The Lower East Side was unusually quiet that morning, the kind of heavy stillness that makes every small sound resonate. Across the street, neighbors noticed the ambulance lights and police vehicles forming a surreal tableau.
The usually bustling apartment building, alive with the hum of morning routines, now held its collective breath. The door to Peter Greene’s apartment, number 4B, had been marked with a chilling, cryptic note, scrawled in black ink on plain paper: “I’m still a Westie.”