Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  Shannon Michaels got up early, and as soon as he heard the story on WINS radio, he went out to buy all the papers. As in the Costello case, Ashley Van Buren seemed to have the best take on the situation. She tied the two killings together, emphasizing the lack of evidence left at both crime scenes. Shannon was sitting in his library digesting the news accounts when the phone rang.

  “Shannon Michaels speaking.”

  “Mr. Michaels, my name is Ashley Van Buren, I’m a reporter for the Globe.”

  “Quite a coincidence, Ms. Van Buren, I was just reading your column. What a terrible situation.” Shannon kept his voice cool, but his mind was racing. Why was this reporter calling him?

  “I’m glad you’re aware of the case. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, just for background.”

  “Why me? I haven’t worked for GNN in twelve years.” Shannon’s voice remained calm, but he was becoming concerned. How did this woman get his number?

  Ashley was used to people not wanting to talk to her and sensed Shannon’s anxiety. She tried to put him at ease. “I won’t use your name or anything. I’m just trying to get an idea as to why somebody would kill these two people. Nobody currently working at GNN will say anything. The network flack has no comment, and everybody else is scared.”

  “But, again, how did you come to me?”

  “Off the record, one of my sources at GNN told me that you knew both Costello and Ross. Also, that you were an outspoken guy.”

  “But how did you find me? I have an unlisted number.”

  Ashley Van Buren laughed. “The Globe often reaches out and touches someone at the telephone company, Mr. Michaels. Most everybody likes to go to the theater.”

  Shannon Michaels thought back. He remembered meeting Ashley Van Buren. He remembered that she was extremely attractive. It might be interesting to see her again. He decided to take a chance. “I may be outspoken but I’m not a fool. I’ll speak to you off the record. But not on the phone. I was planning on coming into the city today. If you’d like, we could meet for a drink.”

  “Great, where and when?”

  “The bar at the Carlyle Hotel. Four o’clock.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then. And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Shannon Michaels.

  Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis walked into the huge executive conference room on the seventh floor of GNN Headquarters, escorted from the lobby by a young man with an overpowering smell of musk cologne. When asked if they would like coffee, Evian, or a soft drink, the detectives politely declined, and the man departed saying that William Foster, the news president, would be with them momentarily along with his assistants.

  The two detectives looked over the conference room. The centerpiece was a beautiful twenty-foot-long mahogany table, polished so finely it reflected the soft overhead lights. The walls were paneled with light brown wood. The carpet was a rich, thick beige.

  Along the walls hung an assortment of awards GNN had won. At the far end of the room was a wide screen TV, complete with VCR. A well stocked bar flanked the television on the left side. Two long floor-to-ceiling windows, each draped by heavy curtains matching the carpet color, gave an onlooker an exceptional view of the wide avenue below. The curtains were pulled back, allowing some natural light to stream into the room.

  “Looks just like our office,” Jackson cracked. Tommy rolled his eyes.

  After five minutes, the GNN executives had not yet appeared.

  Tommy walked out into the hallway, spotting the young man who had ushered them to the conference room. The man was standing, talking to a secretary.

  “Excuse me, sir. Would you remind Mr. Foster that we are here?”

  “Mr. Foster is very busy, Detective, but I’m sure . . .”

  Tommy cut him off. “Listen, son, if Mr. Foster isn’t out here in sixty seconds, my partner and I will be joining him in his office. Is that clear?” O’Malley’s tone was condescending.

  “Yes, Detective,” said the escort as he scampered away.

  “Two can play these fuckin’ power games,” Tommy said to Jackson as they walked back into the conference room. Jackson just yawned. He was not nearly as impatient as his partner.

  Less than a minute later, William “Big Bill” Foster and his deputies Myles Romney and Greta Brink walked into the room.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, detectives. We had a mini-crisis in Japan.” William Foster forced a smile as he shook hands and made the introductions. Tommy noticed Foster discreetly checking his appearance. As usual, the detectives were dressed in bland blue business suits bought on sale at Macy’s. Foster’s appearance was impeccable—dark blue pinstriped suit, blue and red club tie on a blue shirt with a white collar, and black wingtips, freshly polished. Tommy noticed that Foster’s fingernails were shiny. Some kind of gloss was on them.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen. This is a terrible business and we are here to cooperate in any way we can.” Foster was smiling again, smiling even though it was a “terrible business.” Tommy instinctively didn’t like the guy.

  Jackson Davis led off the questioning: “Any idea why somebody would kill two GNN employees?”

  Foster responded so automatically it was clear he had anticipated the question. “Detectives, we’re not entirely sure these dreadful crimes are related. Both Ron Costello and Hillary Ross were well respected professionals. GNN has absolutely no idea why anyone would want to do them harm.”

  Tommy directed the follow-up question at Foster: “What did Ms. Ross do here?”

  “She was Vice President in charge of News Personnel, which means she oversaw and evaluated the work of our news gathering employees.”

  “Did she fire people?” asked Tommy, bluntly.

  “On occasion. But that wasn’t her primary function.”

  “Well, Mr. Foster, firing someone can cause very hard feelings.” As Tommy made his statement, he looked quickly at Jackson. Tommy could read his partner, and it was obvious that Jackson didn’t like Foster either.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Detective O’Malley, but it’s a necessary part of the business of television news as well as most other businesses, as I’m sure you know.”

  Jackson Davis spoke quietly: “How many people have been fired here in, say, the last five years?”

  “Myles?” William Foster turned toward his male deputy, a small thin man with bushy eyebrows and thick black hair. Tommy could smell the man’s cologne from across the table. What’s with these guys? he thought.

  “Because of changing economic times,” Myles Romney began, “GNN has downsized considerably over the past few years. Unfortunately, we’ve had to let many employees go.”

  “How many?” Tommy sounded impatient.

  “Hundreds.” Myles Romney sounded sheepish.

  “But many received very generous settlements,” Foster cut in. His voice was smooth, controlled. The perfect company man, Tommy thought.

  “Mr. Romney,” Jackson Davis said, “we would like a list of everyone who has left GNN in the past ten years, together with their social security numbers.” David knew how embarrassing that information would be for GNN.

  “But that would be thousands of people!” said Romney.

  William Foster broke in again, saying, “We’ll get you that information, Detectives. What else can we do?”

  “Tell us about Ron Costello,” Tommy said.

  “Well, I’ve only been President of News for two years, but in that time, Ron was one of our primary correspondents. An excellent reporter.”

  “Was he an excellent human being?”

  “We had the highest regard for Ron Costello.” William Foster, his forehead starting to shine with perspiration, looked away from O’Malley. Tommy felt Foster growing a bit uneasy. The man wasn’t used to answering tough questions.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything unusual happen before the Ross incident?” Jackson Davis asked.

  “Well, there is one thing,” Fo
ster said, looking over at Greta Brink. “Greta?”

  Foster’s female deputy was well tailored in a dark green suit complemented by a light green and white scarf. Her hair was tied back, a generous amount of makeup carefully applied to her face. She looked to be in her mid forties.

  Greta Brink cleared her throat and smiled a nervous smile. “Yes, well, one of our interns on the overnight desk told us that she received a call from a stringer in Beijing wanting Hillary’s home address. This young woman says she thought it strange, and didn’t give him the information. But we can’t know that for certain. The name of the stringer does not coincide with anyone working for us.”

  “Did this young woman come forward before or after the death of Ms. Ross?”

  “After.”

  Immediately, Tommy and Jackson both knew she had given up Ross’s home address. “We’ll hafta speak with her,” Tommy said. “We’d also like to talk with Lyle Fleming.”

  William Foster looked concerned. “Why?”

  Tommy O’Malley looked at the spiffy news executive, with his expensive clothes and shiny nails, and said softly, “Because we want to.”

  The Carlyle Hotel on Madison and 76th Street was an old money depot. Its lobby was the very picture of understated elegance—the floors were marble, the wall furnishings were fabulously expensive tapestries that featured scenes of fox hunting, and the flowers flanking the check-in area were always freshly picked.

  Ashley Van Buren sat in the bar off the lobby nursing an eight-dollar glass of white wine when Shannon Michaels walked in and approached her. Michaels was wearing a blue suede jacket over a starched white, button-down shirt, jeans, and boots. Black-framed glasses covered his penetrating blue eyes. His brown hair was tousled. Ashley thought he looked dashing.

  Shannon bowed slightly and gently shook Ashley’s outstretched hand as he sat down. He smiled. A shy smile, Ashley thought. A nice smile.

  “What are you having, Mr. Michaels? It’s on the Globe.”

  “Just a mineral water, thanks. And please call me Shannon.”

  “What an unusual name,” Ashley said as the waiter went off to get Shannon’s drink. “Is it your birth name or a TV thing?”

  “I’m named after the river in Ireland. That’s where my parents went on their honeymoon, and that’s where I was conceived. In a little bed and breakfast place with a view of the Shannon River.”

  “How romantic.”

  “The name has really served me well,” Shannon continued. “It’s trendy for anchormen to have unusual names. Look at Stone and Forrest.” Shannon smiled again. Ashley smiled back.

  “So what can I do for you, Ashley?” Shannon felt a surge of excitement as he looked into the woman’s green eyes. It was probably foolish of him to talk to this reporter. But what the hell. The riskier the situation, the more Shannon was attracted to it.

  “This GNN thing is very tough to break down,” Ashley said. “I’ve called dozens of people at GNN, but I’m getting nothing. Nobody will talk about Costello or Ross.”

  “Everybody’s scared,” Shannon said.

  “Why?”

  “We are completely off the record here, right, Ashley?”

  “Well, I’d like to use what you say, but I won’t mention your name. Okay?”

  Shannon thought it over, keeping eye contact with the reporter. “Right now, I’m out of TV and writing a book. But I may want to get back in the game sometime. And if you burn me, that will never happen. Nobody in television can speak with candor about the industry because there are always reprisals. It’s a small world and talking out of turn is never rewarded.”

  “Why did you leave Channel 6?” Ashley asked.

  “Surely you know I was fired. Your paper ran the story on page one.”

  “Yeah, and it was strange. You were on top in the ratings. Everybody thought there was something funny going on behind the scenes.”

  “Then why didn’t one of your crack reporters look into it?”

  Ashley had no answer, but saw the pain in Shannon’s eyes. She immediately felt sorry for him. “Well, if it means anything, I thought you were great on the air. That station hasn’t been the same since.”

  “Nice of you to say. Now let’s go over this one more time, because I don’t want any misunderstandings. I am trusting you. My words are not for direct attribution. You can use ‘a source says.’ What I say is not to be taken out of context, or used to debate anyone else. My words stand alone, and you protect my identity. No one is to know that we have spoken, including your editor. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Ashley opened her notebook and felt oddly excited. “First off, tell me about Ron Costello.”

  “Scum of the earth.” Shannon’s blunt answer took Ashley Van Buren aback. She stared at him. No smiles now. Shannon Michaels’ look was very intense.

  “How so?”

  “Costello was a fraud. He was a dishonest individual who committed the worst journalistic sin of all: He stole the work of other reporters.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “I could, but I won’t . . . because that would lead directly back to me. However, if you do a little leg work, you’ll find plenty of GNN people who will privately tell you the same thing.”

  “So Costello wasn’t liked at GNN?”

  “The old guard liked him fine. Lyle Fleming and those guys. Costello was a yes man. Fleming knew he was no threat to him as an anchor, but he had been around a long time. The GNN tradition and all that. Remember, Fleming came from local news. He anchored in D.C. Unlike Jennings, Rather, Brokaw, and Shaw, Fleming didn’t have network reporting experience before becoming a network anchor. He needed guys like Costello who had so-called credibility. Who had been to Vietnam. Who had covered summits. Fleming is just a reader. He’s insecure about his news background. He needs to surround himself with veteran correspondents to jack up GNN’s prestige.”

  “Why did you so dislike Costello?” Ashley asked.

  “I despise dishonesty. And Costello was as dishonest as they come. He masqueraded as a reporter. Yeah, he covered big stories. But he didn’t actually do much reporting. Others did that. Costello would sit around drinking while GNN producers and reporters were in the field gathering information and shooting videotape. Then he took their work and made it his own. Stole it outright.”

  “Hard to believe,” Ashley said, hoping her skepticism would lead him to say more.

  “Check out the term ‘bigfooting,’ ” Shannon answered.

  “Can’t you be more specific? I’m having trouble with the concept that a news organization like GNN would allow that to happen. Nobody would steal stories at the Globe.”

  Shannon did not reply. He stared at Ashley. The silence grew uncomfortable for her. She changed the subject. “What about Hillary Ross?”

  “A hatchet woman who ruined scores of lives and enjoyed doing it.” Shannon bit off his words.

  Once again Ashley was surprised by Shannon’s terseness. She continued taking notes. She knew she was getting great stuff.

  “Hillary Ross,” Shannon continued, “is, I should say was, one of those people who shows up on the network payroll with absolutely no news experience. Yet, she comes in as an executive. The woman never covered a news story in her life. Had no journalistic skills. But there she was, passing judgment on how veteran correspondents were doing their jobs.”

  “How did she get in that position?” Ashley asked.

  “Two reasons. First, she was an informer. I’ve lost track of how many presidents of News GNN has had in the last ten years but, believe me, Hillary Ross was passing along information to all of them. The kind of information that damages people’s careers. Maybe an indiscreet remark made in a fit of anger. Maybe a rumor about an affair. Hillary Ross could hurt anyone she wanted to hurt.”

  “But why would network executives allow something like that to go on?” Ashley’s pen was skipping, its ink going dry. She fumbled in her purse for another pen.

  “The suits n
eed and want information,” Shannon answered. “They aren’t trusted, so they don’t have direct access to what their employees are thinking. The office politics are intense and the agendas are different. The reporters and producers want to make as much money as they can for themselves, but executives stand in the way of that. Their charge is to keep salaries low, and to make people fear for their jobs. So there’s distrust and little interaction. Let’s just say there are two separate camps.”

  “So the executives have to plant somebody in the workers’ camp so they can know what’s going on.”

  “Sure,” Shannon Michaels said. “They need somebody who will pass along the dirt and that’s what Ross did. She had her spies on the floor, and information flowed. But all the time Ross was ratting on those around her, she also protected herself by filling Lyle Fleming in on what was going on in the executive chambers. She knew that Fleming would probably outlast the suits, and she wanted to cover her butt. Wanted some powerful person at GNN, Fleming, to rely on her and protect her just in case a News president came in who was perceptive enough to see what kind of person Hillary Ross really was. So, in effect, Ross was a double agent. And she did very well for herself.”

  Shannon, looking at Ashley Van Buren, was becoming very attracted to her. He hadn’t been with a woman for a long time.

  “Are you ready for reason two?” Shannon asked Ashley, her eyes still widening.

  Ashley nodded, her pen at the ready.

  “Ross was valuable to GNN because she enjoyed firing people. She got off on it. It was like sex to her. Most executives are non-confrontational. They want deniability. They hatch their plots in private. They never want to be associated with a public firing just in case the person they fire winds up winning a Peabody or an Emmy after going over to the competition. So they gave the dirty job to Hillary. And she loved the power it brought her. She loved the fact that people feared her.”

  Ashley put down her notebook and took a sip of wine. Then she took another sip. She was trying to decide how to phrase a rather delicate question.

  “So, you’re glad Costello and Ross are dead?”