotel off the main parking lot entrance.
It was unmanned. “Fuck me,” he exclaimed. He’s gotten away.
“Chief, this is Pam, over.” The voice came crackling from his radio.
“Marelli. Go.”
“I have the FBI for you. I’ll patch them through.” It had only been four minutes since the shooting.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “The shit’s gonna hit the fan.”
“I want everyone’s identification out now,” Marelli demanded in the lobby. “If you don’t have it with you, officers will accompany you to your room to get it. You cannot leave without permission. And everyone remains in plain view.” Marelli’s orders came automatically now, but he knew he was too late. Because of the excitement over Congressman Lodge’s speech, none of the hotel staff had covered the main desk and entrance. The gunman had ample opportunity for an unobserved exit. Still he had to question everyone. No doubt the FBI would go through it again when they arrived.
In the meantime, someone might provide worthwhile information. He’d start with the identity of the man in Room 301. “Anne?” he called out through the lobby. Anne Fornado was the hotel manager. She’d have the information in a second.
With six other Hudson police officers now on site, the rooms were searched and all the guests were ushered in the lobby. Marelli divided his men up and began asking a series of pointed questions. “Who are you? What room were you in? Where were you during the shooting? What did you
“Chief?” he heard Hilton call out urgently.
“Bedroom is clear.” Marelli did not broadcast his intention to check the bathroom. As he continued across the room he heard his men close in behind him; one after another. Pomerantz swept the right side of the room; Hilton covered the left. Marelli stopped at the bathroom door. It was open a crack. He used his left foot to swing it the rest of the way and led with his gun. Nothing. Pushing aside the shower curtain he reluctantly and gratefully called out another, “Clear!” Another fifteen seconds had elapsed.
“Don’t touch anything,” Marelli said as he re-entered the bedroom. Hilton had already checked the closets. “Holy shit. This guy’s fast,” he said to himself more than his men. Then he told Hilton, “Seal the building! He could be anywhere.” Marelli realized nervous sweat had soaked his shirt. “We’re going room by room.”
Hilton nodded and left.
Marelli bent over the assault rifle. Practical, he thought, still not recognizing the exact model. Slick. The shooter’s no crazed wacko. We’ve got a real pro on our hands.
Marelli clicked his radio again, calling his dispatcher a few blocks down Warren Street. “Pam, get Velz to shut down the Rip Van Winkle.” That was the bridge which spanned the Hudson River between Hudson and Catskill. “And I want squad cars to seal the city. Route 9 North at Fairview. 9 South at the old Price farm. 9G at the base of Mount Marino. Route 66 at Greenport School. 23B at the Cement Factory. Copy?”
“Copy, Chief.”
“Fast. Then get me the FBI in Albany!”
“What’s going on? All hell’s breaking loose on the street.”
Marelli didn’t explain. “Just do it!” Then to Pomerantz he said, “You stay here. No one comes in unless authorized by me. And only me.”
With that Marelli was out the door. He took the stairs in a bounding leap. A crowd was growing in the lobby, peering out the windows at the horrifying scene outside. “Listen up, everyone. No one leaves. No one!” he stated to the dozen or more people. Marelli called his officers to guard the doors; two in the front; another along the side entrance.
“Has anyone gone out this door since the shooting?” he yelled.
“No, no, I didn’t see anyone,” a waitress volunteered through her sobbing.
“Me either,” said a father holding his young boy. “We’ve all stayed inside.”
Next Marelli ran to the check-in desk at the back of the hotel off the main parking lot entrance.
It was unmanned. “Fuck me,” he exclaimed. He’s gotten away.
“Chief, this is Pam, over.” The voice came crackling from his radio.
“Marelli. Go.”
“I have the FBI for you. I’ll patch them through.” It had only been four minutes since the shooting.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “The shit’s gonna hit the fan.”
“I want everyone’s identification out now,” Marelli demanded in the lobby. “If you don’t have it with you, officers will accompany you to your room to get it. You cannot leave without permission. And everyone remains in plain view.” Marelli’s orders came automatically now, but he knew he was too late. Because of the excitement over Congressman Lodge’s speech, none of the hotel staff had covered the main desk and entrance. The gunman had ample opportunity for an unobserved exit. Still he had to question everyone. No doubt the FBI would go through it again when they arrived.
In the meantime, someone might provide worthwhile information. He’d start with the identity of the man in Room 301. “Anne?” he called out through the lobby. Anne Fornado was the hotel manager. She’d have the information in a second.
With six other Hudson police officers now on site, the rooms were searched and all the guests were ushered in the lobby. Marelli divided his men up and began asking a series of pointed questions. “Who are you? What room were you in? Where were you during the shooting? What did you
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