Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Read online

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  9

  MANHATTAN

  OCTOBER 1994

  For the man who called himself Trevor Langley, following Hillary Ross for a week had been easy. The GNN vice president led a boring life. Out to dinner with friends one night, a movie by herself another. No dates, no trips. Having established her pattern of movement, Langley now had the raw data for a plan, but it relied heavily on luck, and it was strictly a one-shot deal.

  On Halloween night, Ross left work at 7:45 and, as was her custom, took a cab home. Trevor Langley followed in his black car, and was pleased when she proceeded directly up to her apartment on the eighteenth floor of her high-rise.

  Langley then drove into an underground parking lot ten blocks north on 98th Street. He could not risk getting a parking ticket on the street, because that could be traced. He also figured that while investigating the demise of Hillary Ross, the police would question parking lot attendants within a five square block radius of the crime scene.

  Before handing over his car keys to the lot attendant, Langley took a knapsack out of his car. He was careful not to look the attendant in the eye. He did not want to be remembered.

  It was a half mile walk back to Hillary Ross’s building, which overlooked Central Park, and Langley took his time. Small children in Halloween costumes raced by him, their parents struggling to keep up. There was a festive feeling in the air along Central Park West. Langley approached the high rise and stopped directly across the street. There he waited, leaning against the stone wall that surrounds Central Park, patiently watching the apartment lobby in the cool of the evening.

  About an hour later, Langley saw a group of adults in Halloween costumes enter the lobby of Hillary Ross’s building. He quickly darted across the street, pulled a Richard Nixon mask from his knapsack, and placed it over his face. Seven people in costume were now standing in front of the doorman, who was sitting behind a circular wooden guard’s desk to the right of the revolving doors. Apparently there was a Halloween party on the fifteenth floor. The guard called up to the apartment, got the okay to let the partygoers in, and directed them to the elevator. Discreetly and silently, Langley joined the group in his Nixon disguise.

  The ride up took only seconds. The revelers chatted and laughed, but no one paid much attention to Richard Nixon. He smiled underneath his mask, pleased to have surmised correctly that at least one Halloween celebration would be going on in a building with so many residents.

  On the fifteenth floor, Langley did not leave the elevator along with the rest of the group. Instead, though he knew somebody might be monitoring the security camera in the elevator, he continued up to 18, stepping into a dimly lit hallway. Looking around, it reminded him of a Holiday Inn. He smelled onions—somebody was cooking a potent dinner. But he saw no one. He removed a blunt object from the knapsack, putting it in his back pocket. Then he approached apartment 18D and rang the bell.

  “Who is it?” Hillary Ross called as she got up from watching CNN, GNN’s competition, and walked to her door.

  “Ms. Ross, my name is Trevor Langley. I’m your new neighbor down the hall. We’re having a Halloween party. Would you like to join us?”

  Hillary Ross peered through the peephole in her door and saw a tall man wearing a Richard Nixon mask. She didn’t know many of her neighbors, but a well built man was a well built man, and she had always liked a British accent. She opened the door.

  “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Langley, but I don’t think I have a costume.” Hillary was smiling, showing a considerable amount of gum above her front teeth.

  “Well, you can have mine.” Langley’s left hand moved up to the top of his mask. At the same time, his right hand reached into his back pocket for a police-style nightstick, hidden by the untucked-in tail of his flannel shirt. Hillary never saw Langley’s right hand move at all, so intent was she on watching him unmask himself.

  With lightning quickness, Langley raised his hand and viciously clubbed Hillary Ross above the left ear. She saw white, then black, and fell backward, unconscious.

  Langley quickly looked around. The hallway was still deserted. He removed his backpack and pulled out a pair of latex surgeon’s gloves, donning them so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints. Then he entered the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Hillary Ross was lying on her side, her legs bent at a slight angle. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Her assailant stepped over her, walked into her bedroom, found some panty hose in a drawer, and brought them back to where she lay.

  Stuffing the hose in her mouth, Langley noticed a slight trickle of blood coming from her ear. Ignoring it, he removed from his sack a roll of adhesive tape and a short strand of thick twine. Ripping off a long piece of the tape from the roll, Langley placed it over his victim’s mouth. He used the twine to tie her thumbs together behind her back. Within three minutes, Hillary Ross was immobilized for as long as the intruder wanted her to be.

  A surge of adrenaline swept over Langley. He put his hands on his hips to calm himself. He concentrated on his breathing. He needed to be clear-headed, steady. Then the phone rang, and he almost jumped. On the second ring, the answering machine clicked on: “You have reached me, but I cannot come to the phone. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” Beep.

  “Hillary, it’s Randi. You’ll never believe who’s in deep trouble at GNN. You’ll die when you find out. Call me right away.”

  Langley looked at the phone. She’ll die before that, he thought.

  Walking to the end of the sumptuously furnished living room, he opened the sliding glass doors leading to the terrace. Despite the protection of the mask, the brisk breeze chilled his face. Winter was in the air. Behind him, he heard a low moan. Ross was reviving.

  Looking out over the four-foot-high balcony railing, Langley realized he was in a corner apartment. Directly in front of him was 88th Street. To the right, he could see the park. To the left was another high rise. But between the two buildings was a small space containing an alleyway—blocked off from the street by a metal fence—covered with barbed wire. Part of Hillary Ross’s balcony overlooked the alley.

  Langley saw the opportunity immediately and walked quickly back into the apartment. Hillary Ross was now semiconscious, so he grabbed the collar of her white shirt from behind, roughly pulling her up into a sitting position and dragging her across the hardwood floor. When he reached the terrace, his powerful hands lifted her to her feet. Then he pushed her out to the railing overlooking the alley, forcing her to stand upright.

  Hillary Ross felt the cold wind in her face. She opened her eyes and nearly fainted; she was dizzy, her head throbbing with pain. She also felt something soft and gauzy on her tongue, but couldn’t open her mouth. Instinctively, she tried to move her hands, but her thumbs were locked behind her back. Completely disoriented, Hillary heard a low voice say, “Why would a person want to be in a position to end so many careers? Why would someone take a job doing that?”

  The GNN executive turned her eyes toward the voice, which she didn’t recognize. Gone was the English accent. She shuddered with fear and shook her head violently back and forth. The movement caused a rush of pain, and red dots danced before her eyes. She tried to scream, but could make no sound. Panic took hold. She jerked her body up and down, trying desperately to escape.

  Had Hillary Ross been able to confront the face behind the Richard Nixon mask, she would have seen Langley’s narrowed eyes staring at her with a hatred that caused his temple to throb. Langley looked into Hillary’s eyes and saw they were wild with fear. He felt a surge of power. He reached out, grabbing her belt with both hands. He lifted her long, thin body with ease and momentarily held it in the air over the top of the terrace wall.

  Panic consumed Hillary Ross. She convulsed her body, trying in vain to kick her assailant. She remembered how, as a child, she had been locked inside a small closet by her friends. She screamed and pounded on the door and finally was set free. But now she couldn’t
scream. In fact, she couldn’t think. Suddenly, she felt herself being lifted again and heard a voice say: “You were always over the top, Hillary.” Then she was falling. The wind lashed against her face. She couldn’t see. It was dark. Should she pray? Then a total, instantaneous pain. Then, nothing.

  Trevor Langley did not watch Hillary Ross’s plunge to death. As the woman fell to the ground, he was on his way out of the apartment. Once out in the hallway, he took off the gloves, put them in the knapsack, walked to the elevator, and hit the down button with his elbow.

  In two and a half minutes, he was out of the apartment building. There were no complications. No one heard or saw Hillary Ross fly off the balcony or hit the pavement in the isolated alley. It all happened too quickly.

  Langley moved quickly in implementing his escape plan. He retrieved his car from the parking lot, then drove north up Broadway. In Harlem, he stopped at a restaurant dumpster where he deposited his knapsack containing the Richard Nixon mask, surgeon’s gloves, and the nightstick. His hands were shaking, but his mind was clear. Two of his enemies were finished, and his strategy had been perfect. They would never catch him. He took a deep breath of the cool autumn air, got back in his automobile, and calmly drove away.

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  10

  MANHATTAN

  NOVEMBER 1, 1994

  At 6:53 A.M., approximately ten hours after Hillary Ross’s death, her body was spotted by Patrolman Luis Ortiz, who was walking his beat on West 88th Street. It was an overcast morning in the city and traffic was just beginning to pick up. Usually, Ortiz covered his beat quickly. He was just twenty-three years old and had a lot of energy. But after arguing with his girlfriend the night before, he was depressed. So he took his time this morning, stopping frequently, preoccupied and sad.

  Ortiz never would have seen the streams of blood that had seeped underneath the alley gate if he had not stopped to lean against it. The gate was locked but, after seeing the dried blood, Ortiz shined his flashlight through the bars of the gate and saw clearly someone lying in an extremely awkward position behind it. Immediately, the policeman radioed for an ambulance, radioed for backup citing a possible “jumper,” and gained access to the alley-way through the back door of Hillary Ross’s apartment building.

  What Ortiz saw sickened both him and the doorman he took along for security purposes. The body was like rubber, not a bone intact. Ross’s eyes were open and bulging. Ortiz also noticed something strange—tied to her left thumb was a small piece of cord. The policeman did not touch anything, and quickly returned to the lobby, where he used the doorman’s desk phone to call the Manhattan North Homicide Squad. He didn’t want the conversation overheard on the police radio.

  Tommy O’Malley was working the seven to four shift and had just arrived at his cluttered desk. Munching on a chocolate-glazed donut, he noticed that his stomach was beginning to protrude somewhat majestically over his black leather belt. Damn, he thought, gettin’ old, gettin’ fat. For not the first time, he made a mental note to cut out the junk food. Then the phone rang, as it did constantly, all day long.

  “Detective O’Malley speaking.”

  “Detective, this is Patrolman Luis Ortiz callin’. We have a possible jumper down here on West 88th, sir, but I found somethin’ you should know about.”

  “Go ahead, Ortiz.”

  “The deceased is layin’ in an alley below her apartment. She coulda jumped, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why’s that?” asked O’Malley, only mildly interested.

  “Well, sir, people don’t usually jump into alleys. They go for the big statement. The street, ya know. And I found some string or somethin’ on her thumb. Looks to me like she coulda been tied.”

  “Who is this woman, Ortiz?”

  “Lady by the name of Ross. Works for GNN, the doorman tol’ me.”

  O’Malley bolted upright. The connection registered immediately: GNN. Shit. “Listen to me, Ortiz. Seal everything right away. Crime scene, her apartment, elevators, the works. And no radio. The media is to be kept away. No access. Got it?”

  “Yeah, Detective.”

  “Play this as a suicide. Low key. Get the names of everybody who works in the building, and all the neighbors. We’ll be right down.”

  “Okay, Detective.”

  “Good work, Ortiz.” Tommy hung up and looked at his watch. Jackson Davis was ten minutes late. No big deal, but O’Malley knew he would need Davis and a squad full of top homicide investigators to handle this bitch of a case.

  The city desk at the New York Globe was usually a chaotic place—a constant wail of people demanding immediate attention—and making the early morning the journalistic equivalent of rush hour. Things were little different today at the Globe. A parade of scruffy reporters was passing in front of Assignment Editor Bert Cicero and his three assistants (two women and one man), all seated at a long desk that looked like a lunch counter. In front of the assignment desk, at least sixty obnoxious, aggressive newspaper people milled around, all assessing what their career needs might be in the very near future. The phrase “this assignment sucks” had long since replaced the traditional “good morning” as the standard greeting to Bert Cicero and his staff.

  Bert Cicero’s daily headache started at five a.m., the moment he sat down at his computer terminal. The phones in front of him rang every few seconds and, as the newspeople began to filter in, the gripes and suggestions became more annoying than the phones. The Globe’s fashion editor “simply must” fly to Milan. The Brooklyn bureau chief’s wife called in to say that her husband was sick, that he might have an ulcer. The legendary columnist Larry Miskin had been charged with DWI the night before. Cicero could not believe he actually reported for work every day knowing the chaos and demands he would encounter.

  In between sorting out mini-emergencies, Bert Cicero was listening to the police radio, which was always monitored. Shortly after seven, he heard a police transmission asking for an ambulance to be sent to Central Park West. Then he heard the word “jumper.”

  The Globe would not ordinarily cover a suicide, but Central Park West was a ritzy neighborhood, and Cicero felt his face twitch a little and his news instinct kick in. Hell, it could be Madonna or someone. He looked around and saw rookie reporter Nancy Hall sitting at her desk. “Hey, Hall, go check out some police activity on 88th and CPW. Take Lenny, just in case there’s a gory photo-op. Give me a call if it’s anything and try not to screw up, will ya?”

  Thirty minutes after the call from Officer Luis Ortiz, Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis were staring at the dead body of Hillary Ross. “Geez, they’re gonna need a blotter to pick her up,” Jackson said as he circled the body, careful not to step on the dried blood that was splattered in all directions.

  “Jack, she bounced,” Tommy said as he knelt down next to the body. “She bounced in the air after impact. Here’s the spot where she first hit.” Tommy pointed to a place about three feet from the body. “Then she went back up and landed over here. Eighteen floors straight down will do that. Christ.”

  Tommy and Jackson couldn’t take their eyes off the limp corpse. Hillary Ross had been protected by the best apartment security that money could buy. Yet here she was, dead in an alley. Both detectives were thinking the same thing: who the hell would do something like this to this kind of woman?

  As the officer in charge of the crime scene, Tommy would oversee a seven-member team of detectives for the investigation. He was quickly putting things together in his mind. Because Hillary Ross held a powerful position at the Global News Network, he knew that this would be a major case, and that the Commissioner would be all over it. He also suspected that if somebody was killing GNN personnel, it was very possible that Hillary Ross would not be the last victim. Tommy quietly cursed. “The goddamn print media will go wild.”

  The detectives combed the alley for clues. They found one piece of string tied to the woman’s thumb, but they did not find any more twine. If there had been any adhesive ta
pe, it must have blown away during the night.

  Tommy O’Malley knew a few things about the case right away. First of all, the woman had landed too close to the building to be a suicide. People who jump from high places almost always leap forward before gravity takes over. It’s instinct, to push off a ledge. This woman was dropped from the building, her hands probably tied behind her back.

  Also, Tommy suspected that the killer was a strong man who had thought the crime out carefully. Dropping the woman into the alley was deliberate. This was not a crime of passion where somebody got crazed and flipped their lover into the street.

  The eight-man homicide team was quick and efficient. Divided into twos, the four units methodically examined the alley, Ross’s apartment, the elevators, building, and surrounding neighborhood. They canvassed the doormen and neighbors, asking who had seen what. They called the night shift people, arranging for them to go to the precinct for questioning. By the time the Crime Scene Unit took over four hours later, they had done a textbook job of gathering information.

  The incoming C.S. unit would gather any physical evidence, like blood, dirt, fiber, fingerprints, skin under fingernails, and bring it to the police laboratory for analysis. The coroner who responded with the C.S. unit would examine the body. Tommy wanted no mistakes, and made this very clear to Detective Luke Murray, whom he assigned to monitor the C.S. unit. Everybody involved with law enforcement knew that O.J. Simpson’s lawyers were going to tear the Los Angeles police apart for sloppy investigative work in the upcoming trial. Tommy would not subject himself to that if the GNN case ever came to trial in New York.

  As Tommy took one last look at the body of Hillary Ross, he felt anger welling up inside him. Whoever did this was a brutal bastard. First a spoon through a guy’s brain. Now killing a woman in this unspeakable way. How could someone do these things? Tommy had heard many confessions by killers. He was well aware of the terrible fear that the victims go through, especially when they know they are going to die and can do nothing about it. Tommy’s jaw tightened. He strongly believed he was looking for a revenge killer. Probably a highly intelligent one. A man who firmly believed he could get away with murder because the police were too stupid to catch him. A man with no conscience, no compunction.