Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  As usual, Jackson Davis was prompt. He called Tommy from the Sheraton Hotel in Santa Monica at 11:30 a.m., Pacific time. Jackson had quite a story to tell.

  Upon his arrival in Los Angeles, Jackson went directly to the funeral of Martin Moore, a pitiful event attended by just seven other people. Apparently “much loved” was not a phrase that applied to Martin Moore. Nobody at the service shed a tear, not even the man’s two daughters, Jackson noted.

  At the cemetery, an attractive young black woman caught the detective’s eye. He politely introduced himself. The woman’s name was Susan Oliver. She had been Moore’s secretary for the previous five years.

  It didn’t take long for Jackson to find out two things: that Susan despised her late boss, and that she liked Detective Davis very much. Later that evening, the two ate dinner at a swank restaurant called The Ivy at the Shore, and sparks flew. Susan Oliver found Jackson Davis handsome and intelligent. Jackson couldn’t argue with her.

  The next evening, on their second date, Susan Oliver gave up all of Martin Moore’s secrets. The man was a true pig, according to Susan. He would do anything for money. He slanted research all the time to please the executives who paid him. Susan typed up all of the research summaries, so she knew many of them were bogus. What Moore found out from the television viewers he polled was not always what he presented as fact. Susan told Jackson that she felt a terrible guilt because she knew some people lost their jobs because of Moore’s dishonest research.

  Jackson asked Susan if she had ever heard the name of Shannon Michaels. He was surprised by her reaction. Susan’s eyes actually teared up. That was the worst thing she had ever been involved with, she said. Moore and a man named Lance Worthington, the news director at Channel Six in New York, really hated this Michaels. They talked about him all the time on the phone. From what Susan could ascertain, Michaels preferred doing hard news, and thus made it difficult for Worthington to champion the tabloid stories he needed to pull in younger viewers. Martin Moore was always calling the anchorman “that bastard Michaels.”

  In the spring of 1993, Moore undertook an extensive research contract for Newscenter Six, a polling project that would net him close to two hundred thousand dollars. On-air talent at all New York City stations was evaluated, and Shannon Michaels scored excellent numbers, right behind legendary anchormen Bill Beutel and Chuck Scarborough in the name recognition category. The majority of viewers liked Michaels, and felt he added a great deal of credibility to Newscenter Six.

  But that, said Susan Oliver, is not what Martin Moore reported. He cooked the books. By the time Moore was finished tinkering, the research showed that Shannon Michaels was slipping in popularity, especially among viewers eighteen to forty-nine years old—the prime audience for advertisers. Moore then ordered Susan Oliver to enter the phony data into the computer system. She protested, but Moore made it clear that her job was on the line. “What do you care about this guy?” he demanded to know.

  When Susan asked her boss for verification information—that is, the names and phone numbers of the people Martin Moore had polled—he told her that Newscenter Six wasn’t interested in verification. The company would take the results Moore provided, and ask no questions.

  To her shame, Susan Oliver did what Moore ordered. She had a young daughter to support and needed her $35,000-a-year salary. But after she heard that Shannon Michaels had been fired from his job, all she could think about was her role in the man’s demise. Moore and Worthington actually laughed about the firing on the phone. She had furtively listened in on one conversation and almost became nauseous. Both men were ruthless animals, she thought. They had no morals whatsoever.

  But Susan Oliver had a conscience and did the only thing she could think of: She called Shannon Michaels. Martin Moore kept a list of all Newscenter Six employees, including their home addresses and phone numbers. Susan didn’t give Shannon her name, but told him what had happened. The man listened in silence, Susan told Jackson. He did not react. After asking a few questions, he politely thanked her and hung up. She expected the shit to hit the fan, to find out that he had filed a lawsuit or something. But nothing happened. The call eased Susan’s guilt a little, she said, but she still felt like a criminal.

  Tommy O’Malley was silent until Jackson Davis finished the story. All at once, he erupted: “I knew it, goddamnit. I just knew it. That bastard! That cowardly fuck! I’ll break his neck, Jack! That lowlife bastard!”

  “Easy, Tom,” said Jackson Davis, who was now holding the phone away from his ear because Tommy was screaming at the other end. “Calm down, man. Now that we know it’s probably him, we hold the cards.”

  “Not really, Jack,” said Tommy, the volume of his voice dropping. He was cooling down but still breathing hard. “The guy’s eventually gonna go after Worthington, but that could happen any time. We can’t watch him forever.”

  “True, but this guy’s not a patient man.”

  “He’s shrewd, Jack. I met with him on Sunday.”

  “Man, I’m sorry I missed that,” Jackson Davis said. “I bet you guys are best pals now.”

  “His best pal inhabits a warm place, if you know what I mean, Jack. Anyway, you’re right. We’ll get him. Anything left to do out there?”

  Jackson Davis paused, “Well, Susan and I still have a few things we haven’t tried.”

  “I mean in the investigation, Jackson. I can’t believe you’re gettin’ laid on the city’s nickel,” Tommy snarled. He thought he heard Jackson stifle a laugh.

  “What I do for the department!” said Jackson in mock exasperation. “But seriously, the cops out here have very little on the Moore case. These are mellow guys; they’re not exactly obsessing over it. I need one more day to look around Malibu, see if anyone saw this Michaels or anybody else on the night Moore bought it. I’ve been showing Michaels’ picture around, but nothing yet. You think the guy is definitely our man, huh?”

  “No question. I’ll fill you in when you get back. By the way, Jack, what’s this Susan look like?”

  “Five-ten, long legs, nice round butt, 36 B cup and a smile that lights up your life.”

  “You’re a poet, Jack.”

  “That’s odd. She calls me poetry in motion. Anyway, got to go. Work to do. I believe it’s eighty degrees. What’s it like in Harlem?”

  “Fuck you, Jack.”

  Tommy O’Malley walked into Lt. Brendan McGowan’s office and sat down. McGowan had just returned from a long weekend in the Bahamas only to find three messages from the Commissioner. Each asked the same question: When was the Ross case going to be cleared?

  On his Caribbean trip, McGowan had gotten some sun, but he still looked tired. He probably looked tired the day he was born, Tommy thought.

  “Nice time, Mac?”

  “The wife got sun poisoning.”

  “Geez.”

  “Had to go to the hospital and everything.”

  “Wow.”

  “Two thousand bucks and she gets sun poisoning.”

  “Shame.”

  “What we got on Ross?”

  “I know who did it.”

  Brendan McGowan leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with interest. “But there’s a problem, right?”

  Tommy scratched the top of his head. He needed a haircut. “Yeah, I can’t prove it.”

  “Who’s the perp?” McGowan asked.

  “Guy named Shannon Michaels, former Channel Six anchorman.”

  “Holy shit in a ten pound bag! Michaels? Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “I’m ninety percent certain it’s him. I had a sit-down at his place. I think he’s the guy.”

  “Can we get him?” McGowan asked.

  “I believe we can. But it’s not going to be easy. And the bastard’s making noises about suing,” Tommy answered.

  “That’s all we need.” McGowan shook his head, which was peeling underneath his comb-over. Irishmen rarely tanned. They usually reddened, then shed. “So what do you need to wrap th
is up?”

  “Surveillance on the guy, number one. We might get lucky. I think he’s got another target in mind.”

  “He’s out on the Island, right?” Tommy nodded. “That’s gonna get real costly,” McGowan said.

  “I know, but we gotta do it. I also need to pull his phone records for the past year. I doubt we’ll find anything, but we should look.”

  “That’s easy enough,” McGowan said. “Any probable cause for a search or a tap?”

  “None. And we wouldn’t find anything anyway. Mac, this guy has motive and he knows we know it. We got the reason behind the hits, but nothin’ else. He’s a professional assassin. Every hit has been clean. And he’s an arrogant fuck. He looked right into my eyes and denied everything. Between the lines, he realizes that I know what went down. But it doesn’t matter. He understands the limits of the law, and he knows we don’t have shit.”

  “All right, I’ll authorize surveillance for two weeks, but that’s all the department will allow in one stretch except for terrorist cases. Can you shake this guy? Force him to make a mistake?” McGowan asked.

  “Possible.”

  “Damn . . . Shannon Michaels. Be careful, Tommy. If this thing blows up, it’s both our asses. If he sues or goes to the press and we don’t have him, we’re dead meat.”

  “I know. There’s one thing, Mac. Another guy, David Wayne, used to work with GNN. He’s got motive and no clear alibi as far as we know. I’m pretty sure this Michaels bastard is the perp, but we gotta watch Wayne to protect our backs. Can you put a guy on him for a couple of days while I concentrate on Michaels?”

  “Fuck. More paperwork. All right. But I’m also callin’ the Commissioner and lettin’ him know we’re makin’ progress. But I’m tellin’ him we don’t have a name.”

  “Fine,” Tommy O’Malley said, getting up from his chair. “I’ll talk to the surveillance guys.”

  The phone rang and Shannon Michaels picked right up. He didn’t get many calls, so he never screened them with an answering machine. If he didn’t want to talk, he’d just say so.

  “It’s me—Ash. The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Shannon said. “How are you?”

  “Stressed over a column. But the flowers are getting me through it. You really didn’t have to,” Ashley said while looking out her window at the cold East River.

  “Can we get together next weekend?” Shannon asked.

  “Don’t know yet. I’m still sorting some things out.”

  Shannon didn’t like the sound of that. “Talking to Detective O’Malley again, I bet.”

  “He doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Ashley said. “It’s just that I have conflicting emotions about us.”

  “Well, let’s talk about it. Besides, I want to tell you about my meeting with O’Malley.” Shannon knew that would pique Ashley’s interest.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks again for the flowers.”

  Ashley hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, staring again at the roses sitting in the glass vase on her desk. She really didn’t know what to do about Shannon Michaels. The situation was getting out of control. Never in her wildest fantasies could she have conjured up a situation as farfetched as this. If Tommy was right and she was wrong, she might be falling for a cold-blooded killer. What if she had been intimate with a monster? Could she live with that?

  But it couldn’t be possible. The guy was so normal. And something about Shannon presented an almost overwhelming attraction to her. She had to talk to somebody about this. Just had to. But it was so bizarre, people would think she was crazy. And she couldn’t reveal Shannon’s name in the context of murder. That would be unthinkable. What if he really was innocent, as she believed? God, what a mess!

  After thinking a few moments, Ashley leaned forward, picked up her phone, and dialed a number she knew well. After two rings, her therapist’s secretary came on the line.

  The kid was seventeen but looked four years younger. His head was shaved. Hung from his left lobe were two small silver earrings. And, on his left forearm was displayed a garish tattoo of a knife blade with the letters B.B. at the top of the hilt. The B.B. stood for “Bitchin’ Boys,” the gang to which he belonged.

  Detectives Luke Murray and Esteban Morales were interrogating the teenager in the youth room just to the left of Tommy O’Malley’s office. The youth room was usually reserved for kids under the age of sixteen, but Murray and Morales were using it because it was smaller than the regular interrogation room, and the detectives wanted this kid, named Justin Holliday, to feel the walls closing in on him.

  Two days prior in Central Park, Justin had been “juggin,” gang slang for hanging around, waiting for a few of his friends to meet him. Because certain areas of the park are known as cruising grounds for homosexuals, it wasn’t all that unusual for a kid as young-looking as Justin Holliday to be approached by a gay man in his mid-twenties and get propositioned.

  But Justin became enraged and chased the man off, cursing him with a fusillade of words that were as base as the English language allows. Later that evening, he and three other members of the Bitchin’ Boys returned to Central Park to hunt for the man who had accosted Justin. They found him and another man talking and smoking cigarettes at a known gay hangout just north of the West 72nd Street entrance to the park.

  The Bitchin’ Boys wasted no time on small talk. They immediately jumped the two men and started beating them. The men ran, but the one who had propositioned Justin slipped and fell. The attackers pounced on him with savage intensity. Despite the victim’s screams for mercy, the four gang members kicked him to death in a matter of minutes. The teenagers then took his wallet, left the park, traveled downtown on the subway, and went to a dance club, using their victim’s money to pay the admission fee.

  The other man escaped the murderous gang by running through the park and flagging down a police car on Fifth Avenue. By the time the police responded to the scene, the killers were long gone. But the survivor had gotten a very good look at one of them—Justin Holliday. When homicide detectives showed the witness mug shots of known troublemakers, the man fingered the youth immediately. This was why Detectives Murray and Morales were grilling the gang member in the youth room.

  But Justin Holliday was playing the hard case. He wouldn’t say a thing, wouldn’t give up his pals. And he kept asking for a lawyer. The detectives stalled, knowing three things: that once a Public Defender showed up, the case would get much more complicated; that, because this was a bias crime, the news media would be all over it; and that the information could not be released to the media until the cops located the dead man’s family—he came from a small town in Michigan. Once that notification took place, though, and it would be soon, all hell would break loose. The homicide detectives were racing against a shrinking deadline to get Justin Holliday to confess, to write down what he did and who did it with him.

  “Tommy, I know you’re busy, but could I talk with you for a moment?” A tense-looking Luke Murray was actually wringing his hands, apparently in frustration. Murray probably was getting nowhere with the interrogation, Tommy thought, and wanted to beat the hell out of this punk Holliday, but couldn’t do it.

  “So, Luke, let’s just drown him in the sink. We’ll tell everybody he wasn’t very proficient in the act of drinkin’ water.”

  Murray smiled for the first time in four hours, then filled Tommy in on the problem. Bias crimes were top priority for New York City homicide detectives. If you couldn’t solve them quickly, it was held against you. Tommy listened closely and then suggested a strategy. Murray liked it right away and called for Morales to join them. Esteban locked Holliday in the Youth Room and walked over. He, too, looked frustrated and exhausted.

  After speaking with the two investigating detectives for a few more minutes, Tommy unlocked the door and strode quickly into the room, startling Justin Holliday, who had never seen him before. Holliday’s light blue eyes were bl
oodshot and his face was pale. Tommy sized him up fast. A big kid, about six feet tall. Looked like he lifted weights. Fingernails bitten to the quick and stained by nicotine. It was obvious the kid badly needed a smoke.

  “Hey, man, you no lawyer. You another cop. I wanna lawyer.”

  “We’re gettin’ you one, Justin,” Tommy said in a calm voice. Everybody screamed for a lawyer these days, the direct result of watching the TV shows NYPD Blue and Homicide. Tommy walked behind the seated suspect, paused, and then circled back, taking a chair directly opposite the tough-looking kid. Between them was a metal table. In front of the suspect, untouched, was the pad of paper and pencil Morales had set down. The teenager was rocking back and forth in his small chair. His breath was foul. Tommy could smell it four feet away.

  Tommy had seen hundreds of thugs like Justin Holliday—young people who lived lives of depravity, who hurt other people without a thought. Tommy did not care at all how Justin Holliday had arrived at this particular point in his life. His only thought was to get this kid off the streets. He knew that, even with a conviction, Holliday’s prison time would be an insult to the family of the murdered man. Twelve years behind bars was about average for a confessed killer in New York City—twelve years for taking a human life.

  “I ain’t talkin’ ta ya, man. I got nothin’ ta’ say.”

  “Good, Justin. Then you just listen.” Tommy’s voice was harder. He leaned toward the kid. “I’m now gonna tell you exactly what is gonna happen to you. The other detectives are takin’ a break. They wouldn’t tell you this, but I think you should know.” Tommy paused. He had the kid’s attention.

  “First thing is we are going to put the word out that you’re ratting on your friends. We’re gonna tell everybody on the West Side, and then we’re pickin’ up all the Bitchin’ Boys and bringing ’em in. We’re gonna say we really appreciate all the cooperation you’re givin’ us.”