Hundreds of travelers and terminal employees were trapped inside arcade shops and restaurants. Dozens of frightened people were squashed into a small Godiva Chocolates store and an open cafi called America.

The firing had stopped again. What was Soneji doing? And where was he? The temporary silence was maddening and spooky. There was supposed to be lots of noise here in the train terminal. Someone scraped a chair against the marble floor and the screeching sound echoed loudly.

I palmed my detective’s badge at a uniformed patrolman who had barricaded himself behind an overturned cafi table. Sweat was pouring down the uniformed cop’s face to the rolls of fat at his neck. He was only a few feet inside one of the doorways to the front lobby. He was breathing hard.

“You all right?” I asked as Sampson and I slid down behind the table. He nodded, grunted something, but I didn’t believe him. His eyes were open wide with fear. I suspected he’d never been involved with a sniper either.

“Where’s he firing from?” I asked the uniform. “You seen him?”

“Hard to tell. But he’s up in there somewhere, that general area.” He pointed to the south balcony that ran above the long line of doorways at the front of Union Station. Nobody was using the doors now. Soneji was in full control.

“Can’t see him from down here.” Sampson snorted at my side. “He might be moving around, changing position. That’s how a good sniper would work it.”

“Has he said anything? Made any announcements? Any demands?” I asked the patrolman.

“Nothing. He just started shooting people like he was having target practice. Four vics so far. Sucker can shoot.”

I couldn’t see the fourth body. Maybe somebody, a father, mother, or friend, had pulled one of the victims in off the floor. I thought of my own family. Soneji had come to our house once. And he had called me here-invited me to his coming-out party at Union Station.