A Tale of Two Stakeouts

By Scott MacLeod

I always did love July. But Independence Day ’89 was almost too hot, in more ways than one. I had been in New York since January, so long that my white belts were back in season, theoretically. I was supposed to be on temporary assignment from the DC Metro force, but that loan was starting to look like a lost library book stuck behind the couch.

Oh sure, I had achieved some tabloid fame by solving a string of holiday-themed murders. You know like the laid off City Parks worker who terrorized Flushing from Ash to Rose Avenue on Arbor Day.

But that notoriety spawned a parade of copycat psychos trying to stump my unit with clues about their impending calendar-themed killings. We had to take each one seriously.

That July, the initial warning note showed up at HQ on my desk on the first:

“It’s almost The National Celebration. Your next clue can be found at a park known for college students and dopers but which celebrates the embodiment of our great nation.”

Had to be Washington Square Park, right? Just off NYU. What symbolizes the good old US of A more than old Wooden Teeth himself.

At the park taped to the famous arch with its Washington sculptures was a small envelope striped red, white, and blue. Inside it read:

 “Well done. Now watch out for some real fireworks close by the famous Bartholdi statue on our nation’s special day.”

Well, that was it. Everybody knew the most famous Bartholdi carving, gifted to the US by our French brothers to celebrate our one hundredth birthday. The Lady with the Lamp herself—the Statue of Liberty.

We immediately shut down the fireworks show on the East River. Closed off Liberty Island. Basically, destroyed the Fourth holiday. Sent half the station house to watch and wait. And found…. nothing. Talk about a damp squib. It was a black eye I thought I might not recover from.

I was drowning my sorrows on July 5^th at the Blarney Stone by the precinct, when I felt the need for a deep-fried diversion. My cardiologist was probably in the Hamptons for the holiday, so what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I stopped by the closest option for greasy delights right next door, Nathan’s Famous. The iconic purveyors of griddle dogs of course, but to the salt and lard connoisseur they were also known for their fries. And that’s when it hit me. Fries. As in French! Sacrebleu! I’d been barking up the wrong red, white, and blue flag.

I called my right-hand partner, Detective Lance, at home, ordering him to step away from his barbecue and get to the office. There I laid it all out for him.

The first tip pointed to Washington Square Park but had nothing to do with old Mr. I-Cannot-Tell-a-Lie. In our hurry to chase clues, we failed to notice that the very structure that held the envelope, the famous arch, was a replica of and homage to the famed Arc de Triomphe in Paris. To our madman that park represented Mother France, not America.

And the Bartholdi we should have been worried about was not Lady Liberty but rather one of the artist’s lesser-known works—the statue of General Lafayette in Union Square. One of the sculptor’s B-sides to be sure but more meaningful, at least to a Gallic lunatic.

Lance nodded along. “But what does any of this have to do with the Fourth?”

I connected the dots. “Well, mon frere, it’s a matter of perspective. America is not the only world power with a patriotic anniversary on a sweltering summer day. In Paris the annual fireworks go off not on the Fourth of July but on July 14, Bastille Day. That’s the date we should have been worried about.”

Made perfect sense. The French do not have a spirit of ’76. They honor a revolt from 1789. So, this was in some sense their bicentennial to boot. Some psycho was looking to really light the candle to celebrate.

You might know the rest. We set up a round-the-clock watch on Union Square Park, and late on the night of the thirteenth, we apprehended a Parisian perp at the statue with a brick of TNT as big as a baguette, enough to send the Marquis into orbit.

Reputation redeemed, or at least salvaged. All thanks to a carton of piping hot crinkle cuts. Too bad the French don’t apply their artistry with the bubbly to a light beer. I might have popped the cork on one or two in their honor that night. Instead, I went with the venerable red, white, and blue of PBR.

Vive la NYPD.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared in Punk Noir, Every Day Fiction, Bristol Noir, Coffin Bell, 10 by 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Short-Story.Me, and Gumshoe Review, with more forthcoming.

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