Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  Walking a few paces behind Jackson to their unmarked car, Tommy sighed deeply. He believed that he personally would have to bear the burden of catching the GNN killer. Making an investigation personal went against all training. But Tommy realized that his career would be riding on this case. It was, in effect, catch the killer or be killed.

  Despite her Globe credentials, Nancy Hall couldn’t get anything out of the “uniforms.” That in itself was unusual because cops, almost always off the record, love to talk about gory crimes. She also knew something strange was up because the street cops wouldn’t let her near the crime scene or any of the investigating detectives. Plus, Mike McAlary, the high profile columnist of the competition, the New York Daily News, had shown up. And it looked like he wasn’t getting anything either. She decided to check in with Bert Cicero.

  “Bert, this is Hall. Something’s going on, but I can’t tell you what. They got everything sealed. Nobody’s talking.”

  “Come on, Hall, turn on the charm.”

  Nancy Hall rolled her eyes and spoke into her portable phone. “Bert, even McAlary’s getting zero on this. I’ve been watching him every step.”

  “Shit, McAlary’s there?” Bert Cicero knew it was serious. And he knew that if the News beat the Globe on the story, he’d never hear the end of it.

  “Hall, keep at it. I’ll send some reinforcements. But get something. Be a pain in the ass.”

  Just like you, Nancy Hall thought, but simply responded: “Okay, Bert.” And then she hung up.

  Bert Cicero, fearing a situation he could not tolerate, immediately called his most experienced crime reporter, Ronnie Kramer. Then he called Ashley Van Buren. Both were at the scene within thirty minutes with orders to get the story any way they could.

  Ashley Van Buren could tell by the sound of Bert Cicero’s voice that this was no ordinary murder. She was toweling off from her shower when Cicero had called, practically screaming into her answering machine. Ashley quickly picked up the phone, took down the address from Bert, and got moving.

  When she arrived at the crime scene, it was already a zoo. TV satellite trucks surrounded the apartment building, and print reporters swarmed around maniacally. But nobody seemed to have any hard facts. Ashley began to get anxious.

  Dressed in her usual street outfit—a brown leather jacket, an over-sized denim shirt, khaki pants, and brown leather boots—Ashley broke away from the police line on 88th Street, and strolled around to the front of the building on Central Park West. There she spotted a small man leaving the building, walking rapidly south. He looked as if he was late for something.

  Ashley ran after the man, quickly catching up to him. “Excuse me, sir, could you tell me what all the commotion is about?” Ashley, walking abreast of the man, did not identify herself as a reporter.

  The man glanced sideways at the woman. Her good looks grabbed his attention. “Somebody got killed. A woman on the eighteenth floor. The doorman said she worked for the Global News Network. But I didn’t know her.”

  “Did the doorman say how she died?” Ashley was now almost breathless, the GNN reference having startled her.

  “Jumped off the terrace.”

  “That’s terrible.” Ashley thanked the man, did an about-face, and walked quickly back to the apartment building, where she approached the cop stationed by the main entrance.

  “Only residents allowed in, lady.”

  “Can you tell me who the detective in charge is, Officer?”

  “Can’t tell you nothin’, lady.”

  “Officer, I’m Ashley Van Buren from the Globe. I’d really appreciate just that little piece of information.” Ashley smiled. The young cop smiled back. He was black, in his mid twenties. A good looking guy.

  “You’re better lookin’ than your picture,” the cop whispered shyly. “O’Malley’s in charge, but you didn’t get that from me.”

  Ashley nodded, thanked the cop, and turned toward Central Park, which was right across the street. It was still cloudy and windy and brightly colored leaves were fluttering to the ground. Ashley quickly thought it through and decided to take a chance. She stepped onto the street and hailed a taxi: “119th Street between Park and Lex,” she said to the cabbie.

  The elderly driver looked back at Ashley as she got in the cab. “That’s Spanish Harlem, sweetheart. You sure you want to go up there?”

  Ashley paused, leaned forward, and looked at the cabbie’s dashboard license where his name and hack number were listed. “Hector, I’m real sure. And if you get me there in under fifteen minutes, there’s an extra five for you.”

  Muy bien, señorita. And Hector sped away.

  Sitting on metal folding chairs in a circle in Lt. Brendan McGowan’s tiny office were Tommy O’Malley, Jackson Davis, and five other detectives who had responded to the Ross crime scene. Detective Murray remained at the apartment building watching the coroner go through his paces.

  McGowan’s office was on the second floor of the twenty-fifth precinct. It featured one small window with a view of the decrepit apartment building next door. The detectives barely had enough room to situate their chairs around the lieutenant’s cluttered desk, which bothered Brendan McGowan not at all. He did not care that his current office looked like the interior of a body shop. What he absolutely did care about was his future office, the one downtown in Police Headquarters. The one with the blue carpeting, leather sofa, and private bathroom.

  McGowan was third generation NYPD. His grandfather had walked a beat in Brooklyn in the thirties. His father had risen to Detective First Class, and now Brendan’s self-imposed mandate was to improve on that. Lt. Brendan McGowan wanted the four stars on his shoulder: he wanted the job of Chief of Detectives.

  To get that position, McGowan had to play the game. That meant joining the right organizations: The Knights of Columbus, The Ancient Order of Hibernians, The Police Athletic League. It also meant keeping his squad efficient and clean. There could be no corruption allegations, and at least sixty-five percent of all homicides had to be solved.

  Thanks mainly to the team of Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis, the murder clearance rate was easily achieved, and there had not been a single corruption investigation on his watch. But now Brendan McGowan saw trouble. The minute Tommy had told him about the GNN connection, McGowan knew the case would be personally monitored by the Mayor and the Police Commissioner. Solve it and McGowan was golden. Blow it, and this crummy office was his for the next decade.

  As he always did before speaking, McGowan cleared his throat. He was a balding man of medium height and weight. His one distinguishing physical characteristic was a flat nose, broken in a Golden Gloves boxing competition as a teenager. “I just talked with the C.O.D.,” McGowan told the group, “and he’s meetin’ with the Commissioner in about an hour. Obviously, this case is priority number one. Tommy, what are we looking at?”

  “It’s a clean job, Mac. Nothing visible in the apartment. No sign of forced entry. No obvious suspect. It looks like he tied the woman up, dragged her across the living room, and tossed her. The perp didn’t leave any prints or any calling cards. The problem is that this is the second dead GNN person. Remember that reporter who got whacked in Massachusetts? We may be looking for a serial killer with a grudge.”

  “That’s all we need,” said McGowan, whom Tommy considered a dead ringer for Kojak’s boss on TV—the one who was always exasperated at Telly Savalas. “Did we bring in the Laser?” McGowan asked. He was frowning heavily. The specter of a political nightmare was getting stronger.

  “The crime scene boys are still out there,” Tommy said. “As soon as they finish the prelims, Murray will call and we’ll bring in the Laser.”

  McGowan let loose an audible sigh. The laser system was an infared, high-tech gizmo that could pinpoint fiber or skin or blood not apparent to the human eye. It was a clue magnet. But Brendan McGowan hated to rely on machines.

  “Well, this just sucks,” said McGowan, his agitation rising in intensi
ty. “Absolutely sucks. GNN. Goddamnit.” Tommy thought Brendan McGowan might pop a blood vessel.

  “We’ll get the guy, Mac,” Tommy promised softly.

  “But not before I’m out on the heart bill, Tommy.” The other detectives smiled. If a cop was diagnosed with chest pains, he could retire on three-quarters pay, tax free. Some cops prayed for this; others, like McGowan, were lifers. Everybody in the room knew the lieutenant had upper brass aspirations.

  The rest of the meeting was spent batting around theories and dividing up the investigation. Tommy and Jackson would handle the GNN interviews; the other detectives would talk with the apartment people. Information would be pooled, and a daily update would be written for Lt. McGowan’s eyes only.

  Just as the meeting was breaking up, Rosa Gonzalez, the office secretary, walked into the office to tell Tommy he had a phone call.

  “Detective O’Malley.”

  “Detective, this is Ashley Van Buren. Do you have a minute?”

  “Can’t talk to the press, Ms. Van Buren.”

  “Detective, I’m right across the street at Ragg’s. I may have some information about the GNN investigation.” Ragg’s was the corner bar that catered to off-duty cops. Owned by two former policemen, it was a small oasis in the middle of the dangerous, decaying neighborhood where the twenty-fifth precinct and O’Malley’s homicide unit were located.

  “What kind of information, madam?” asked Tommy, sounding a bit testy.

  “Well, Detective, what I have in mind is a little trade. I’ll give you what I have, if you give me some background on the case.”

  Tommy O’Malley hesitated. He knew this kind of quid pro quo was dangerous. But he had nothing. He badly needed anything he could get. “Okay, Ms. Van Buren, walk on over here to our offices. I’ll meet you by the side door.”

  Ashley Van Buren crossed the street at the corner of 119th and Park. A train rumbled above on the elevated track. Looking at the dilapidated exterior of the old precinct building, she quickly reached the conclusion that the city should provide better housing for its police.

  Ashley had been inside the “Two-Five” a couple of times, but had never gone upstairs to the second floor offices of the Manhattan North Specialized Homicide Squad. Now she walked through the police parking lot adjacent to the building, and up to the metal door where Tommy O’Malley was waiting. He did not look happy. After his curt greeting, she followed him up the stairs.

  The place reminded her of an old high school. The walls were painted yellow, the floor was brown linoleum, and even though the overhead lighting was dim, it was clear the whole place badly needed to be cleaned.

  Tommy O’Malley ushered the reporter into his office—the one he shared with three other detectives. Ashley couldn’t believe it. The place looked like something out of the old TV show Dragnet. There were four metal desks in the room, each with an old manual typewriter on top. Looming over the typewriters were cheap desk lamps in various stages of disrepair. Steel gray filing cabinets lined the walls and, in the back of the office, crooked venetian blinds hung at an angle, exposing a window that was home to dirt from the Truman era.

  Ashley took it all in, and then sat down on a wooden chair, crossing her legs. “Quite a showplace you’ve got here.”

  “Well, we don’t do much entertaining,” Tommy shot back. He was in no mood for small talk.

  Ashley continued to glance around, fascinated by the notices tacked to the walls. One of the larger signs featured a skull and crossbones. Underneath the emblem were the words: “For quick service, call the Manhattan North Homicide Squad: when it absolutely, positively has to be destroyed overnight.” Another official-looking sign read: “Corruption Must Be Reported To The Internal Affairs Division.” And finally, a handwritten note was taped to a cabinet: “You Don’t Have to Go it Alone: Alcohol and Gambling Counseling is Available.”

  “So, Ms. Van Buren, now that we’re comfortable, whaddya have for me?” Tommy looked the reporter straight in the eye. It wasn’t hard. A few cops had gathered outside Tommy’s office and were glancing inside. It didn’t take a detective to figure out why.

  “Well, first of all, Detective, please call me Ash. Enough with the Ms. Van Buren stuff. The deal I’d like to make is that after I tell you, you tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What you have.”

  “No way.”

  “Well, at least give me something I couldn’t get from the uniforms.”

  “We’ll see. What have you got, uh, Ash?” Tommy kept to his gruff mode, but he was definitely attracted to the gorgeous blond reporter.

  Ashley uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, all the while keeping eye contact with O’Malley. “Well, after I wrote my first column on the Costello murder, I got a call on my voice mail. Some woman left me a message saying that she worked for GNN, and was on Martha’s Vineyard when Costello got it. She said she saw two former GNN correspondents on the island, both of whom had reason to hate this guy Costello. She also said that maybe it wasn’t a big deal because a lot of people despised Costello. I think the word she used to describe him rhymed with ‘brick.’ ”

  Tommy looked at Ashley and nodded. Sensing his approval, she continued.

  “Anyway, the woman wrapped up her call by leaving two names on the tape: David Wayne and Shannon Michaels. Now, I know Michaels. He used to anchor the Channel Six News. I met him at an awards ceremony one year. It doesn’t seem possible for a guy like that to be a killer, so I didn’t put much stock in the information, especially since the caller was qualifying everything she said and didn’t seem convinced that these guys were dangerous.”

  “Where can I get in touch with this woman?” said Tommy, removing a notebook from his jacket pocket.

  Ashley stammered and looked away from O’Malley. She didn’t know why, but she was nervous. “Uh, well, uh, that could be a problem. The source didn’t leave her name or number on the voice mail, said she didn’t want to get sued or anything.”

  Tommy stared incredulously at Ashley. “You mean to say that you’re a news reporter and people can’t call you directly? They have to talk to a machine? Don’t you realize how much information you can lose that way?”

  “I know, Detective, but the paper doesn’t want to hire secretaries. Voice mail is a lot cheaper. So everybody has voice mail.”

  “Jesus Christ, how stupid. So, there’s no way we can find this woman? Did you save the taped message?”

  “Sorry, Detective.”

  “Damnit. So really, Ash, you’ve given me nothing solid.”

  Ashley stiffened. “I’ve given you two names, Detective O’Malley. And you know as well as I do that the information is worth checking out. What is it now, about eighty percent of all murders get solved by tips? I’ve given you a good lead. Two GNN killings. It isn’t a stretch to think it might be somebody from the inside.”

  “Thank you, Agatha Christie.” Tommy’s voice was still harsh but he allowed himself a slight smile. It wasn’t great information but it wasn’t worthless either. “There are probably plenty of people who hated Costello and Ross. I hear TV news is a bitch of a business.”

  Now it was Ashley Van Buren’s turn to take out a notebook. “Ross?”

  Tommy O’Malley looked again into Ashley Van Buren’s green eyes. Hell, she was going to find out anyway. “Hillary Ross, some kinda VP at GNN. Single white female, thirty-nine, fairly affluent. Lived alone on the eighteenth floor. Somebody tossed her off the balcony.”

  “How awful.” Of course, Ashley knew that already, but wanted O’Malley to keep talking. She began taking notes. “Who did it?” Ashley smiled. O’Malley smiled back, again just a little.

  “Only the Shadow knows.”

  “Anything to go on?” Ashley was beginning to notice O’Malley noticing her.

  “No comment on the investigation. You know it’s policy. The C.O.D. will be updating you.”

  “Oh, the Chief of Detectives won’t say anything everybody else in the wor
ld doesn’t already know.” Ashley opened her eyes wide. “Can’t you give me anything, Detective?”

  Tommy bit his lower lip. “I don’t want to see my name in your column, Ash, so this is from an unnamed source. Got it?” Ashley nodded, and Tommy continued. “Whoever did this crime knew what he was doing. It was a very clean hit. That’s all I can say.”

  “So you’re saying it was a professional who did this?” Ashley asked.

  “The guy could bat cleanup for Murder Incorporated.”

  Ashley wrote that down. It was a great line, and the Globe would love it. “Okay, Detective. Now, about the dinner I owe you. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? Here’s my home number. Call me and we’ll do it. That is, if you still want to.”

  O’Malley didn’t reply but reached out and accepted Ashley Van Buren’s home number, which she had written on the back of her business card. He tucked the card in the inner pocket of his sports jacket. She knew he would call.

  “By the way, Detective, are you going to speak with Shannon Michaels and David Wayne?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Once again, Ashley knew that he would.

  * * *

  11

  SANDS POINT, LONG ISLAND

  NOVEMBER 1994

  The murder of Hillary Ross was page one news in every New York newspaper except the Times, which ran it on the first page of the Metro section. The city’s three all-news radio stations ran the story every twenty minutes, and one needed a calculator to add up all the TV live shots that originated in front of the murder scene.

  But a full twenty-four hours after the discovery of the body, hard information was still elusive. Of course, that didn’t stop the reporters. They just speculated.