Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 15

  As he drove south toward the L.A. airport, Peter Grant tried to remain focused on his situation. He knew the high tide would cover his victim until daybreak. So he took the usual precautions. He deposited everything he had brought to Moore’s house into a Santa Monica dumpster, including the dark clothing and sneakers he wore. Once back in New York, he would destroy his disguise and all documents relating to his alias, Peter Grant.

  As he thought back on the execution, Grant’s head throbbed with a migraine-like pain. This was the third time he had killed, and a strange feeling swept over him. He felt no remorse over the fate of Martin Moore, but he felt dirty and badly wanted to take a shower. He didn’t know why. These people deserved what they were getting. If they weren’t stopped, they would just go on hurting others.

  Peter Grant fought off his discomfort and continued driving south, staying in his car until the auto rental place opened at six a.m. He boarded the seven a.m. American Airlines flight back to New York, arriving home at four in the afternoon. During the journey, he was extremely preoccupied. He thought he would feel nothing from his completed missions but pure satisfaction. And initially, he had. But now his feelings were changing, and try as he might, he couldn’t figure out why. Grant struggled with his emotions, trying to fend off the doubts that were creeping into his mind. Finally, he focused on his next victim. He pictured the man’s face. Gradually, a quiet rage replaced the gnawing doubt.

  Toward the end of the flight, another thought intruded on Peter Grant’s consciousness—that of Detective Tommy O’Malley. Annoyed, Grant tried to strike all thoughts of O’Malley from his mind. But it was impossible. O’Malley’s voice resounded in his mind over and over, and Peter Grant realized that, at some point, he was going to have to deal with that voice. Intuitively, one thing became very clear: Detective O’Malley was the only person on earth who could possibly stop him from achieving his goal.

  * * *

  17

  MALIBU BEACH

  NOVEMBER 1994

  The jogger’s scream pierced the thick morning fog. Shortly before nine a.m., Denise Hom, a twenty-five-year-old Pepperdine University graduate student, nearly fell over something protruding from the sand. Then, looking down, she saw Martin Moore’s blue and grossly distorted face; his eyes were staring up at her and tape still covered his mouth. Denise Hom immediately vomited, and then ran faster than she had ever run in her life. She reached her car within minutes and drove to a phone booth to call 911.

  The two L.A. County deputies who answered the call realized that they had only a short time before the tide would cover the crime scene again. They alerted Homicide Squad criminologists, so they could gather evidence, and the coroner’s office, so they could conduct an autopsy. Within forty-five minutes, the murder investigation was well under way. Morbid onlookers were kept at a distance. The media were not contacted. This was Malibu, bastion of wealth and power. As at Martha’s Vineyard, things would be kept as quiet as possible.

  David Wayne was feeling both tired and stressed. The Jersey Turnpike was as packed as usual, and it seemed like he had been on it forever. And he had to make a decision. In two miles, he would exit and drive his rental car onto the Garden State Parkway, heading south. The question was: Would relaxation have to be induced? Could he make it to Atlantic City without stopping for some liquid? Or should he buy a refreshment and drink it while driving? He opted for caution. If the cops stopped him and found booze in the car, he’d be toast. His identification would be run through the computer within seconds. Besides, it was only two more hours until Bally’s. I can make it, Wayne thought, licking his lips. Then, the cocktails will flow.

  Less than thirty-six hours after being taken into custody, Edgar Robo Melton sang. Faced with strong ballistic evidence and an unknown witness whom the cops said was ready to testify, Robo’s lawyer, Manuel Fernandez, made a deal. Robo gave up those who had helped him commit the murders. He also volunteered his drug connections. In return, the police guaranteed that he’d be placed in a protected cell at Riker’s Island. Robo also pleaded guilty to murder, saving the state big money on a trial, on the condition that the maximum sentence, life without parole, was not imposed.

  Ordinarily, Tommy O’Malley would have been elated with such a deal. He and Jackson Davis had cleared five homicides in the city, and two others upstate. It was a major coup for them. But Tommy was focused almost entirely on the GNN case. He had not yet made contact with Shannon Michaels, and he strongly suspected that Ashley Van Buren would not follow his advice—and soon see Michaels again.

  As Ashley walked across the newsroom heading for the coffee pot, Bert Cicero bellowed from the city desk, “Hey, Van Buren! There’s somethin’ on the wires ’bout another TV guy gettin’ whacked. In California this time. Check it out, wouldja? Let me know if I should order Morrison to get off his butt and outta the buildin’. The guy makes a livin’ out there gettin’ a tan.” Craig Morrison was the Los Angeles Bureau Chief for the New York Globe.

  Ashley smiled at Cicero and nodded assent. She actually liked Bert. He was an old fashioned New York newspaperman who worked fifteen hours a day. The last of a dying breed.

  The wire report didn’t say much. A man by the name of Martin Moore was found drowned on Malibu Beach. Police were investigating, but no official statement had been given. Moore worked as a television consultant. His company could not be reached for comment.

  Ashley picked up the phone, dialing Tommy O’Malley. “Hi, keeping the city safe for people like me?”

  Tommy smiled. Since their last meeting, he had thought more than once about Ashley. It was rare for him to dwell on his dates, as he was usually wrapped up in his work. Now, he was uncomfortable with his emotions, unwilling to deal with the possibility that he might be smitten. But even if he was, he damn well wasn’t going to show it. So Tommy barked into the phone, “I’m keepin’ the city safe from people like you. And tell me, to what do I owe this honor? The lovely and famous Ashley Van Buren callin’ me?”

  “Well, I’m looking out for you. There’s a wire story from L.A. that says some guy in the TV business was found dead. Drowned. Not much else in the report. He wasn’t a famous guy or anything. Didn’t work for GNN.”

  “What did this guy actually do in television?” Tommy asked.

  “Says here he was some kind of consultant.”

  Tommy frowned. Consultant. L.A. Lyle Fleming had mentioned a consultant, hadn’t he? Downsizing. David Wayne. Presto.

  “Tommy, are you there?” Ashley wasn’t used to silence from this cop, especially given his Irish ancestry.

  “Yeah, I’m thinkin’. Whenever I do that, it hurts.” Tommy opened his notebook and turned to the Fleming interview. There it was. Downsizing. Some consultant from L.A. That’s how David Wayne got fired. Shit, I think we got another one, he thought.

  “What’s going on, Tommy?” Ashley said impatiently.

  “In our interview at his place, Lyle Fleming mentioned something about an L.A. consultant being in on a bunch of firings at GNN. I gotta go, Ash. I’ll talk to ya later.”

  “Wait, Tommy . . .” she began, but he was already gone. Frustrated, Ashley hung up the phone, thinking, With yet another murder, this story is getting bigger by the minute. I better go write something.

  It took Tommy O’Malley four hours to get a call back from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department—despite his message saying it was vitally important that someone get back to him as soon as possible. Tommy knew he was lucky to get his call returned at all. Responding to phone messages was often not part of the L.A. lifestyle, even in law enforcement.

  What Tommy got from the Public Information Officer was this: middle-aged white man found buried up to his neck in the sand. Drowned approximately at midnight. Body discovered nine hours later. No house break-in. No prints. Not much to go on. Criminologists and investigators were still on the job. Bizarre way to die, and we thought we’d seen everything. Keeping the media out of the case in deference to the neighbor
hood bigshots, and because of the brutal nature of the crime. Don’t want to cause panic. Okay to talk to the lead investigator tomorrow.

  Tommy and Jackson then decided to drop in on David Wayne, unannounced. They drove to Wayne’s midtown apartment in heavy rush hour traffic and were immediately disappointed. Wayne had left on a trip, they were told. No, the doorman didn’t know where, but he’d call the detectives the moment Wayne got back.

  Tommy and Jackson drove back uptown debating whether a full-blown surveillance on David Wayne should have been ordered. Surveillance was time consuming and difficult to get approved because of the overtime pay costs. But now they had lost Wayne and they badly needed to find him. He had motive in all three killings. And, on this last one, he might have had opportunity. He was out of New York when the L.A. consultant was hit.

  With quick action needed, Tommy decided to fly Jackson out to L.A. the next morning to investigate the Malibu killing himself. Lieutenant McGowan would have to approve the trip, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Jackson agreed to head right over to Audits and Accounting, where he would pick up plane ticket money and some petty cash. “Petty” was the right word. When NYPD detectives traveled, their per diem was just twenty-five dollars. One hundred dollars per night was the absolute maximum for a hotel room.

  While Jackson traveled, Tommy would stay in New York, trying to find David Wayne. He ordered checks on all planes, trains, and buses to see if Wayne had bought a ticket. Then he called an old friend.

  “You’re shitting me? Buried to his neck? God help him.” Professor Patrick Larkin, a Professor of Criminology at the John Jay School of Criminal Justice, was intrigued by Tommy’s description of the Malibu homicide, so much so that he took comprehensive notes. Tommy wanted to know if his friend had any theories about the killing, if there were any clues to be found in the strange method of the latest murder. Larkin said he had a few ideas and would call him back in twenty minutes.

  Powerful men are often not patient men and Tommy O’Malley fit that profile. He was angry that he could not stop whoever was doing these killings. Hell, he couldn’t even locate one suspect, or get the other one on the phone. And he certainly didn’t have enough evidence to bring anybody in. In fact, he didn’t have any evidence! The case was mocking him, the killer or killers thwarting his every effort. Tommy felt his frustration turning into low-level rage.

  Ashley Van Buren hunched over her Macintosh computer. Beside her was a tuna sandwich, Fritos, and a diet soda—all untouched. She didn’t have much information, but still managed to bang out a column concentrating on the third killing of a person connected with television news. She explained who Martin Moore was and what he did for a living, information provided by a girlfriend of hers who worked at ABC News and knew all about consultants. Because she didn’t have any of the gory details about the Malibu murder, the column was flat. Nobody really cared what a TV news consultant actually did.

  In the space of her eight-hundred-word column, Ashley had asked fourteen questions. All of them added up to crap. Her editor was going to hate the piece, but would probably let it slide. Both of them knew that a columnist is supposed to answer questions, not ask them.

  When the phone rang in her office, Ashley sat, unmoved and in a very bad mood. It was BCS: Bad Column Syndrome. Her voice mail kicked in and she sat back in her chair listening.

  “This is Shannon Michaels and I’m tempted to leave a very obscene message.” Ashley reached over and picked up the phone—a tad too quickly, she thought later on.

  “Hi, where are you?”

  “At my house in Sands Point.”

  “I thought you were locked away writing.”

  “Finished up this morning and drove in. You’re my first call. Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. Where and when?”

  “Do you want to come out here? See how the landed gentry live?”

  Ashley paused. If she went to his place, she knew he would have control. But if she turned him down without a reason, that would be rude. Her basic good nature prevailed. “I guess I could drive out there in a news car. But I have to be back here pretty early.” She was setting up the possibility of a quick exit if she needed or wanted one.

  “No problem. I’ll fax you directions.”

  “By the way, Shannon, Tommy O’Malley wants to talk with you.”

  “Really? It seems you and he are becoming increasingly close.” Shannon laughed softly, but was not amused. “The detective has left three messages for me. The last two didn’t sound cordial. I’ll have to call him.”

  “One more thing,” Ashley said. “Did you hear there was another media murder?”

  Shannon Michaels paused. “No, I didn’t. Tell me about it.”

  “Here’s the deal, Tommy, and it’s pretty wild.” Professor Patrick Larkin had kept his promise, calling O’Malley back practically within the hour. “What we have here is a killer who apparently knows a bit about history. His method of murder reflects it. To explain, I have to take you back to the Dark Ages.”

  “That’s no problem, Paddy,” Tommy said. “I’m very comfortable thinking in Dark Ages terms. Just ask my ex-wife.”

  Patrick Larkin smiled to himself. Typical Tommy. “Okay, Detective, listen up. Around the turn of the ninth century, the Vikings were creating a ruckus all along the Atlantic coast of Europe, especially in the British Isles. Their long ships usually set out from Norway with forty to sixty warriors along for the ride. These guys were brutal killing machines. Their mission was to pillage, rape, and cause as much chaos as humanly possible. In those days, most of the organized governments had broken down and it was every fiefdom for itself. People lived without the protection of large armies or legal systems.”

  Tommy took a sip of coffee—his seventh cup of the day. He was listening intently to Larkin and taking notes.

  “Because of its monasteries, Ireland was a favorite destination of the Vikings. The Irish monks were educated and sophisticated, often hiding gold and precious stones in their abbeys. The Vikings knew this and attacked the abbeys whenever they could. Sometimes the monks fought back. Sometimes they ran. But it didn’t matter what they did. The plunder was so good that the Norsemen came back time after time, eventually establishing colonies in Ireland. That’s where you got your red hair. And probably your temper as well.”

  “Cute, Paddy,” Tommy said.

  “Anyway, as I said, the Vikings were primitive. Total barbarians. They destroyed just about everything they couldn’t carry away. Their destruction of the Iona Monastery, where great literature and culture were kept alive, is talked about in Ireland to this day. Are you still with me, Tommy?”

  “Paddy, am I gonna have to write an essay about this?”

  Larkin laughed. “Pay attention, good son, here comes the kicker. Killing was recreation for the Vikings. They had no mercy. And if they were bored, they thought up very gruesome ways of ending lives. One of those ways was to bury their captives in the beach sand, allowing only their heads to be uncovered. Our friends from the North would then eat and drink and take bets. Would the crabs cause the demise of their captives by dining on them, or would the tide cover them before the crabs could finish their work? It was great sport for the Vikings.”

  “Goddamn,” said Tommy O’Malley. “So what you’re tellin’ me, Paddy, is that our killer is a Viking? I should be looking for a guy wearing a steel hat with horns?”

  “What I’m telling you is that you’re looking for a guy who is probably highly intelligent, as oblivious to the suffering he causes as the worst villain in a Norse fable, and out for major revenge. This type of killing takes planning and guts, like a Viking conquest. Obviously, it would be a lot easier to just shoot somebody. By the way, you didn’t tell me if the killer left any calling cards.”

  “Nothin’ we know of, Patrick. I think this is the same guy who killed the two GNN people, but keep that to yourself,” Tommy said as he put his pen down.

  “No clues in the other h
its?” Patrick Larkin asked.

  “Nada.”

  “Damn. Looks like you’re up against it. A guy like this will probably kill again. At least that’s the pattern of serial revenge types. They like the power. How are you going to get this guy, Tommy?”

  “Damned if I know, Patrick. But I’ll get the son of a bitch.” Tommy’s jaw tightened as he spoke. “And when I do, there’s a good chance he’ll be taught a history lesson he’ll never forget.”

  “Be careful, Tommy,” Patrick Larkin said. “A guy like this isn’t going to lie down easily.”

  “Then we’ll have to knock him down. Thanks for the lesson, Paddy, I owe you a pint.”

  “Let’s drink it at the arraignment, Tommy.”

  * * *

  18

  SANDS POINT, LONG ISLAND

  NOVEMBER 1994

  Driving a car from New York City through the borough of Queens and into Nassau County is the root canal of automotive experiences. Traffic is usually heavy from six in the morning until well past midnight, and the road surfaces are pockmarked with a variety of pot holes, debris, and pavement defects—all capable of coaxing blue language from a nun. But Ashley Van Buren was lucky. On a windy, late autumn Saturday evening, it took her less than an hour to drive to Sands Point in one of the Globe’s company cars, a 1994 Oldsmobile. Ashley had signed the car out saying she needed it to do some investigating into the GNN case, which was true in a way.

  Ashley was a city girl and didn’t drive much, but she felt good getting out of the claustrophobic confines of Manhattan—at least until she hit the claustrophobic confines of the Long Island Expressway, a roadway that has been under construction since the Revolutionary War. Encountering a slowdown just outside the Midtown Tunnel, Ashley caught a break. Police and emergency road maintenance workers, earning triple overtime pay on the weekend, had just finished removing thirty wooden crates of frozen shrimp that had fallen off the back of a graffiti-scarred delivery truck and onto the road. The pickup operation took three hours, but was just about completed when Ashley came upon the mess. She was delayed for only a few minutes.