“Yes. It was the cleaning lady. She’s a young Mexican woman. She’s waiting in a dressing room backstage. When I spoke with her, she was crying and very distraught,” Officer Reynolds said.
“Could you please tell her we’ll be there to talk with her shortly?” Buck said.
“Okay, Detective, I’ll go tell her,” Officer Morton said as she turned and went inside the theater.
Buck and Kristie ducked under the tape and approached the driver’s door. The window had been rolled down. Slumped over the steering wheel was the lifeless body of movie star Grant Peterson. Pulling on latex gloves, Buck gently lifted Peterson’s head off the steering wheel. There was a single bullet hole just above his left eye.
“It looks like before he was shot Peterson rolled down the window and turned to face his killer,” Kristie said. “I wonder if he did that because he knew his killer and was curious to find out what that person wanted?”
“That’s one possibility, or maybe the killer made him roll it down for another reason,” Buck said.
“What reason are you thinking?”
“Maybe the killer wanted Peterson’s wallet and his cash. It might have been a robbery that went bad. We’ll know more when the ME searches the body.”
“I don’t see any shell casing on the ground,” Kristie said. She scoured the area then got down on her hands and knees and looked under the vehicle. “There it is. It must have rolled under the car when it ejected.”
As Kristie stood up, Officer Morton approached and said, “When you’re ready, go down the hallway to the second door on your right.”
“I think we’re ready to see her now,” Buck said. “When the CSU team arrive, be sure you point out the shell casing under the car.”
“Will do, Detective,” Morton said.
Inside the dressing room, they found an attractive young woman sitting with her head down. Her eyes were closed, and she was mumbling something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer. Hearing the detectives enter the room, she looked up with tears in her eyes, made the sign of the cross, and produced a nervous smile.
“Hi,” Kristie said gently. “Do you speak English?”
The girl, her hands trembling, softly said, “Si, Senora, I speak English.”
Suspecting the young woman was an Illegal, Kristie said. “I’m Detective Karlsson, and this is Detective Woods. We’re here to investigate Mr. Peterson’s murder. Don’t be afraid. We’re not from immigration. You’re not going to be deported.”
As she processed what Kristie had said, the young woman seemed to relax, allowing herself a shy smile.
“What is your name?” asked Buck.
Speaking flawless English, she said, “My name is Morella Crisann Lopez.”
“We were told you are the person who discovered Mr. Peterson’s body. Is that correct?” Buck asked.
She nodded. “Si, Senor. I was taking trash to the dumpster when I noticed Mr. Peterson in his car. I went to look, and I could tell he was dead. I ran inside and told Mr. Hanley. He went out to look, then he called Mr. Tillman. Mr. Tillman came out, and after he saw Mr. Peterson, he called for help.”
“Do you remember what time it was when you discovered Mr. Peterson’s body?” Kristie asked.
“I came to work for eight. I think it was around nine when I took out the trash.”
Kristie had been taking notes as they talked.
“Morella, could you please give me your home address and a telephone number where you can be reached? We may need to speak with you again,” Kristie said.
Morella said she was staying with her grandmother. Kristie wrote down her grandmother’s name, address, and phone number.
“That’s all for now, you’re free to go,” Buck said. “Here’s my card, please call me if you think of anything else.”
“Thank you,” Morella said putting the card in her pocket. She stood, left the room, and went back to her cleaning job.
A few minutes later, with sirens blaring, the CSU team and ME Dr. Hector Rodriguez arrived.
When the team had finished placing evidence markers, taking pictures, dusting for fingerprints, entering the shell casing into evidence, sketching and videotaping the crime scene, and looking for any other evidence, Dr. Rodriguez searched and examined the victim. Based on the condition of the body, he estimated the time of death was between eleven and twelve the previous evening.
Turning to Buck and Kristie, Rodriguez said, “The victim died instantly from a single gunshot wound to the head fired from close range. I estimate about two feet. There were no personal effects on the body. It appears that the killer must’ve taken Peterson’s wallet and cash. Was it a robbery gone bad or was it a murder that was made to look like a robbery? That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
“I guess that’s what we’re going to have to try to find out,” Buck said.
“Good luck with this one, Detectives. I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”
A broad-shouldered bald man who looked like a retired New York Jets lineman came storming out of the back door and headed toward them. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and stood about six feet six inches tall. He had a gray mustache under a prominent beak-like nose on a long, oval face. His piercing blue eyes, like two laser beams, zeroed in on the crime scene.
Officer Reynolds quickly intercepted the man and put up a hand. “Stop! Sir, this is a crime scene investigation. Please don’t come any closer.”
“Get out of my way,” the man shouted as he brushed past Reynolds.
Buck and Kristie moved in and blocked his path before he could reach the car.
“Hold on, sir,” Buck said, flashing his badge. “This area is off limits to anyone other than authorized police personnel.”
“I’m not just anyone, Detective. I’m Marcus Tillman, the owner of this theater. You’re on my property. I have every right to be here.”
“Sorry, Mr. Tillman, you don’t. Until the crime scene has been processed and cleared, it’s off limits to everyone except the police and forensics personnel,” Buck said sternly.
Tillman raised his hands. “Okay, okay, I get the message. Will someone please come inside and fill me in on what happened to my dear friend Grant Peterson?”
“I’m Detective Woods, and this is my partner, Detective Karlsson,” Buck said, nodding at Kristie. “We’ll follow you inside. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Please come with me.”
They followed Tillman down the hallway into a spacious office. He took a seat behind a large mahogany desk. By this time Tillman had calmed down.
“Please be seated, Detectives,” he said, pointing to the two chairs facing him.
A large screen TV had been installed on the wall across from Tillman. Directly behind him was a well-stocked bar with a built-in mini fridge. Pictures of Marcus Tillman with politicians and show-business celebrities adorned the walls, and to his left, an open door led to a small elevator.
“Can I offer you a coffee, Detectives?
“No, thanks,” Kristie replied. “I’m good.”
“I’m good, too,” Buck said.
“I could use a coffee,” Tillman said. He buzzed his secretary. “Monica, could you bring me a coffee, please.”
“Right away, Mr. Tillman.”
“Well, Detectives, can you please fill me in on what happened to Grant Peterson?”
“Before we do that, Mr. Tillman, I didn’t notice a video surveillance camera at the back entrance. I trust you don’t have a security system. Is that correct?” Buck asked.
“That’s right, Detective. We’ve never had any problems until now. I didn’t think we needed cameras. In hindsight, if we had a camera out back, it might have caught Peterson’s killer.”
“It may have helped, that’s for sure,” Buck
agreed.
Just as Tillman was about to speak, there was a rap on the door, and an attractive dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties walked in. Without saying a word, she placed the coffee on his desk, turned, and quickly left the room.
Tillman took a sip and said, “Ah, that tastes good. Now, where were we, Detectives?”
“You were asking about what happened to Grant Peterson,” Buck replied.
“Oh, yes. Can you tell me what you’ve determined?”
“To put it plain and simple, Peterson was murdered. Shot in the head at close range. He had no ID or money on his body. It would appear that his killer robbed him,” Buck said.
“Do you think he was murdered for his money? Tillman asked.
“That’s one possibility,” Kristie said. “But maybe the shooter wanted us to think that.”
“Why do you say that?”
She ignored Tillman’s question and asked, “Do you know of anyone who hated Peterson enough to want him dead?”
It was evident that Tillman hadn’t expected Kristie’s question. He paused for a few seconds then said, “Hell, that could be anyone who knew him.”
Surprised by Tillman`s answer, Buck asked, “Why do you say that?”
“When he became famous, it went to his head. His personality changed. He became arrogant and seemed to think everyone was beneath him. Peterson was a perfectionist and would call other actors out if he didn’t think they were meeting his high standards. He constantly got into arguments over petty things. And lately, the words I would use to describe his attitude are grumpy, irritable, agitated, and downright nasty. His last few performances were subpar, missing several lines. He seemed to be preoccupied––in a twilight zone. But getting back to your question, I don’t think anyone would kill him over his miserable attitude. To me, that would be going way too far.”
“I’ve been doing this job too long to rule anything or anyone out when it comes to murder,” Buck said. “Did you and Peterson get along? Did the two of you have any arguments lately?”
The question seemed to catch Tillman off guard. He hesitated for a moment then said, “Peterson and I got along well most of the time. We were good friends. But lately, something seemed to be bothering him. Two days ago he came to me wanting out of his contract. When I asked him why he wouldn’t give me a reason. I told him people bought tickets to see Grant Peterson and not his understudy. I said if he left, it would cost me a lot of money. I told him if he didn’t honor his agreement I would be forced to sue him. He called me every foul name in the book and left in a huff.”
“I’m curious, you said you would lose a lot of money if Peterson didn’t fulfill his contract. I’ve heard that most leading actors are insured by their theater companies in the event of an untimely death or accident. Is that correct?” Buck asked.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you take out a life insurance policy on Peterson?” Kristie asked.
“Yes, I did. I take out life insurance on all my leading actors.”
“Would you mind telling us the amount of insurance you had on Peterson’s life?” asked Buck.
“I’ve got nothing to hide, Detective. It was for five million dollars.”
“That amount would only be payable in the event of his death while under contract, is that correct?” Kristie asked.
“Yes, Detective. That’s correct.”
“If Peterson left without fulfilling his agreement, your only recourse would be to sue him for breach of contract. Is that right?” Buck asked.
“That’s correct. And that’s exactly what I would have done.”
“Since Peterson was murdered, based on what you just said, you stand to collect five million dollars,” Kristie said. “That’s a lot of money. It might be a reason to murder someone.”
Suddenly, Tillman lost his temper and bellowed, “Hold on, Detective, are you insinuating that I killed Peterson for the life insurance money?”
“Did you?” asked Buck.
“Of course not! Why would you even ask such a ridiculous question? He was the star of my play and a close friend.”
Out of the blue, Kristie asked, “Do you own a gun, Mr. Tillman?
Tillman seemed shocked by the question. His face flushed and he shouted, “I can’t believe it! You really think I killed Grant Peterson.”
“You had five million reasons to want him dead. If Peterson were still alive and breached his agreement, you’d have to sue him. As I see it, his death saves you a lot of trouble and inconvenience. And suing him would not necessarily guarantee you a win, and it could be a long, drawn-out affair,” Buck said.
Again, Kristie asked, “Mr. Tillman, do you own a gun?”
Tillman snarled, “Yes, I do. I own a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson. And in case you’re wondering, it’s legal. I have a permit for it. It’s right here.”
He pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer and stared in disbelief.
“Shit,” Tillman said, “it’s gone. I swear it was here the last time I looked. Someone must have taken it.”
“Don’t you keep your office locked?” Kristie asked.
“Not during the day, I don’t. I only lock it before going up to bed. Anyone could have come in when I stepped out. I often go to watch rehearsals and go out for lunch most days.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have taken your gun?” Buck asked.
“It could have been anyone who works here. The cleaning lady, the maintenance man, my secretary, a stagehand, an actor…anyone.”
Once more, Kristie asked, “Can you think of anyone who hated Peterson enough to kill him?”
“As I said before, I know a lot of people didn’t like the man, but I don’t think anyone would go so far as to kill him. That’s crazy.”
“We don’t know that,” Buck said. “As I said, I’ve been doing this job long enough to know that you can’t rule anything or anyone out.”
“As you no doubt know, everyone is a suspect until cleared. Where were you last night, Mr. Tillman?” Kristie asked.
He hesitated as if thinking. “I was in my office watching the play on TV until around nine. My stomach was a little upset, and I was feeling tired, so I decided to retire early. I went up to my apartment, took something to settle my stomach, and was in bed by nine thirty.”
“Do you have a witness who can verify the time you went to bed? Maybe your wife or partner,” Buck asked.
“No. I was by myself. I’m not married, and I don’t have a partner. Sorry, Detective, I don’t have a witness who can confirm the time I went to bed. You’ll just have to take my word.”
“After you went to bed, did you hear anything that sounded like a gunshot?” Kristie asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear a thing. When I bought and remodeled this building several years ago, I made sure that my apartment was soundproofed. I wanted to drown out all the street noise so that I could sleep undisturbed.”
“Did you sleep right through until this morning?” asked Kristie.
“I woke up around three to empty my bladder and went back to sleep. I slept like a baby until my alarm went off at six thirty. I got up, shaved, showered, got dressed, and went to the restaurant across the street. I was supposed to meet Grant for breakfast at seven thirty. He had cooled down from our argument and wanted to meet to discuss his request to terminate his contract. He said he would disclose the reason when we met. I waited until eight, but he didn’t show. I thought that was unusual because in all the years I’ve known him Grant was never late for a meeting. I thought he may have been stuck in traffic, so I called his cell phone and got his voice mail. I tried his home phone with the same result. I finished my breakfast, came back to my apartment and fell asleep on the couch. I was awakened by a frantic phone call from Bart Hanley shortly after nine. He told me the cleaning lady had just found Peterson dead in his car. I ca
me down and saw him slumped over the steering wheel. I knew he was dead. I’ve watched enough crime shows on TV to know not to touch anything. I went back inside and called 911.”
“What about Peterson, did he usually go straight home after each performance?” Buck asked.
“Grant didn’t like leaving with the crowd and getting caught up in traffic. After the play ended around ten, he’d go back to his dressing room and relax with a Scotch or two and smoke a Cuban cigar. That seemed to help him unwind. The odd time I would join him, but I knew he preferred to be alone. He would usually call his wife and talk with his kids before they went to bed. The three-hour time difference worked to his advantage. Around eleven or shortly after, he would get into his car and drive home to his condo. I offered him the use of my driver and limo, but he refused. I think he liked driving that new Porsche of his.”
“Do you have the address for Peterson’s condo?” Buck asked.
“Yes, I do.” Tillman wrote it down and handed it to Buck.
“Did Peterson have a bodyguard?” Kristie asked.
“He didn’t think he needed one. He said he could take care of himself. I think he believed he was the tough guy he played in most of his movie roles. Like Tom Cruise, he even did most of his own stunts.”
“No matter how tough you think you are, it won’t stop a bullet,” Kristie said.
Tillman chuckled. “You’ve got that right, Detective. A dwarf can look like a giant when he’s got a gun in his hand.”
“Before, I forget,” Buck said, “do you have the phone number for Peterson’s wife? We’ll have to inform her of her husband’s death.”
“Yes, Detective, I’ve got her cell, home, and studio numbers on my cell phone.”
“Can I have the numbers, please? Buck asked.
Tillman wrote the numbers down on a sticky note and handed it to Woods.
“Why don’t I call her on my office phone, and you can talk to her right now if you wish,” Tillman suggested.
“If you don’t mind,” Buck said. “I would appreciate that.”
“No problem. For your information, in case you don’t know, Lauren uses her maiden name, McCarthy, for her movies, but in everyday life, she is Lauren Peterson.”
New York City Murders Page 7
