I've Got You Under My Skin

Prologue

Dr. Greg Moran was pushing three-year-old Timmy on the swing in the playground on East Fifteenth Street in Manhattan, not far from the apartment.

“Two-minute warning,” he laughed as he gave another push, just strong enough to satisfy his daredevil son, but not strong enough to risk having the seat flip over the top of the swing. A long time ago he had witnessed that scene. No one was hurt, because it was a child safety seat. Even so, with the long arms that went with his six-foot-three frame, Greg was always super careful when Timmy was on these swings. As an emergency room doctor, he was all too familiar with freak accidents.

It was half past six, and the evening sun was sending long shadows across the playground. Now there was even a slight chill in the air, a reminder that Labor Day was next weekend. “One-minute warning,” Greg called firmly. Before bringing Timmy to the playground, Greg had been on duty for twelve hours, and the always busy emergency room had been absolutely chaotic. Two cars filled with teenagers racing each other on First Avenue had collided and crashed. Incredibly, no one had been killed, but there were three kids with very serious injuries.

Greg took his hands off the swing. It was time to let it slow down and stop. The fact that Timmy didn’t attempt a futile protest meant that he must be ready to go home, too. Anyhow, they were now the last ones in the playground.

“Doctor!”

Greg turned to face a powerfully built man of average height with a scarf covering his face. The gun he was holding was aimed at Greg’s head. In an instinctive movement Greg took a long step to the side to get as far away from Timmy as possible. “Look, my wallet is in my pocket,” he said quietly. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Daddy.” Timmy’s tone was frightened. He had twisted in the seat and was staring into the eyes of the gunman.

In his final moment on earth, Greg Moran, age thirty-four, distinguished physician, dearly loved husband and father, tried to throw himself on his attacker but had no chance to escape the fatal shot that hit with deadly accuracy the center of his forehead.

“DADDYYYYYYYY!” Timmy wailed.

The assailant ran to the street, then stopped and turned. “Timmy, tell your mother that she’s next,” he shouted. “Then it’s your turn.”

The gunshot and the shouted threat were heard by Margy Bless, an elderly woman on her way home from her part-time job in the local bakery. She stood for long seconds absorbing the nightmarish event: the fleeing figure turning the corner, the gun dangling from his hand, the screaming child on the swing, the crumpled figure on the ground.

Her fingers trembled so badly it took three tries before she was able to punch in 911.

When the operator answered, Margy could only moan, “Hurry! Hurry! He may come back! He shot a man, then he threatened the child!”

Her voice trailed off as Timmy shrieked, “Blue Eyes shot my daddy… Blue Eyes shot my daddy!”