Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  Shannon didn’t mind the question. He wore his ego without shame. He got up off the couch, and walked over to the telescope by the window. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  Putting his eye to the telescope finder, Shannon aimed to the northeast, scanning the Long Island Sound. Despite the cloudiness, there was good visibility, and he shifted the telescope to the left. The Sound there was choppy and empty of boats. But then he caught a glimpse of something that briefly startled him. He moved the scope back, spotting a small motor launch. Then he zeroed in and got an additional shock. A man in the boat was standing, his binoculars trained on Shannon’s house.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Shannon said, just loud enough for Ashley to hear. “What’s going on?”

  Ashley was startled by the change in Shannon’s demeanor. He was clearly agitated. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Damned if I know.” Shannon manipulated the lens to get a better look at the boat, seeing two guys wearing navy blue high-neck sweaters and matching woolen caps. The guy with the high-powered glasses had lowered them and was talking with the other man. Shannon thought he might have caught him looking at them.

  “I’ve gotta check this out,” Shannon said, grabbing his jacket and walking quickly out the back door. Ashley walked over to the telescope to see for herself. The boat was about fifty yards off shore, and the men in it looked like they were preparing to leave. Ashley suspected the men in the boat were cops.

  With Shannon down the stairs to the beach and out of sight, Ashley saw an opportunity. Up against a window in the living room was a huge desk, with a small personal computer on top. She went over and opened up the desk drawers, but saw nothing out of the ordinary: just writing paper, pens, paper clips, staples, and envelopes.

  Ashley looked up and saw the small boat moving eastward at a rapid clip. Suspecting that Shannon would soon be coming back, she quickly went to check out his bedroom. On the nightstand next to his small bed was a leather-bound organizer. Without hesitation, she walked over and opened it. A number of papers spilled out onto the floor. Shit. Ashley knelt down and gathered them up. If Shannon caught her snooping around, she didn’t know what he would do. The man was tightly wound.

  Suddenly, she heard a scratching sound at the window. Ashley’s heart leapt and she jerked her head up, staring at the window pane. A pine branch swayed back and forth. Ashley could feel her heart thumping as she took a deep breath and listened closely for any sound coming from the backyard. Nothing.

  She continued to flip through the loose papers. There were scribbled notes and what looked like telephone numbers, but no names. One of the phone numbers was circled. Ashley stared hard at it and wondered if she should copy it down. No, there wasn’t enough time. She repeated the digits in her mind, hoping to memorize them. Closing the organizer, she placed it back on the nightstand and quickly stood up.

  “What are you doing, Ash?” said a voice cold and low. Shannon Michaels stood in the bedroom’s doorway.

  “Kind of a small bed, don’t you think?” Ashley said, trying to force a twinkle into her eye. It didn’t work. “I figured I’d tour the rest of this mansion while you were out. What gives out there, anyway?”

  Shannon didn’t answer. At first, he just stood there, his eyes narrowing. Then he took a step toward her and stopped. She was deeply afraid. Slowly he turned around, trying to calm himself. He knew the two men in the boat were spying on him. He strongly suspected that Ashley had told the police where his house was. And now he had found her in his bedroom, skulking around. All his warm feelings for her were quickly evaporating.

  “Ashley, did you tell Detective O’Malley where I’m staying out here?” Shannon’s voice was hard but calm.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Well, I think the two guys in the boat were O’Malley’s men. They were definitely spying on me. He probably had you followed.”

  “I don’t think he’d do that,” Ashley said.

  Shannon didn’t reply. He walked back into the living room, his mind racing. He was being watched. And there was a chance that Ashley was in on it. He felt his anger rising. “Ash,” he said, “let’s take a walk outside.”

  The Church of St. Monica on East 79th Street was built in Italian style in the late nineteenth century, and its interior was massive: stone floors and walls, high arches, a hand-painted ceiling, and dark oak pews. In truth, Tommy O’Malley preferred this kind of church to many of the more modern Catholic churches, which were often glass and teakwood affairs. St. Monica’s was cool and dark inside—the stained glass windows kept light to a minimum. Hundreds of flickering candles flanked the altar, providing the traditional, medieval-like atmosphere Tommy associated with Catholicism.

  The five o’clock mass on Saturday afternoon was sparsely attended. Tommy himself didn’t usually attend. Though he tried to go to mass every Sunday, he sometimes missed. On this day, though, he felt he needed to pray.

  The elderly priest began the ceremony in a barely audible tone, but Tommy’s mind was elsewhere. He was worried about Ashley Van Buren. His surveillance team had informed him about Ashley’s arrival at Shannon Michaels’ house. The cops went on to say that two Suffolk County policemen were helping out by watching Michaels from a small boat on the Sound. Tommy had cursed, knowing that a careful man like Shannon Michaels might very well notice that kind of surveillance, and suspect that Ashley had brought it with her.

  The Epistle of St. Paul dealt with rejecting false gods, but Tommy barely heard it. Instead, he silently asked for the ability to stop Shannon Michaels, and to keep Ashley Van Buren from being harmed in any way. Tommy rarely prayed for himself. But he firmly believed that by trying to stop a killer, he was doing God’s work. Tommy finished his intense personal meditation and looked around. The congregation was standing for the Gospel of St. Mark. He had been concentrating so hard on his thoughts that he had missed the Gospel signal and was still seated. The elderly lady situated further down his pew looked at him disdainfully.

  Tommy stood up and listened as the priest read the Scripture. All his life he had believed that an active God oversaw what happened in the world. His mother had instilled in him a deep feeling of faith, but it was sorely tested by the evil he saw nearly every day. He had remained steadfast. He had vowed to die a believer, no matter what happened.

  The mass continued for a long time, too long in Tommy’s opinion. The elderly priest’s sermon was about some obscure point of theology and Tommy could barely sit still. His apprehensions made it just about impossible for him to concentrate on anything but the murder case.

  Walking back to his apartment after mass, Tommy slowly acknowledged that Christmas was coming. The decorations along Third Avenue lit up the night. Tommy, of course, had not even thought about Christmas yet. But seeing the seasonal displays, he knew exactly what he wanted his Christmas present to be: Shannon Michaels in handcuffs.

  With the setting of the December sun, the beach was turning colder, and Shannon Michaels’ disposition didn’t warm things up at all. Ashley Van Buren knew the spy boat had upset him. What she didn’t know was what would come next. And that made her fearful. After walking a few hundred yards in silence, Shannon finally said, “You know, this is really unfair. I’m a suspect in a murder case and I haven’t done a damn thing. Even you aren’t sure about me. How would you feel if you were in my position?”

  “I wouldn’t feel good about it, Shannon. I’m certain of that.”

  “And there’s absolutely nothing I can do, is there?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Ashley said, relieved he was talking to her in a natural way.

  The couple continued to walk in silence. Small stones crunched under Ashley’s boots. Old hollowed-out shells of horseshoe crabs dotted the sand. After about fifteen minutes of walking, Shannon stopped and looked out to sea. “I guess I’ll just have to live with the situation, and the tragedy is that while they are wasting time and manpower following me, there’s a killer on the loose. I wonder h
ow the police will react when they finally catch him?”

  “When that happens, you’ll have quite a story to tell. I’ll do a column on it if you want.” Ashley was trying to be helpful. She still had seen no indication that Shannon Michaels was a killer. And the fact that he was so upset at being a suspect made her feel somewhat sorry for him.

  It was dark when the couple returned to the house. Shannon had been silent for most of the walk back, seemingly lost in thought. As the two strolled into the living room, Shannon said, “I’m sorry I’m not very good company today. This whole thing has really thrown me. I’m not used to being hunted.”

  “That’s okay, Shannon. I understand completely. If it were happening to me, I’d be a wreck. Anyway, tomorrow is a work day so I’ve got to leave, but I hope we can see each other again soon.”

  “Sure. Maybe next weekend.”

  “And if you just need to talk or anything, give me a call, okay?”

  Shannon didn’t answer but stood in front of the doorway, blocking her exit. Outwardly calm, she began to feel uneasy again. Shannon just kept staring at her.

  Finally, he smiled uneasily and Ashley followed suit. It was going to be okay, she thought. She didn’t want to give up on Shannon Michaels yet, but she also sensed something changing. Deep inside, her inner voice was talking. And, for the first time, Ashley Van Buren was ready to listen.

  “Tommy, this is Ash.”

  As he picked up the phone, Tommy O’Malley was in the middle of eating his dinner—half a barbecued chicken and green salad. “Ash, where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m at a rest stop on the Expressway and I’m fine, Tommy. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t know any such thing, and I’m afraid I have bad news for you. I didn’t find anything incriminating at Shannon’s place. And now I have to ask you something.” Ashley paused. Her voice was businesslike.

  “Go ahead,” Tommy said.

  “Did you have me followed to Shannon’s house?”

  “No, we’ve had surveillance on the guy for three days. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “Well, he spotted your surveillance people. And he’s really angry. And, you know what, Tommy? I kind of don’t blame him.”

  “Come on, Ash. How are we gonna catch this guy if we don’t watch him?”

  “What if he didn’t do it, Tommy?”

  “And what if he did, Ash? Are we supposed to just sit around and not try to find out? If he’s innocent, so be it. He was inconvenienced for a few days. No big deal.” Tommy’s voice was a bit loud, so he lowered it. “You didn’t find anything in his house, huh?”

  “Nothing strange at all. I did memorize a phone number he had circled, but it turned out to be nothing.”

  “Tell me about nothing, Ash.”

  “It’s just the number of some hotel in Fort Lauderdale. I know because I called it.”

  Tommy stood up and a rush of adrenaline hit him, but he kept calm. Lance Worthington was going to Fort Lauderdale on Monday. “What hotel, Ash?”

  “The Marriott Marina.”

  “Ashley,” Tommy said very slowly. “What was nothing to you could be a major development for me. A guy we think Michaels may be after is going to a convention in Lauderdale. And that convention is being held—”

  Ashley, giving no thought to the potential danger to herself, quickly interrupted. “When do we leave, Detective O’Malley?”

  At four in the morning, Shannon Michaels walked out the back door of his cliffside house and descended the stairway steps leading to the beach. A full moon hovered near the horizon, giving off just a trace of light. Stopping at the tenth step, Shannon slowly dropped to his knees. Using a small spade, he dug into the side of the cliff, which was a few inches underneath the protruding stairway.

  After penetrating a few inches, the spade hit metal. Shannon removed the small, oblong-shaped container. It held his bogus driver’s license, his brown contact lenses, a pair of surgeon’s gloves, a new false mustache, and a new Phoenix Suns cap. Placing all but the gloves into a paper bag, he put the empty container back into the dirt and covered it up.

  Shannon walked back up to the house and stuffed the paper bag into a large canvas traveling bag nearly full with packed clothing and essentials. He then left the house again, walking silently down the long driveway. Dressed completely in black, including a woolen cap, Shannon approached the narrow lane that provided access to his house, then stopped. He strongly suspected that someone would be watching his driveway entrance. He was right.

  Approximately one hundred yards east of him, he spotted something odd—a car parked on the street. Mattituck residents kept their vehicles on their own property, not on the street. Shannon couldn’t see into the darkened car, but believed one or two men were in it.

  Shannon walked back to the house and readied his plan. He quietly put the canvas travel bag in the trunk of his car, donned the gloves, and tore up an old black T-shirt. Taking the rags with him, he cut across the pine forest flanking his house. It was very dark, but Shannon’s night vision kicked in and he made his way cautiously through the trees. He knew he would have to move quicker coming back, so he was careful to note the terrain.

  Shannon emerged from the trees and onto his nearest neighbor’s front lawn. Walking silently toward the street, he realized he was now behind the parked car. He proceeded quickly out into the lane. He was moving with purpose now, keeping very low.

  Inside the unmarked 1994 Toyota Camry, Patrolman Anthony Calabrese was nearly asleep. This was the worst detail he had had in months. Boring as hell. And cold. The policeman turned the ignition on every ten minutes just to warm things up inside, but he was still uncomfortable. He looked at his watch. Two more hours before his partner, who was sleeping in a nearby motel, would relieve him.

  A crawling Shannon Michaels was less than twenty feet from the car when a noise startled him. The engine shut down. Shannon hit the pavement and lay prone, waiting for someone to emerge. A rather small man did, quietly opening and closing the driver’s-side front door. The man stretched his arms and walked a few feet away from the car. His back to Shannon, he straightened up and began to urinate.

  Shannon’s heart was beating quickly. He hugged the cold pavement. If the man turned around, he would see Shannon’s white face. Shannon mentally prepared himself for a confrontation.

  Anthony Calabrese got his relief, and then began to feel cold. No sense staying out here, he thought. The policeman opened the car door and slipped in behind the wheel.

  As soon as the car door closed, Shannon resumed his crawl and within seconds was directly in back of the Toyota. He brought himself up to a kneeling position, removing the rags from his jacket pocket. Using short, precise movements, Shannon stuffed the rags silently into the Toyota’s tailpipe, making sure to thrust them in as deeply as possible. The entire exercise took about fifteen seconds; crawling away from the car took about ten times as long.

  Picking his way through the pines, Shannon moved rapidly. He was out of breath by the time he reached his own car. Turning the motor over, he figured there was a good chance the man sitting in the other car would hear it. But, with luck, it wouldn’t matter.

  Patrolman Calabrese did indeed hear a car engine fire up. In the still of an eastern Long Island night, any sound carries a long way and Calabrese had wisely kept the driver’s side window open a crack. He was instantly on alert. It was the first sound he had heard in five hours. Slowly, he turned his ignition key. The engine turned over but sputtered. Too much off and on, Calabrese thought.

  Shannon Michaels rocketed out of his driveway and made a sharp right turn. The policeman waited a few moments to turn on his lights. He did not want the suspect to know he was being followed. When Calabrese finally did press down on the accelerator, there was barely a response. The car lurched forward, then rolled ahead slowly. When Calabrese floored it, the engine coughed and jerked forward again. The policeman hit the floor b
rake. It didn’t work. What the hell? he thought.

  Smiling to himself, Shannon figured it would take the cop at least a few minutes to find the rags. He knew that by stopping up the car’s tailpipe, the cop’s Toyota would lose engine vacuum. The power booster would fail and the entire system would shut down. If the cop was a car enthusiast, he would find the problem quickly. If not, he’d have to call a tow truck. Either way, Shannon was long gone and clear.

  Shannon also anticipated that the policeman would radio for help and that other patrol cars might be alerted to look for him on the Long Island Expressway. So he kept to the local roads. He had plenty of time to get to the airport.

  Ashley Van Buren was spent. Her emotionally wrenching experience at Shannon’s house had left her depressed and anxious. As she lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling, the only thoughts that gave her comfort were those of Tommy O’Malley. She respected the fact that Tommy had kept her apprised of the investigation. She knew that she had unwittingly provided a key piece of information, and that other cops would have played it cozy, neglecting to tell her that point A led to point B. Tommy was a man of his word—and Ashley knew so few of them.

  Reaching slowly for the phone, Ashley dialed up the assignment desk at the Globe. She informed the weekend editor, Ed Kowalski, that the GNN case was heating up and that she might have to get on a plane fast. Kowalski began to stammer, his nerves showing, and said he’d call Bert Cicero at home and ask him to okay the trip. Then he’d get back to her. Typical, Ashley thought. Everybody covering their own ass.

  Tommy O’Malley was also on the phone. As soon as he had tied together the information about Worthington, Michaels, and the Marriott Marina in Lauderdale, he called Jackson Davis. Both men now believed that there was a good chance Shannon Michaels would go after Lance Worthington at the Radio and Television News Directors Association Convention. The event ran Monday through Wednesday of the following week. Michaels, they guessed, would probably head south on Sunday, giving him time to prepare.