Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  “Ashley, you owe me a lot more than one.”

  Ashley Van Buren knew Detective Tommy O’Malley, but only slightly. He had a major two-pronged reputation: one, for clearing murder cases, and two, for being murder on newspaper reporters. Ashley had written a nice column on him about a year ago and the guy had never even called to thank her. She wasn’t looking forward to asking him for a favor, but dialed the Manhattan North Homicide unit as quickly as she could. A secretary answered and transferred the call.

  “Detective O’Malley?” Ashley used a deep, sexy tone.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ashley Van Buren from the Globe. Do you remember me?”

  “Certainly, Ms. Van Buren,” O’Malley remembered her very well—about 5920 and great looking. “What can I do for you?”

  “My, aren’t we a bit formal today, Detective,” Ashley said in her teasing voice. “You can call me Ash.”

  “That’s swell, Ms. Van Buren. Now if you don’t mind a lot, whaddya want?”

  Ashley thought she heard O’Malley actually growl the word “swell.”

  “Well, Detective, I’m working on this Costello case. The TV guy who was murdered up on Martha’s Vineyard while covering the president?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I was wondering if you have any contacts up in Massachusetts. We can’t get any specifics from the state police.”

  “Let me get this straight,” O’Malley said. “You want me to call the cops up there and get you a story about how this guy got whacked? Is that what you’re asking me?”

  “Uh, I guess so.”

  “Look, Ms. Van Buren, I’m busy. I got guys shooting other guys here. I got paperwork. I got court appearances. I got an ex-wife calling me all the time asking for stuff, just like you’re doin’. Give me a break.”

  “Detective, I will owe you a big favor. I will never forget this.”

  “Never forget what? I’m not doin’ anything.”

  “Please, just get me some basic info. I’ll take it from there. If you do this for me, I’ll take you to dinner at Elaine’s. That’s where the Commissioner eats all the time.”

  O’Malley laughed sarcastically right into the receiver. “Oh boy, Elaine’s, you promise?” He couldn’t believe this woman.

  “I do promise, Detective. Please help me out on this one.”

  Tommy O’Malley leaned back in his chair picturing this small, cute blonde and thought to himself, There are worse people to have dinner with. He really didn’t want to be bothered, but knew that having a newspaper columnist owing him a favor was a good thing.

  “Okay, I’ll make one call. Get back to me in two hours.”

  “Thank you, thank you . . .” said Ashley. After the first “thank you,” Tommy O’Malley had hung up.

  Precisely two hours later, Ashley Van Buren called the detective back.

  “Well, somebody didn’t like this Costello,” Tommy began. “No robbery, no break-in. Somebody just walked into this guy’s hotel room and shoved a stainless steel spoon into his brain.”

  “What?” Ashley was writing notes as fast as she could.

  “Yeah, had to be a pretty strong guy. The cops on the Vineyard are under a lot of pressure. There’s been only one murder on that island in the past twenty years. The Chamber of Commerce is panicked that this story will hurt tourism, so the lid is on tight. That’s why no press conference or anything.”

  “Do they have a suspect?” Ashley asked.

  “They have nada. They discovered the body eighteen hours after the hit. The room was clean. No prints, no nothing.”

  “But a spoon, what kind of spoon?” Ashley was almost breathless.

  “A long-stemmed spoon, and get this, the perpetrator jammed it through the roof of the guy’s mouth. Hell, that must have hurt.”

  “A silver spoon in his mouth,” Ashley said thoughtfully. “Do you think that has some symbolism, Detective?”

  “Yeah it does,” Tommy O’Malley replied. “It symbolizes that the guy is dead.”

  * * *

  6

  SANDS POINT, LONG ISLAND

  SEPTEMBER 1994

  Shannon Michaels put down the New York Globe and reached for the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice taking up space on his butcher-block kitchen table. Ashley Van Buren’s column on the murder of Ron Costello had fascinated him. It was very well written and, to him, rang true, except for the part about Costello being “well respected and liked by his colleagues.” Her story was the only one to provide details on the murder weapon. The other papers had zilch. Shannon was impressed. The woman was a good reporter.

  In the hard news story next to Ashley’s column, the Globe ran a GNN statement that it had no idea why anyone would want to hurt Costello or any of its newspeople. GNN speculated that the murder was the work of a deranged person, and that Costello had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The statement didn’t surprise Shannon. If GNN had done the unthinkable—and told the truth—its spokesperson would have said that Costello was such a despicable character that suspects were legion. Shannon Michaels was sure he was not alone in his loathing for the late Ron Costello. His thoughts turned to David Wayne, who also truly despised Costello. Shannon wondered how Wayne was reacting to the news.

  Shannon got up from the table and walked through a huge center hallway into his living room. Filled with excellent interior workmanship, his colonial-style house had been built in 1928, when the wealthy in Sands Point were making all kinds of money in the stock market. It had five large bedrooms, three baths, hardwood floors, and a brick fireplace in the living room and another one in the master bedroom. Shannon had looked specifically for a home with Old World charm and had found it, along with five acres of land, on the north shore of Long Island. And he could walk to the beach. His house was his sanctuary, a place of sanity in the midst of an insane career.

  After being forced out of GNN in the early eighties, Shannon Michaels had received a gift of good luck: A television station in New York City hired him as an anchorman because he came cheap and could write quickly and with considerable skill. That saved the station the salary of a newswriter. When Shannon arrived at Newscenter Six, the station was mired in fourth place in the news ratings. Three years later, the station’s six o’clock broadcast was on top, and Shannon’s down to earth, tough guy broadcast style was widely credited for the turnaround.

  As the ratings for Newscenter Six grew, so did Shannon’s salary. In 1990, he signed a contract that paid him more than one million dollars a year, so he could afford the $950,000 price tag on the house in Sands Point. Always good with money, Shannon invested wisely. He bought into the Hong Kong stock market early and made hundreds of thousands of dollars in 1992 when things were hot over there. When his career crashed a year later, Shannon had enough money to live well for a long time.

  Shannon Michaels walked out his door and began his daily run. The Long Island Sound bordered the wealthy enclave of Sands Point on three sides. Shannon moved quickly down his long driveway to the street virtually unnoticed by neighbors or passersby. He had plenty of privacy; his house was hidden from the road, sheltered by an abundance of tall oak trees and surrounded by shrubbery.

  As Shannon jogged on the beach, his thoughts drifted to the present. His television career lay in ruins, the victim of a classic setup and back stab by his nemesis at Newscenter Six, Lance Worthington. He should have seen it coming, but his termination had taken him by surprise.

  That was a year ago, but Shannon’s bitterness still tasted fresh. His dismissal from Newscenter Six was a terrible humiliation. It had shattered him emotionally when the newspapers ran major articles parroting the Newscenter Six line: “Shannon Michaels was losing popularity among younger viewers. He wasn’t worth his million-dollar-plus salary in these days of economizing. He was also difficult to work with. An out of control ego. An anchor monster.”

  Everywhere Shannon went in the New York area, he was reminded of his ordeal. Because his TV
anchoring had made him a famous face, many were aware of his dismissal. Some even walked up to him asking why he had been fired. New Yorkers are not shy about confronting the famous. His firing was replayed over and over in daily social intercourse. He could not leave his property without an unpleasant intrusion by the public. On the verge of emotional collapse, Shannon decided to get some help.

  His therapy sessions turned into monologues with his hundred-dollar-an-hour therapist. Shannon told her in great detail about the events that led to his departure from Newscenter Six. She was the only person on earth to whom he could unburden himself. One story, in particular, had the therapist scribbling notes as fast as she could.

  In addition to being the main anchorman, Shannon also served as story editor for the top-rated six o’clock broadcast. That meant that he looked over and approved the words that he and other Newscenter Six reporters would say on the newscast. One day, shortly after a new news director, Lance Worthington, arrived from Dallas, Shannon walked into the cluttered newsroom to check the story lineup for that evening’s broadcast. He noticed that two of the writers—men with too much nervous energy from drinking gallons of coffee every day—were snickering and looking in his direction. He soon saw why.

  Shannon sat down in his black swivel chair and stared hard at his computer screen, where Newscenter Six’s evening lineup materialized. Shannon’s first perusal brought a deepening of the frown lines on his forehead. Then his eyes shrank into a menacing squint. “What the hell is this?” Shannon said, loud enough for most in the newsroom to hear.

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” one of the writers answered. “Lance put in the rundown today. Kessler is out sick.” The writer was referring to the regular six o’clock producer, Barry Kessler. “Are we really going to lead with that animal story?”

  “No, we’re not,” Shannon said harshly, and immediately bolted out of his chair, heading for the news director’s office.

  The Newscenter Six newsroom, called “the floor” in news slang, was a disgraceful dump. The lime green carpet was frayed and stained with endless beverage drops. The tan walls were filthy, full of grimy fingerprints and handwritten signs advertising everything from studio apartments to unwanted cats. Phones rang constantly. Many went unanswered because management was constantly laying off secretaries.

  Even though Newscenter Six made close to three million dollars a year in profits from advertising, its parent company allocated little money for the comfort of its employees. In one of their unending series of cost cutting measures, corporate bean counters had reduced the newsroom cleaning service to thrice weekly. That decision led to an infestation of tiny, crawling insects, one of which Shannon had just crushed under his tasseled loafer while walking over to speak with Lance Worthington.

  Through the walls of his glass-enclosed office, Lance Worthington saw Shannon Michaels coming. He despised the anchorman, whom he saw as a distinct threat to his power. He strongly suspected that an unpleasant confrontation was about to occur. Even though Worthington’s phone call had just ended, he did not hang up. Instead, he listened to the dial tone rather than appear available to talk with his agitated anchorman.

  Shannon Michaels didn’t bother to knock; he just walked into Lance Worthington’s office and sat down in front of his desk. “What’s the lead story tonight, Lance?” Shannon asked, his voice already tinged with accusation.

  “Jay Walker is going to be live in Astoria. We’ve got some dead animals in a pet shop out there.” Lance Worthington kept his voice calm, but his hands tensely gripped the sides of his chair.

  “What kind of animals, rare Bengal Tigers?”

  “Not funny, Shannon. People care about dead pets. In this case, five gerbils died after a gas leak.”

  “Let me get this straight, Lance,” Shannon said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We’ve got two thousand murders a year in this city and you want to lead the broadcast with dead hamsters? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “This discussion is over, Shannon.”

  “We’re not leading with dead hamsters, Lance.”

  “Yeah, we are. You’re out of line, Michaels. You don’t run this newsroom.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from the last fiasco, Lance?” Shannon was referring to the recent and highly embarrassing “Rico the Dog” incident. Shortly after Lance Worthington had assumed the news directorship at Channel Six, he ordered a full court press on a feature story about a collie named Rico. It seemed that Rico had sniffed out an abandoned infant who had been left under some debris in a Brooklyn alley. The infant was saved because of a quick call to 911 by Rico’s owner.

  The next day Newscenter Six devoted seven minutes to the story, a huge block of time on a TV newscast. Lance Worthington even ordered a high tech news van to the scene so that Shannon Michaels could interview Rico’s owner live via satellite. Shannon had recognized the merit of the story but advised Worthington against overdoing it. His advice was ignored.

  Unfortunately, all the attention overstimulated Rico the collie and, as the Newscenter Six van was leaving the scene of the story to return to the broadcast center, the dog bolted into the street. As onlookers watched in horror, the news van accidentally ran over Rico, breaking the heroic dog’s left hind leg. The New York City newspapers went nuts, dubbing the story: “Dog Day Afternoon at Newscenter Six.” For weeks afterward, everywhere Newscenter Six reporters went, other newspeople started to bark. Shannon Michaels was not amused.

  Lance Worthington deeply resented Shannon Michaels for throwing the dog incident in his face. Trained as a bloodless bureaucrat, Worthington held his temper and spoke in a calm rational voice, “Look, Shannon, research shows our viewers react strongly to emotional stories about animals. My concern is directed toward what our viewers want, not what you want.” The news director swept his right hand through his sandy hair. Shannon noticed Worthington’s skin reddening ever so slightly. Good. He liked pissing this loser off.

  “Yeah, and I react strongly to irresponsible, manipulative TV news programs,” Shannon answered. “And my concern is directed toward valid news. Remember this, Lance. It’s my face out there, my reputation. We’re number one in the biggest market in the country because we have credibility. Because we cover important stories the right way. Because I know the difference between what’s important and what’s crap.”

  Lance Worthington leaned back in his chair and smirked. “If that’s true, then why did they bounce you out of network news?”

  Shannon Michaels’ teal blue eyes turned cold and his jaw tightened with anger. He stared hard at Worthington who, in turn, faltered and looked down at his overly neat desk. It was a hateful remark and both men knew it. Silence circled the room like a starving turkey buzzard.

  “Okay, Lance, here it is. We are going to lead this evening’s newscast with Sheila Smith’s report on violence in the homeless shelters. Then we’ll update the Iraq situation. The pet thing can play right after the first commercial break. If we had any integrity at all, it would play after the weather. If you have a problem with that, my agent will take it upstairs.”

  Lance Worthington didn’t like being dictated to, and this insubordination would not go unpunished, but right now might not be the time to strike. The ratings were too high and he was too new as the station’s news director. Shannon Michaels had power. A confrontation could get messy. Worthington would bide his time.

  “This bullshit isn’t worth the trouble,” Worthington said finally. “We’ll change the lead. But I’m running this newsroom, Michaels, understand?”

  “Just run it responsibly, Lance. And one more thing: You don’t know shit about what happened to me at the network, so don’t ever bring it up again.”

  The two men stared at each other. Each knew their working relationship would not last much longer. Each was confident of winning the ultimate showdown.

  After listening to that and many other TV sagas, Shannon’s therapist told him the obvious: that he was a deeply
angry man who needed to work out his anger. Shannon smiled and paid his bill. Therapy, he decided, was just like local news: a recitation of the obvious.

  The Manhattan restaurant Le Cirque is one of the best in the world. Its habitués include some of New York’s most powerful residents—like Henry Kissinger, Barbara Walters, and Liz Smith. By New York tradition, it is a place to be seen.

  Ashley Van Buren’s father, the respected corporate attorney Francis Van Buren, favored Le Cirque for dinner whenever he came to town from Boston, where he had his practice. Ashley herself thought the restaurant a bit too stuffy, but if her father called, she’d always join him there for dinner.

  Ashley loved her father, but he drove her crazy. He lectured rather than discussed, and often talked down to her. At least that’s how she heard it. Ever since her mother had passed away a decade before, her father had become increasingly critical of Ashley and everything else. To hold one’s own with Francis Van Buren, advance mental preparation was definitely required.

  Underneath her composed exterior, Ashley was an affectionate and vulnerable woman who took after her mother. Her years of therapy had taught her that she craved her father’s approval, but would rarely receive it. Therefore, she needed to be strong and in control when she saw him—“empowered,” the shrink had called it—and not take his brusque manner personally. Easier thought than done, as Ashley knew from experience.

  Francis Van Buren stood up as Ashley walked across the crowded restaurant. As usual, Mr. Van Buren had been seated at a power table against the far wall—a prime position from which to view the entire room.

  Ashley looked striking in a black suit by Ann Taylor, and an ivory blouse opened at the neck to show the perfect string of black pearls from Tahiti that her father had given her last Christmas. Her entrance was dramatic, and Ashley realized that many of New York’s elite were staring as she kissed her father and sat down.

  “Good column today, Ash. I can’t believe somebody got killed on the Vineyard and Teddy Kennedy wasn’t involved.”