casually and seems the picture of comfort, a far cry from the agony of confinement behind bars.
Moments later the front door opens, and he comes out on his porch to greet me. As I walk toward his house, I hear what seems like a small clap of thunder from behind me and to the right. I turn but don’t see anything, then look back toward the porch.
Daniel is still standing there, but he no longer has a face. It has been replaced by a bloody mask, and I watch, transfixed, as he slowly topples over onto a small table and then to the floor.
It takes my mind a split second to process what has happened, and I realize that a shot must have been fired from the wooded area behind me and across the street. I dive behind Daniel’s car, parked in his driveway, and try to peer into the trees. It’s getting dark, but I doubt that I would be able to see anyone even if it were broad daylight.
In my panic I briefly consider trying to make it to those woods, in the hope of at least getting a look at the shooter, but it seems futile. If he has taken off, he’s had plenty of time by now, and I won’t be able to catch him. If he’s still there, I’ll be a sitting duck and his next victim. My logical decision to stay put does not have to overcome any latent heroic streak residing inside me, so I stick with it.
It is unlikely anyone in this sparsely populated area saw or heard anything, so I am going to have to make the next move, whatever that move might be. Staying low and under cover as best I can, I make it to the porch to check on Daniel’s condition. It doesn’t take a physician to know that he is dead; it is one of the most horrible sights I have ever seen.
The door to the house remains open, and I decide to go inside to get out of the possible line of fire. I make a break for the door and half dive, half trip into the foyer, sprawling on my stomach. It’s not pretty, but unfortunately, no one around is alive to see it.
I find a portable phone and call 911, reporting the crime and making sure they alert Captain Millen. As I do this, I occasionally peek out the front window, though there is no sign of the shooter. Clearly, Daniel was the sole target; if the killer wanted to get two for the price of one, I was an open target as I approached the house.
The next thought to enter my stressed-out mind is that Vince must be told that his son is dead. I consider the possible ways to do this, and none seem right. I don’t want him to hear it from the media or from the police, and it doesn’t feel right to tell him over the phone, certainly not from here.
Instead, I call Laurie, and fortunately, she hasn’t gone to Charlie’s yet. “Laurie, it’s me. Something terrible has happened.”
I go on to describe my situation, and I’m not two sentences in before she’s yelling at me to “stay down.” I tell her that the shooter has gone, that there’s no longer anything to worry about, but she keeps saying it, until I sit down on the floor to continue the conversation.
I bring up the subject of Vince, and she immediately says, “I’ll tell him.” I mention that Vince is usually still in his office at this time of day, but she cuts me off, telling me not to worry. “I’ll find him and I’ll tell him,” she says. “You just be careful. And call me as soon as the police get there.”
At that moment sirens can be heard in the background, so I peek out the window. “They’re here. Thanks.”
By the time I get outside, the street is filled with police cars, ambulances, and every flashing light in New Jersey. Patrolmen, with guns drawn, approach the house and order me to lie down with my hands outstretched. I let them search me, all the while identifying myself and telling them that I’m the one who called 911. In answer to their questions, I describe how this happened and where I think the shot came from.
I’m brought back into the house and led into a den near the back. As I go, I see medics rushing to attend to Daniel.