Bodies, bound, gagged and burned in refuge

The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge rests on a narrow spit of land in Broad Channel. The refuge is a sanctuary for bird enthusiasts, nature lovers and photographers who relish in the solitude it offers just off Cross Bay Boulevard near East 3rd Road.
However, on the evening of Saturday, March 15, after the Visitors Center had closed and the sun had set, the seclusion of the refuge was sought out for a different purpose.
Shortly after 9:30 p.m. police responded to reports of a fire just off Cross Bay Boulevard, a few hundred feet north of the visitors center. At the scene was a Porsche SUV engulfed in flames. In the hatch of the vehicle were two men, bound and gagged with cord, having been shot and killed prior to the fire, according to a police source.
Published reports identified one of the men as a Harlem businessman from the Ivory Coast named Siaka Kone. While neither of the men have been positively identified by the New York Police Department (NYPD), a police source said there was a “working theory” that Kone, a father of two, was one of the victims and that the Porsche was his vehicle.
Brian Feeney, a National Parks Service public affairs officer, said about one tenth of an acre of land had been scorched before the FDNY could put out the fire. Feeney said U.S. Parks Service investigators are working alongside the NYPD and he noted that the incident “won’t affect visitors services” at the refuge.
Just down Cross Bay Boulevard at the corner of West 10th Road, employees at All American Deli & Catering spoke of the incident with mild surprise.
“Accidents always happen up there – always deadly ones too,” said Steve Sugden, mentioning a few auto collisions that had occurred near the refuge.
“That doesn’t sound like an accident,” said John Tanico, laughing softly with wide eyes after learning more of the details from fellow employee Stefanie Galimi who worked Sunday morning and heard “twenty different stories” about what happened up the road.
The door chimed as a woman who identified herself only as Margaret walked into All American. She scoffed at any notion of surprise floating around the neighborhood, rolling her eyes at the news as if she had been told a Phoenix and not a Porsche had landed at the refuge and burst into flames.
“They’ve been doing that for years,” she said emphatically.
“When I first moved here in ’78? Forget it. It was like a cemetery but with no plot.”