Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  As Tommy O’Malley impatiently sat in his unmarked police car, Edgar “Robo” Melton was partying a half block away. He felt he deserved an extended binge, and had enough crack to last him and his girlfriends the entire night. Robo used his “product” only occasionally, but tonight was special. He had two fifteen-year-old girls who would do anything for the drug, and he was determined to exploit the situation.

  “Say, baby, put that pipe down and get my pipe up,” Robo said to one of the girls. She was so intoxicated she had trouble standing, but Robo was her sugar daddy, and as he sat in a filthy, imitation leather couch, there in the living room of a run-down three-room apartment, she obediently performed oral sex on him.

  Five feet away, the other teenage girl sat on a mattress on the floor and watched, greedily sucking on the crack pipe Robo had passed to her. Edgar looked over and grinned, showing yellow, decaying teeth. Obviously, he preferred oral sex to oral hygiene.

  “You’re next, girl, and I want you to do her too,” he ordered.

  As Robo took the crack pipe back, the teenager groggily nodded her consent. Inhaling deeply, Robo blew the cocaine smoke out through his nose and mouth. The bitter taste left him feeling powerful, energized, and free of worry. He was bad and he was flush.

  Two weeks earlier, Robo caught up with a burnt-out thief named Ramone, to whom he had sold, “on credit,” two thousand dollars worth of drugs. Ramone, an addict for a decade, was weak from shooting heroin, and in no condition to fight, when Robo and his two enforcers, Petey and Dread, dragged him to a tenement basement, tied him up, gagged him, and cut off his fingers one by one. Robo then shot Ramone in the back of the head. The next day Robo mailed individual fingers to ten other “customers” who owed him money.

  Of course, word about Robo’s brutal escapade got around quickly, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Gave him a big rep in the hood. Made collections a lot easier. By the end of the week, he was considerably richer.

  What Robo did not count on was Tommy O’Malley.

  Robo had made the mistake of killing Ramone on O’Malley’s turf. An informant told Tommy about the incident and identified the block where Robo lived, though not the exact address. So Tommy and Jackson were now stuck waiting for Robo to show his ugly face.

  Tommy O’Malley knew he had no case against Robo Melton. No witnesses except for Robo’s two henchmen, who would be dead within hours if they ever decided to testify. But Tommy also knew that he had to make life miserable for Edgar “Robo” Melton for having the gall to commit this vicious crime on O’Malley’s beat. This was the power game that the police and the criminals played on the streets of New York.

  “He’s three buildings down,” Jackson Davis said upon returning to the car, his blue windbreaker covered with dust. “Some little kid saw him go up the stairs about three hours ago with two young ladies. Looks like a party. Should we crash?”

  “Nah, no warrant,” Tommy said. “Makes life too hard. All that paperwork. Lawyers screaming. Let’s wait a little while. The hump has to eat. I bet he ain’t exactly Chef Boyardee in the kitchen. He’ll go out for a pizza. Wait ’n see.” O’Malley looked at Jackson, “Wanna bet on the time?”

  “Ten bucks says it’ll be one hour from now,” Jackson Davis said.

  “Thirty minutes—and whoever is closest wins,” replied Tommy.

  “Wait a minute, what if he calls for home delivery?” Jackson looked concerned. It was a put-on.

  Tommy knew it but took the bait. “Yeah, right. And the Domino guy will drive right up here to Harlem and climb all those stairs to deliver the pie to Robo in less than thirty minutes. Can’t you just see it? The only people who deliver in this neighborhood, Jack, are dope dealers and they don’t take coupons. Jesus, Jackson, where d’you think you’re at? Garden City?”

  Jackson Davis laughed and the two men settled in to watch the street which was full of swirling litter but nearly empty of people. Dense inner-city neighborhoods are places where two men who look like cops are quickly identified (and avoided) by the populace. Tommy glanced in the rearview mirror. Across Third Avenue, looking sullenly at the car, was a group of young men standing around on the corner. Tough home boys. Could be street dealers. And we’re bad for business, Tommy thought. The business was drugs, prostitution, and illegal gambling.

  According to the city Health Department, which had studied this section of East Harlem, nearly twenty percent of the residents were intravenous drug users. One out of every thirty-five adults had AIDS. Twenty percent of the buildings were abandoned. It was Third World poverty and desolation in the richest city on the planet.

  Jackson Davis lit up a cigarette, one of ten he allowed himself each day. A neatly groomed man, he was just under six feet, with a slender build, closely cropped jet black hair, and an earring that Tommy ragged him about every day. But Tommy O’Malley loved Jackson; the bond between the two men was unspoken but unbreakable.

  Jackson had been raised in a high-rise apartment project on the lower east side of Manhattan, a few miles south of where the two policemen currently sat. Originally, the projects had been designed as temporary way stations for minority families just starting out—low rent shelters to allow people to save money for homes of their own. But many of the projects had degenerated into moral sinkholes, filled with every human indignity imaginable. A few criminals had moved in, realized there was little supervision, and opened for business, selling dope, women, and gambling opportunities. And God help the tenant who complained. It wasn’t long before the housing projects became combat zones.

  Such living conditions may have turned some children into unfeeling predators, but Jackson Davis and his two little brothers still turned out to be solid citizens. Their mother ran off with a gambler and abandoned the family when the boys were very young. Jackson hadn’t heard a word from his mother since he was ten years old, and he never talked about her. They were raised solely by their father and paternal grandmother.

  His father accepted the situation stoically, working as an usher in various sports arenas and stadiums around New York City. Lionel Davis’s hours were long and irregular, so his three boys were often left pretty much on their own in the tough neighborhood. The upside was they got to see a lot of ballgames on weekends. Jackson loved that, and loved his father immensely. Tommy O’Malley once asked Jackson why he and his brothers hadn’t turned to crime or dope. Jackson just grinned and said the Davis brothers all had a strong prejudice against death, meaning their father would have killed them if they had headed in that direction.

  Jackson Davis had to struggle for everything he’d ever gotten in this life, and, for that, Tommy respected him greatly. Growing up in Levittown, out on Long Island, might have been hard for Tommy, but compared to Jackson’s upbringing, it was like a trip to Tahiti. Small three-bedroom house and one bathroom for five people. Lots of screaming and hitting by his frustrated father and his rambunctious brother and sister.

  As they waited in the car for “Robo” Melton to appear, the police radio transmissions kept Tommy and Jackson amused. A nude man had been seen running down the middle of the Harlem River Drive and police units were responding. A screaming woman had to be removed from the Lexington Avenue multiplex by uniformed officers after she began caressing Mel Gibson’s image on the big screen. The usual New York City craziness had momentarily taken Tommy’s mind off Robo, but now he refocused.

  According to his rap sheet, Robo was just twenty-three years old, but had been arrested fourteen times. Three convictions. One was for robbing a seventy-five-year-old widow and pushing her down a flight of stairs.

  Despite a broken hip, the woman survived. But because she lived alone in a three-story walk-up, leaving her apartment to go to church—her only source of solace—became extremely difficult. Tommy and Jackson had visited the woman a couple of times, bringing her groceries and perfume. But Tommy knew her spirit had been crushed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make her smile. She died six months after the mugging. “Natu
ral causes,” the doctor said. When the case finally came to trial, “Robo” was able to plea down to simple assault because the sole witness against him was dead. He served three months on Riker’s Island. Three months for murder, Tommy thought.

  From that time on, O’Malley had Robo Melton on his radar screen. Tonight, he sensed something would happen. He wanted something to happen. Tommy wanted to hurt Robo Melton for crimes against humanity. Of course he could never say that aloud, but that’s exactly how he felt. He was going to make Robo Melton pay for taking an elderly woman’s life.

  Up in his dirty apartment, Edgar “Robo” Melton was getting bored. A scrawny man, he had a badly trimmed black goatee that made him look as mean as he was. On his skinny left bicep was a tattoo that said “rock hard.” His fingernails were clogged with dirt, and he used them often to scratch his light brown face, especially when he was high.

  When the crack cocaine began to wear off, Robo began to feel the pangs of hunger. One of his female companions had passed out, and the other kept talking to herself about angels. He needed a break.

  “I be back, girl, don’t you go nowhere,” he said. The intoxicated young girl on the mattress stared blankly at Robo, seemingly incapable of putting together a sentence.

  In a semi-hazy frame of mind, Robo threw on his light green Philadelphia Eagles warmup jacket, failing to remember that he had secreted five white rocks in the side pocket. He then left the apartment in a hurry. When Robo had a need, he had to fulfill it immediately. His need now was to get food.

  “Our man dead ahead,” Jackson announced. “Damn, only forty-two minutes. You win.”

  “And Edgar loses,” Tommy said as he watched Robo approach the Buick.

  Ordinarily, Robo Melton, out on the street in his own neighborhood, would have been alert to his many enemies. But on this night, Robo was feeling no pain. The feeling wouldn’t last much longer.

  As Robo walked near their car, Jackson Davis quickly threw open the heavy, passenger-side front door, slamming Robo into a backwards fall. Perfect timing.

  Tommy O’Malley was out of the driver’s side with surprising quickness for a forty-year-old. He grabbed the collar of Edgar’s jacket and roughly pulled him to his feet.

  “Edgar, how nice to see you again,” Tommy said, his voice low and hard edged. “Please put your hands on top of the car.” Before Robo could comply, O’Malley savagely pushed him into the side of the Buick. The thug’s eyes darted around wildly. He realized he was trapped.

  With Robo’s hands now on the roof of the car and his legs spread, Jackson Davis patted him down and quickly discovered the rock cocaine in his jacket pocket.

  “Well, well, Edgar. What have we here?” Tommy was speaking directly into Robo’s right ear, and could smell the man’s unwashed body. “Looks to me like a controlled substance. Isn’t that what this looks like, Jackson?”

  “Definitely.”

  O’Malley yanked Robo’s hands off the car and pulled them behind his back. Jackson snapped handcuffs on him.

  For the first time, Edgar “Robo” Melton spoke to the policemen: “Fuck you, motherfuckers.”

  “Edgar, Edgar, Edgar. Those sentiments are so distasteful,” Tommy said menacingly. He could feel the veins pulsating in his neck. He knew the man in front of him enjoyed hurting people. “You know, Edgar, I hear you have a thing for fingers.”

  “Motherfuckin’ pig asshole,” Robo Melton replied. And then the dope pusher made another of his many mistakes in life. He spat at Tommy O’Malley.

  The white-gray phlegm caught Tommy on the shoulder of his blue blazer (on-duty homicide detectives were required to wear business clothes). He slowly turned his head, looking down at the insult. Jackson Davis glanced at Tommy, and gave him a knowing shrug. With that, Tommy O’Malley grabbed the cuffed man’s right thumb, bending it back hard. The snap was loud and clear. His scream pierced the night. Robo Melton’s thumb was broken.

  O’Malley watched as Robo’s hand swelled up. That must really hurt, he thought, giving in to a feeling of sadistic pleasure. The man’s cries of anguish were beginning to attract attention from people living in the surrounding buildings, so Tommy and Jackson decided to leave the area and drive back to the station house. But before putting Robo in the unmarked car, Tommy O’Malley leaned over and whispered in the whimpering thug’s ear, “How’d ya like that crack, Edgar?”

  * * *

  5

  MANHATTAN

  SEPTEMBER 1994

  The page one headline in the New York Globe was designed for maximum consumer impact: TV BIG MURDERED COVERING CLINTON. The article that followed was taken from an Associated Press wire report, and concentrated mainly on the mystery surrounding the death of Ron Costello.

  The Massachusetts State Police, who were handling the investigation, weren’t saying much. On an island that heavily depends on tourism, any crime is subject to damage control, and facts about Costello’s murder were being kept very closely guarded by the authorities.

  Sitting in her office along the east wall of the gigantic New York Globe newsroom, which was located in a newly built high-rise building on Manhattan’s swanky Upper East Side, Ashley Van Buren read the AP dispatch for the fifth time. Something unusual was going on here, she thought. Where is the information? Was this a robbery? How exactly did Costello get it? None of these questions was answered in the wire report. How strange.

  At age thirty-one, Ashley Van Buren was climbing quickly in the make-it-any-way-you-can world of newspaper reporting. After just four years on the street, she had been promoted from general assignment reporter to featured crime columnist. Her position gave her an office with a view, and caused much jealousy among some Globe reporters, who considered her too young to have such a prominent byline. But her “Crimetime” column was building up quite a following.

  And, office politics being what they are, Ashley knew she had to do two things: watch her back and do extraordinary work. So, she spent sixty hours a week on the job. And she loved it. Everything moved very fast. Working for a newspaper had not been expected of her when she was sorting out possible jobs and careers after college. Her family thought that, after Ashley graduated from Vassar, she would go to law school or at least become a psychologist. Instead, she was running around a ruthless city writing about the dregs of the earth. And those were just the cops! The criminals were even worse.

  Ashley Van Buren knew her good looks were partly responsible for her rapid rise. She had the face, though not the body, of a fashion model: a small, straight nose, vivid green eyes that were deeply penetrating when offset by black mascara, and natural blond hair that featured short bangs cascading onto her forehead. Just 5920, she had a rather large bust that both helped and hurt her depending on the situation. Ashley knew the newspaper could market her somewhat wholesome appearance. Her picture appeared atop her column, and the Globe’s public relations people regularly trotted her out to the TV talk shows. In the brutally competitive media arena of New York City, she was becoming a star.

  Opening her compact, Ashley checked her face for debris. It was a humid day and the air in the newsroom wasn’t exactly imported from the Alps. Ashley cared about, but didn’t obsess over, her looks. She did take good care of her fair skin, staying out of the sun and using moisturizer every night. But that was about it. Not much makeup, never any provocative clothing except in private, and a shoulder-length hairstyle that was easy to dry and brush in the morning.

  Right now, Ashley was cultivating a look of innocence. She considered a non-threatening appearance an important psychological tool when trying to convince people to tell her things they didn’t want to tell her. Last week she had even tied her hair in a short ponytail, something she hadn’t done since high school. She liked it, but the rest of the Globe newsroom started singing Olivia Newton John songs when she passed by, so that was the end of that.

  As Ashley Van Buren watched a rusty barge float past the decaying docks of Long Island City, she decided to take on the Ron
Costello story. TV guys don’t usually wind up getting murdered and, even if it had just been a robbery gone bad, there might be some social implications here. If she got lucky, Ashley thought, there could be much more.

  Placing the Costello wire story in the center of her desk, Ashley picked up her phone and speed-dialed one of the press flacks at the NYPD’s public information office, located in lower Manhattan at One Police Plaza. After two rings, a man with a thick New York accent answered.

  “Jerry? Ashley. How ya doin’?” To bond with the guy, Ashley slurred her words in the New York tradition. “Didja read about this guy Costello? What happened?”

  “How the hell should I know, Ashley? It went down in Massachusetts.” Jerry sounded more impatient than usual, something of an accomplishment since his average concentration span hovered around ten seconds.

  “Do you have any contacts up there?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a real Boy Scout today, Jerry, you know that? Helping a citizen in need and all.”

  “Listen, Ashley, we got five killins a day here. I got no time to think about some TV bigshot on a slab in Martha’s Vineyard.”

  Ashley switched to a mock hysterical voice: “Jerry, help me! I’m a lady in distress. Jerry, Jerry . . .”

  “OK, OK, geez.” Jerry began to chuckle. The charm had worked again, Ashley thought.

  “Tommy O’Malley went to Boston U. He might know somebody up there. Go torture him. He deserves it.”

  “Thanks, Jerry, I owe you one.”