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Daily Mail
2 hours ago
- Daily Mail
Woman, 27, killed in NYC skyscraper massacre seconds after stepping out of secure panic room where she was hiding
NYC skyscraper massacre victim Julia Hyman stepped out of a panic room seconds before she was shot dead by a crazed gunman. The 27-year-old Rudin Management employee ran into a panic room hidden in the 33rd-floor bathroom as gunman Shane Tamura walked out of the elevator and began firing Monday. Tamura, 27, reportedly fired through a glass door as he stepped out of the elevator, and kicked through the broken glass to get inside the offices before he began spraying bullets. The panic room was fitted with a ballistic door, locking bolts, a hard-wired phone, and a live camera feed looking out on the hall that has helped officials reconstruct a timeline of events. The killer fired at a female cleaner first, but missed, as reported by the The New York Post. There was then a pause in shooting, officials said, and Hyman, for unknown reasons, stepped out of the panic room and was instantly shot by Tamura. Wounded, Hyman crawled to a desk and reached out for a phone before collapsing. People embrace each other following a funeral of Julia Hyman, who was shot as she crawled to a phone in the Rudin Management offices Tamura then shot himself in the chest, killing himself. Surveillance cameras showed that Tamura was visibly angry when he stepped out onto the 33rd floor and saw the Rudin Management logo. Officials believe he wanted to target the NFL offices but went to the wrong floor. The massacre began when Tamura stepped into the lobby of 345 Park Ave. with an assault rifle and immediately opened fire, killing NYPD officer Didarul Islam, 36, who was sat behind the front desk. Security guard Aland Etienne, 46, then started running for the building's elevator lockdown panel but was shot as he did so. Etienne still tried to reach the panel, crawling across the lobby, but collapsed before making it. Tamura then shot NFL employee Craig Clementi, who was wounded but survived. Blackstone executive Wesley LePatner, 43, was shot next as she ran for cover after stepping out of the elevator. Security guard Aland Etienne, 46, was shot dead as he ran for the building's elevator lockdown panel Blackstone executive Wesley LePatner, 43, was shot next as she ran for cover after stepping out of the elevator Tamura then got on the elevator, after allowing a woman to exit it unharmed. Tamura, a former high school football star, drove from Las Vegas to NYU with the intent of taking revenge on the NFL. In a note found on his body, Tamura assailed the NFL's handling of concerns about chronic traumatic encephalopathy, and the former high school football player claimed he himself had the degenerative brain disease, according to police. Known as CTE, the condition has been linked to concussions and other head trauma, often sustained in sports in which players experience repeated head impacts. At Tamura's Las Vegas studio apartment, investigators found a note with a different troubled message, police said Wednesday. They said the note expressed a feeling that his parents were disappointed in him and included an apology to his mother. Police said they also found a psychiatric medication, an epilepsy drug and an anti-inflammatory that had been prescribed to Tamura. As investigators worked in both New York and Las Vegas, real estate firm worker Hyman, was buried after a packed, emotional Wednesday service at a Manhattan synagogue. Her uncle, Rob Pittman, said the 27-year-old lived 'with wide open eyes' and 'courage and conviction.' Hyman had worked since November at Rudin Management, which owns the building and has offices on the 33rd floor. A 2020 graduate of Cornell University, she had been the captain of Riverdale Country School's soccer, swimming and lacrosse teams in her senior year, school officials said. Relatives and colleagues of another victim, security guard Aland Etienne, remembered him at a gathering at his union's office. The unarmed Etienne, who leaves a wife and two children, was shot as he manned the lobby security desk. 'We lost a hero,' younger brother Smith Etienne said. 'He didn't wear no cape. Had no fancy gear. He wore a security officer's uniform.' Police were preparing for a funeral Thursday for Officer Didarul Islam. A member of the force for over three years, he was killed while working at a department-approved second job providing security for the building. Funeral arrangements for Etienne and the fourth victim, investment firm executive Wesley LePatner, haven't been made public.
Bloomberg
3 hours ago
- Business
- Bloomberg
NYC Shooting Poses Major Test for 100-Year-Old Property Dynasty
Just weeks ago in the lobby of 345 Park Ave., the Rudin family celebrated 100 years as a New York City real estate dynasty, surrounded by politicians and Wall Street's elite. On Monday evening, that same space turned into a site of terror as a gunman, Shane Tamura, went on a shooting spree that eventually killed four other people including Julia Hyman, an employee at Rudin. The tragedy marks one of the biggest tests that the Rudins have faced — both as a property owner and as a family. And it is thrusting the private company, overseen by co-executive chairmen Bill and Eric Rudin, into the spotlight as law enforcement investigates how a gunman strode into the lobby with a rifle to kill its tenants' employees and its own.
Yahoo
17-06-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Meet one of the last elevator operators in NYC: ‘It feels good to know I have a rare job'
Nearly every New Yorker has to push a button and often wait some time for their automated elevator to arrive. Tony Sciallia, meanwhile, spends his days in a crisp gray uniform, pulling shut an accordion gate and manually transporting riders up and down on one of Manhattan's last remaining hand-operated elevators. He levels the cab with the precision of a surgeon, nods to the first tenant of the day and begins a shift that feels more like a ritual than a routine. At the 863 Park Ave. co-op near East 77th Street, where Sciallia, 44, has worked for a quarter century, progress moves slower — and that's exactly how the residents like it. 'It feels good to know I have a rare job,' he told The Post. 'There's that saying: anybody could do my job. But there's only one of them. And that's how you have to look at it.' Manual elevator operators were once the lifeblood of vertical living in New York City. In the mid-20th century, the census counted more than 90,000 elevator operators nationwide. But after the 1945 citywide elevator strike — when 15,000 operators brought New York to a halt — technological innovation and changing attitudes accelerated their decline. Today, the role is all but extinct. The city Department of Buildings estimates only about 50 hand-operated elevators remain across Manhattan, including a few in Brooklyn, mostly in older co-ops and historic hotels. In an age of automation, a human behind the wheel is a charming anachronism. 'We don't have computer systems. Just us,' he said. Sciallia's workplace overall is a charming remnant of the old New York. The 1908 building, designed by Pollard & Steinam in a restrained Beaux-Arts style, boasts limestone detailing and 23 units. It also has one home currently for sale — a three-bedroom with beamed ceilings and a renovated kitchen asking $2.5 million, represented by Compass — not to mention historically little turnover. 'It's a very cool feel. That old-world feel,' said Sciallia. 'It's a different era for them. They come from that era. They're very prim and proper,' he said of the homeowners who call the building their home, many of whom have done so for more than a half century. Sciallia, from The Bronx, was a student at SUNY Westchester Community College when he landed the job for the summer. 'A friend of mine recommended me … so I could make some extra money on the side. And it was perfect. I fit right in.' Decades later, he still takes the 5 a.m. train from Cortlandt Manor in Westchester, stops at Dunkin' Donuts for his usual — hot coffee, light cream and sugar — and transforms from commuter to concierge. He's only the fourth person to operate this elevator in more than a century. 'The guy I took his place [from] was there for 35 years. And the guy before that was there for 35 or 36 years, so he started in the 1950s,' Sciallia said. By 7:20 a.m., the co-op's lobby buzzes with dog walkers, schoolkids and residents heading to the office. And there's only one man to bring them around. 'I am the first one at the door in the morning,' he said. 'We do all the dry cleans, the pickups, the drop-offs we bring upstairs, we do the mail. We wear all the hats.' The elevator itself is a relic of another era — wood-paneled, brass-accented and manually operated by a rotary lever. It requires finesse. 'You have to level it yourself,' Sciallia said. 'There's a trick. The elevator does whatever you want it to do. That is the trick. So if you're playing around with it, messing around with it, the elevator will mess around.' When Sciallia recently began training newcomers (believe it: the building is in the process of hiring a new elevator operator) he gives them three tries to land it smoothly. 'You don't want the elevator to keep going up and down. Three shots — you're good,' he added. Over the years, Sciallia has seen more than what many see in a lifetime: blackouts, the onset of technology making online-order parcels arrive in mass amounts, as well as celebrity sightings. Brooke Shields once visited regularly to see a friend, always with ice cream in hand. But it's the relationships, not the surprises, that make the job meaningful. 'That is 2 or 3 minutes you have to build a relationship,' he said of passengers riding with him. 'You're not just an elevator operator. You play the psychiatrist role. You hear their issues, problems … you can read it on their faces.' Sciallia has watched children grow up, from stroller rides to driver's licenses. He's been the first person residents see in the morning, wishes them safe travels before they jet to the Hamptons and sometimes the last when they leave for good. 'There was an older lady, in her 80s, they wanted to put her in a home,' he said. 'And she goes, 'Tony, I don't want to go.' She just started crying and said 'I can't believe this will be my last time in the elevator.'' Sciallia added. 'She passed away like a year later.' Inside the cab, trust is currency. 'There are [residents] that have been there for over 50 years,' Sciallia added. 'You have to care about the people, their problems, their successes. A robot … won't care. We care.' It's a sentiment echoed by the building's residents, who have supported Sciallia through personal losses with letters and big bouquet of flowers when his parents passed away over the last few years. 'That was the biggest act of kindness,' he said. And as modernization goes, Sciallia knows the day will come that the lever is replaced by a button. 'I don't know how much longer I have,' he said. 'But when the time comes … I will miss the people the most. Nothing lasts forever.'
