Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 14

  Now that the information was supplied, Tommy and Jackson dealt with the bureaucracy. Jackson called the Teaneck Police, asking the assistant chief to help him get an emergency search warrant. To put it on alert, Tommy called the Bergen County District Attorney’s office. Tommy, Jackson and two other NYPD detectives then drove over the George Washington Bridge, met up with their peers from Teaneck in a coffee shop on Queen Anne Road, and planned the raid. Robo’s mother lived in a small house just north of Route Four, off Teaneck Road. Eight policemen would surround the house and take Robo down.

  The detectives parked their vehicles a block away from the Melton house and made the rest of their way on foot. In front of the white, nondescript home stood a red Mercedes. The New York license plate read “ROBO.” Subtlety was never Robo’s style, Tommy thought.

  Wearing Kevlar vests and armed with shotguns, the police fanned out around the house. Tommy and Jackson Davis walked up to the front door. Jackson rang the bell.

  Still wearing a cast on the thumb that Tommy had broken, Robo Melton answered the door. His bloodshot eyes opened wide when he saw Tommy and Jackson standing in front of him with pistols drawn. “Why, hello, Edgar,” Tommy said. “We’ve just dropped by for dinner. And we brought a warrant with us.”

  Before Robo Melton could react, Jackson Davis grabbed his arms, spun him around, and viciously kicked Robo in the back of the knee. Robo collapsed. “Stay down, Edgar,” Jackson said. “I mean it.”

  Tommy and three other detectives walked through the small, neat living room, nearly running into Robo’s mother, who had hurried out of the kitchen on hearing the commotion.

  “What you doin’ to my boy?” The woman was small and round. She wore thick glasses and had her silver-gray hair tied back. Her brown eyes were slightly crossed and they stared at Tommy. She looked very frightened.

  “Mrs. Melton,” said Tommy, his voice soothing and sympathetic. “I’m Detective O’Malley from the New York City Police Department. We have a warrant to search your home. I’m very sorry for the intrusion, but please remain calm and sit down. We’ll try not to be long.”

  “Oh Lord, oh my sweet Lord! Why are you here? My boy ain’t done nothin’! Oh, Lord, please!” Mrs. Melton collapsed into a chair crying. Tommy sat down next to her as the other detectives found their way to the basement. The remaining two policemen in the squad stayed outside, one in the front yard, the other in the back.

  Jackson Davis stood over Robo Melton, who lay prone on the ground. He bent down and whispered, “Take a good look, scumbag. See the pain you’re puttin’ your mother through? See your mother over there, punk? How you think she’s gonna feel when they put you away for life? You’re a disgrace to your community.”

  Robo Melton didn’t respond.

  It took the detectives just ten minutes to find seven semiautomatic pistols, two small gym bags full of cash, and a brown paper bag that contained scores of tiny white rocks. Crack. The stash was hidden beneath a floorboard behind the oil burner. Edgar “Robo” Melton was arrested, read his rights, and dragged out to a police car. The entire operation took less than thirty minutes to complete.

  Tommy was the last to leave the house. Before departing, he phoned Mrs. Melton’s minister, asking him to come over immediately. He then gave the sobbing mother his card, promising to call her with more information. He despised Robo Melton, but realized Robo’s mother probably knew nothing about her son’s activities—in fact, she thought Robo owned a liquor store in Harlem. He saw a woman whose heart was breaking. He imagined how his own mother would look if something this calamitous happened to him.

  The beach was cold. A chilly wind blowing in off the Pacific Ocean kept all but a handful of beachcombers away. The man calling himself Peter Grant didn’t mind the brisk conditions. He was completely immersed in putting together his plan. Walking the beach in front of Moore’s house, Grant saw signs warning of a silent alarm system. Because a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s sub-station was just a few blocks away, the warning had to be taken seriously.

  Under the circumstances, Martin Moore would have to be taken by surprise and in private. Because Moore drove just about everywhere, as most did in L.A., the place to confront him would be in his home. But there seemed to be no easy entry. Peter Grant continued his walk, evaluating various scenarios in his mind. None of them worked. Moore drove to work, drove to lunch, drove to dinner, drove home. He was either in the car or in a public place all day. Grant did not have time to stalk this man for weeks, hoping he would make a mistake. He needed to move fast.

  “Susan, get Phil Lane on the phone for me, quickly please.” Susan Oliver rolled her eyes. She had been looking for another job for months. Martin Moore, her boss, was an obnoxious, corrupt slob. She couldn’t stand being his secretary. “And while I think of it, Sue, order me some sushi. And tell them it wasn’t fresh last time. I want it fresh.”

  Martin Moore leaned back in his leather chair, his large belly forming a natural handrest. That morning, he had already spilled coffee on his tie, but he didn’t care about his personal appearance. He was making six hundred thousand dollars a year, and plenty more in expenses.

  Moore, now fifty-two years old, had been married three times. He had two teenage daughters living in Atlanta whom he saw twice a year. He sent them checks every month, so his conscience was clear. He couldn’t help it if he thought their mother was a bitch.

  Life for Martin Moore centered around television news, and life was good. He had been smart enough to figure out that although the industry was a huge money-making machine, it was very subjective, filled with insecure, frightened executives unsure about what would attract an audience and what would not. In professional sports, performance could be measured quickly in wins and losses. On TV, effectiveness was a matter of opinion. It would take months, sometimes years, to see if an anchorperson or news reporter was really attracting viewers, or to know if the tone of a local or network news broadcast was appealing to the mass audience.

  A prime example of this was the CBS anchor partnership formed between Dan Rather and Connie Chung. Chung was given the job of co-anchor because CBS research showed two things: Dan Rather was losing popularity, and Connie Chung was liked by many viewers. Two years later, when the anchor changes failed to hike the ratings and there were all kinds of editorial problems, CBS sacked Chung. There was no word on whether the company fired the research outfit that had recommended the pairing in the first place.

  Despite this and similar such failures, many television companies continued to rely heavily on audience research to make business decisions, and Martin Moore had set himself up as a “consultant” to feed off of that. He charged big money, but collecting and analyzing data was relatively cheap and easy. Moore would randomly call people on the phone, asking them what newscasters they liked and why. If the station were paying him a substantial amount of money, he might even pay people a small stipend to watch videotapes of news programs. Afterward, he would ask them to fill out questionnaires. That was called putting together a “focus group.”

  Moore would then tabulate the responses, which he would provide to the television executives. In his presentations, he used words like “quantitative,” “qualitative,” and “imagery.” These words were soothing to executives because they sounded credible and scientific and, above all, gave management concrete reasons for making difficult decisions. “You can’t argue with the research,” the executives could say.

  Moore had worked for some of the biggest corporations in television, including the Global News Network and Newscenter Six in New York City. His presentations were crisp and easy to understand. He also was a master at detecting the prevailing wind. His research results rarely went against the preconceived ideas of those responsible for hiring him.

  Another highly appealing aspect of his job was the power. When he walked into a newsroom, people took notice. His interpretation of research could take their jobs away, and they knew it. Moore was treated with the utmost respect by t
he biggest names in the television business. He had come a long way from being called “fat boy” as a kid on the streets of Chicago.

  It came to Peter Grant suddenly. Again and again his mind had replayed his surveillance of Martin Moore’s Jag pulling into his garage. Grant pictured movement. The automatic garage door. Slowly going up. Slowly going down. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He had his way in.

  Quickly, Grant put together the pieces of his plan. He drove to a hardware store in Santa Monica, purchasing a shovel, tape, twine and a large canvas bag. From a martial arts supply store, he bought just the right truncheon. He then phoned the Santa Monica surf and tide information line. Light winds, cloudy conditions, and low tide was the prediction for eleven p.m. that night.

  For Martin Moore, it had been yet another good business day. A New Orleans station wanted to change its anchor team and Moore had been hired to find out just what the Louisiana audience wanted. With any luck, he could schedule a trip to New Orleans to coincide with Mardi Gras.

  After work, Moore dined at a Greek restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard with a couple he had met on a trip to Hawaii. The woman had chided him about his appearance, saying he’d never get another wife if he didn’t clean up his act. His hair was dirty and his tie replete with coffee stains! She was appalled. But Moore didn’t give a shit. He ordered more ouzo.

  Not wanting any breathalyzer hassles with the police, Martin Moore took his time driving home. A cassette played James Taylor—Moore still relaxed to the music of icons from the sixties and seventies. Though he pulled into his driveway a thoroughly relaxed man, he became briefly agitated. Christ, he thought, that garage door is opening awful slowly. I’ll have to tell my bastard landlord Revi to fix it, that is if I can learn enough goddamn Farsi to make him understand.

  Moore finally drove his way in, slipped the Jag into park, and opened the car door. The garage door descended slowly, much as Moore expected, and he didn’t notice the shadow pass beneath it. When he heard the door suddenly stop in midair, he walked back toward it, saying to himself, “Goddamnit, that thing is ridiculous. I’ll have to call Revi tomorrow.”

  Unknown to Moore, an intruder had tripped the door’s safety sensor, and was now crouched out of sight behind the Jag. Moore hit the garage door button located on the far wall, saw the door resume its downward path, and turned to enter the house. After taking two steps, he heard a slight rustling noise behind him, but before he could turn around, a flash of pain rocketed through his head. Martin Moore instantly lost consciousness and fell forward.

  Peter Grant looked at the truncheon he had used on Moore and returned it to his back pocket. He quickly removed the consultant’s shoes and socks, stuffing one of the socks in Moore’s mouth. He placed heavy black tape over Moore’s mouth and eyes. Flipping him over onto his stomach, Grant tied Moore’s thumbs together behind his back. He also tied his ankles as tight as possible, the twine cutting into Moore’s flesh. Grant checked his watch: It was 10:30, and there was quite a bit more to do.

  Grant dragged Moore’s heavy body into the house and placed it in a hall closet. Moore was breathing slowly. He would regain consciousness soon. Grant closed the closet door and pushed the heaviest piece of furniture in the living room, an oak desk, in front of it. Even if Martin Moore managed to break the twine, he probably wouldn’t be able to push himself out of the closet.

  After shutting down the house alarms and spotlights, Peter Grant unlocked the back door, walking swiftly out onto the patio. A couple of hours before, he had left his canvas bag there. Now, he picked the bag up and, within seconds, was on the beach, digging in the sand with his recently purchased shovel.

  It took thirty minutes of intense work to hollow out a four foot hole a few feet above the low tide line. His surgeon’s gloves chafed his hands. Wet sand was heavy, and Grant’s arms ached. Even though it was cold, he was perspiring freely.

  His task completed, Peter Grant stood up straight, cooling down and looking around. Apart from the surf, there was no sound and little light. In accordance with the weather predictions, low clouds were blocking the moon. Grant’s back was stiff from his digging, so he tried to work out the kinks by twisting his torso. He saw the ocean beginning to creep back up. It was past eleven. He had to move. The tide was turning.

  Careful to make just one narrow footpath in the sand, Grant walked back into the house. He pushed the desk away from the closet door and opened it. After hearing the sounds, Martin Moore began to wiggle, his heavy body flopping up and down. He was moving strenuously but was still secured. Peter Grant inhaled deeply and pulled Moore savagely from his confinement onto the hallway floor, where he then fiercely kicked him in the stomach.

  He wanted to kick Moore a second time—seeing the man close up had ignited his rage. But Grant resisted the urge. Instead, he grabbed the back collar of Moore’s sport jacket with two hands and pulled him across the living room, onto the porch, and down the stairs to the beach. It wasn’t easy work. Moore was a load.

  Breathing heavily, Peter Grant dragged Moore in a straight line, obliterating the footprints in the sand that he had made earlier. The fat man tried to struggle, but quickly lost his breath. The sock in his mouth made it hard for him to breathe. His chest was heaving and he was making low grunting sounds.

  The freshly dug hole was barely deep enough to contain Moore. Grant forced the bound man into the space in a kneeling position, Moore’s head facing toward the ocean. Since Moore was still blindfolded, he could only feel the wet sand filling up around him. He had no idea where he was or what was actually happening.

  It took just a few minutes to bury Martin Moore up to his neck in the heavy, wet sand. When satisfied that Moore could not free himself, Grant turned to look at the ocean. The water was now about six feet away and coming in quickly. Grant turned, and again walked back toward the house.

  Martin Moore knew he was in trouble, but little else was clear to him. His head throbbed and his stomach hurt badly. Bile rose in his mouth but was blocked by the cotton sock that filled it. Moore heard waves crashing, but in his disoriented state, had yet to put the crisis together. He had no idea who had accosted him. He wondered if he was being robbed.

  Moving slowly and meticulously through Moore’s house, Peter Grant made sure he left no clues behind. He scattered the sand that had fallen from his sneakers. Using gloves had prevented fingerprints, but his sneakers might have left an impression somewhere. He carefully examined the garage, the living room, and the porch, the only spaces he had occupied. Feeling confident, he returned to the beach, dragging his canvas bag behind him to wipe out any tracks.

  The first splash of water touched Martin Moore’s chin lightly. It was cold. It sent a chill through his entire body.

  “How does that feel, Martin?” asked a low, menacing voice from above. Moore shuddered. He wanted to see who was speaking. When the adhesive tape was ripped away from his eyes, he got his wish.

  In the darkness, Moore tried to look upward, rotating his neck in the sand. Another splash of salt water caressed his face. His eyes opened wide, his pupils trying to adjust after being forced shut for more than an hour. He saw a man with a mustache standing over him. He didn’t recognize him. He saw the white foam of the ocean coming toward him. The cold water hit him in the face again, this time reaching his lips.

  “The tide is coming in, Martin. And it will not detour around you,” came the chilling voice. Immediately, Martin Moore knew his fate. He desperately tried to move his hands and feet, but he couldn’t. The heavy sand pinned him down. The only thing he could move was his head. He twisted it back and forth, trying to shake the tape off his mouth in order to scream. Another ration of seawater slapped him in the face. Some of the water ran into his nose. Then the voice spoke again, this time with intense authority.

  “You are vermin, Moore. Scum. You got me and scores of other people fired. You destroyed lives. But then again, Martin, you did get that nice house on the ocean out of it. Well, the ocean can cut bo
th ways.”

  Martin Moore fought to control his panic. Oh, Christ, he thought. Oh, sweet Jesus. Who is this guy? But Moore had instigated so many dismissals, he had no idea who his assailant was. He began to feel nauseous. With his eyes, he pleaded for mercy. The man who called himself Peter Grant saw his victim’s desperation, but it didn’t calm his rage. He turned, looked out to sea, and made a final decision.

  “Goodbye, Moore, you malicious bastard. You’re in over your head this time. Your worthless life is over.” Grant turned away from the trapped consultant, picked up the bag containing the shovel, and, as planned, walked north along the water line. After about a hundred yards, he scaled the short cliff that met the ocean. He then jogged back along the road until he reached his car, which was parked in the construction site next to Moore’s home.

  Martin Moore struggled furiously under the sand, but could not free himself. The desperate exertion made him short of breath. The oncoming tide now covered his nose. He tried to breathe deeply once the seawater receded for a few seconds. But it kept coming back and enveloping him. Moore’s mind raced. His head swiveled from side to side. His eyes stung as the salt water reached forehead level. White foam went up his nose. He gagged on the sock in his mouth. His throat burned as his lungs filled with water. Then, a few seconds of precious air.

  But again the salt water came, deeper this time, submerging his head. It took thirty minutes for the consultant to die, but in that time he never bothered to examine his life. To the end, he kept hoping that someone would come along to save him. No one did, and as Martin Moore’s lungs overflowed with water, his last thoughts on earth were pure self-pity: Dear God, how could this be happening to a guy like me?