Jack Hardwick was formerly an investigator in the New York State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Official sources have not speculated on whether his background might have a bearing on today’s explosive encounter.
Sources within the hospital have confirmed that Hardwick underwent a two-hour operation by a trauma surgeon and remains in critical condition in the intensive care unit.
No additional information was available on Dominick Vesco. This developing story will be updated as more facts becomes available.
Gurney felt a nauseating chill pass through his body. He sat staring at the computer screen—willing it to tell him that Hardwick had turned the corner, that his condition had stabilized, that he was out of danger. He clicked on the page’s Refresh icon once, twice, three times, but no new details appeared.
On his fourth try, the page was dominated by a flashing BREAKING NEWS banner above an article that Gurney was almost afraid to read.
STUDENT FILMMAKERS RECORD DEADLY GARVILLE SHOOT-OUT
Peter Flake and Yoko Klein, film majors at Marlon College, were in the right place at the right time to record the violent confrontation that took place in a Garville parking lot earlier today.
“We were driving around town, getting local footage for our term project, a video documentary on upstate towns in decline,” Klein explained, “when we spotted this amazing red GTO from the 1960s. Right after we slowed down to film it from another angle, a huge black SUV came along and pulled in behind it. The driver of the SUV and the driver of the GTO got into this super-bad thing, total insanity, everybody getting shot, and we got the whole thing on camera.”
The article went on to report that Flake and Klein had given WSKZ access to their recorded audio and video footage of the confrontation—which could be viewed via a link at the end of the article. A warning was appended below it.
CONTAINS IMAGES OF EXTREME VIOLENCE
Gurney’s hand was shaking as he clicked on the link icon.
The high-resolution video opened with a shot of a gleaming red 1967 Pontiac GTO parked just inside the parking area for Lanka’s Specialty Foods. Slouched in the driver’s seat was Jack Hardwick. A few seconds later, a black Escalade pulled in and stopped behind the GTO. Gurney recognized the driver—Dominick Vesco.
He stepped out of the Escalade, approached the GTO, and rapped on the side window. The audio was faint but sufficiently clear.
Hardwick lowered the window. “Yeah?”
“You’re on private property.”
“I thought this lot was for store customers.”
“You already been to the store. I don’t forget a face. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“Suppose I want to buy some of Lanka’s specialty foods.”
“Suppose I blow your fucking head off.”
Hardwick sighed. “You’re creating a problem.”
“That so?”
As Vesco reached into the pocket of his gray windbreaker, Hardwick suddenly thrust the heavy front door of the GTO open, smashing it into Vesco and sending him staggering toward the Escalade. He leapt out after him, delivering a flurry of punches to his head. As the man slumped against the vehicle’s passenger door, the window slid down, a pistol emerged, and a shot was fired, thrusting Hardwick backward. A second shot propelled his body in a half rotation, and he half fell, half dove to the ground, pulling himself toward the front of the vehicle, out of the shooter’s line of fire.
As Vesco struggled to his feet, Bruno Lanka emerged from the Escalade. With weapons extended they moved toward Hardwick’s prone form. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire, seemingly from all three combatants at once, then silence.
The silence was broken by a shaky voice—surely one of the student videographers.
“Holy shit!”
The video ended with a slow zoom in on three motionless bodies on the ground beside the Escalade, a pistol in the right hand of each one, blood seeping through their clothes onto the tarmac.
Gurney’s fists were clenched, the knuckles white. He was rigid with fury—a fury mingled with a terrible feeling of guilt.
AS SOON AS a modicum of rationality returned, Gurney went to the Albany General Hospital’s website, got the patient-information phone number, and called it. He asked about Hardwick’s condition, was told only that he was in ICU, that HIPAA regulations prohibited the sharing of other information, and that no visitors beyond immediate family could be admitted.
He wondered if word had gotten to Esti. He knew there was no landline, and he had no cell number for her. Should he drive to Dillweed, in the event that she didn’t already know? Or was it more likely that someone who knew her cell number had already called her? Surely, one or more of her state police contacts would do so. Chances were she was already at the hospital.
He called the hospital again, and this time asked for the ICU.
When someone at the nursing station picked up, he said, “I need to reach Esti Moreno, who I believe is visiting Jack Hardwick.”
A harried female voice replied, “She stepped out for a moment. Try later.”
Now he knew that she knew, and he knew where she was, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. Wait a few minutes and call again? Call back now and leave his number, so she could reach him? Or forget about calling and just drive to the hospital?
It was the last option that seemed right. The point wasn’t just to get information or express his concern. He should go there. Be there.
He slipped his phone back in his pocket and went to the kitchen.
Madeleine was stirring a pot of something on the stove.
“I have to go out,” he said. “Albany. The hospital. Jack’s been injured.”
She looked at him. “How?”
“He was shot.”
“Shot?”
“In a parking lot. Near Albany. I need to go. I’ll call you.”
HE ARRIVED IN the main parking lot of the hospital at 6:28 p.m. in a nervous daze. On the radio, the local Albany station was reporting on the fatal Garville clash.
“Today’s violent confrontation has now claimed a second life,” the reporter said. “Dominick Vesco suffered cardiac arrest following a surgical procedure and was declared dead at five forty-five this evening. We’ve been informed that Jack Hardwick, the other participant in the confrontation, has emerged from surgery and is being maintained in an induced coma to increase his chance of survival.”
Gurney turned off the radio. He tried to organize his thoughts but found that his brain wasn’t operating in linear fashion. The simple dictum that so often put him back on track—just do the next right thing—wasn’t working. He had no idea what the next right thing might be.
With Hardwick in a coma, there was no point in trying to visit the ICU. Besides, either Garville PD or the NYSP would have personnel on site, since it now appeared that Hardwick was involved in two homicides. And it was possible that Cam Stryker, aware of Gurney’s relationship with the man, had sent her own people to the hospital to be on the lookout for him. He sank down a little lower in his seat and gave the parking lot a careful once-over. As his gaze returned to the front of the hospital, a woman was coming out through the main revolving door. Despite the freezing temperature, she was wearing just jeans and a sweater. She had a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. When she turned halfway toward the door to shield the flame from the wind, he recognized her profile.