Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  “You’re a tough person to reach.”

  “Oh, did you try before? I didn’t get any messages on my machine from you.”

  “Yeah, I called earlier. Didn’t want to bother leavin’ a message.”

  “Well, I must have been in the shower.” No way was she going to tell him whose shower.

  Tommy knew the conversation was getting strained. He decided to switch tactics, saying in a mock gruff voice: “Well, next time you take a shower, Ash, I expect to know about it in advance. Then I can get a warrant and break into your house.”

  Ashley laughed, relieved. She didn’t want to lose her rapport with Tommy O’Malley. “I’ll make sure I do that, Detective. Now call me later, okay?”

  “Sure, see you.”

  Mary O’Malley saw her son hang up the phone and knew he was upset, but as always, he didn’t display any emotion to her. She gave him a big hug, hard to do because he was so large, and kissed him on the left side of his face. “Things will work out, Thomas. The Lord is watching over you.”

  “Tell him to send me some evidence, Ma. Fast. I’ll see you again soon. Say hello to Cathy and Mike for me. And by the way, Jackson says hello and wants you to know that he’s the brains of the partnership.”

  Mary O’Malley laughed as she watched her son walk down the narrow driveway to his car. She waved as he backed out into the street and drove off. She was worried about him. There was something about the current situation that she didn’t like. Innately, she felt her son was in some danger. As Tommy disappeared around the corner, Mary O’Malley turned toward the cross hanging on the kitchen wall and said a prayer.

  * * *

  20

  LONG ISLAND

  NOVEMBER 1994

  He saw them in his rearview mirror: three teenagers in a white, vintage Ford Mustang coming up fast, weaving in and out of traffic. Tommy O’Malley was heading north toward Sands Point, going about sixty in the center lane of the three-lane Northern State Parkway. These kids must be doing ninety, he thought as the Mustang quickly switched lanes and drove up behind Tommy’s unmarked police car.

  The teenagers were immediately hemmed in—the cars on both sides of Tommy were doing about the same speed. Unable to pass, the young driver began banging his hands on the top of the steering wheel in frustration. Watching in his rearview mirror, Tommy saw that the Mustang was just a few feet away from his rear bumper. He was being tailgated viciously and Tommy hated being tailgated, especially so obnoxiously. He tapped his brakes and the Mustang almost hit him. In the mirror, he could now see rage on the driver’s face.

  Tommy put on his directional signal and waited patiently for the car on his right to pull up a little. After about fifty yards, it did. Tommy then shifted into the right lane. Immediately, the Mustang bolted forward. Tommy looked over and the kid sitting in the front passenger seat gave him the finger as he whizzed by.

  Rolling down his window, Tommy attached the portable red police light to the top of his car and gave chase. He was out of his jurisdiction but it didn’t matter. He switched on his radio, called the New York State Police, and told the dispatcher his problem and location. A trooper, he was informed, was up ahead on the highway and would be waiting.

  The Mustang continued on for about a mile but pulled over when the state trooper’s police car appeared behind it. Tommy arrived on the scene seconds later, pulled his car onto the shoulder of the highway directly behind the trooper’s vehicle, and approached the three teenagers, then sitting in their car laughing. The trooper was already out of his vehicle and talking to the driver through the rolled-down window.

  “Out of the car, boys.” The trooper’s voice was hard and loud, competing with the heavy bass of rap music pulsating from the Mustang’s radio speakers.

  The driver, a skinny kid with pimples, emerged first. He wore his baseball hat backwards, an oversized shirt hanging outside his baggy pants. What a cliche, Tommy thought.

  Tommy flipped his shield open and shook the trooper’s hand. He then filled him in on the Mustang’s antics. By now, all three surly looking teenagers were standing together alongside the car. The tallest one, a blond-haired boy who had been a passenger in the backseat, interrupted as Tommy and the trooper talked.

  “Hey, man. We dint do nothin’, man. What’s this all about?”

  The state trooper looked like a cop recruiting poster: an ex-Marine weightlifter with a flattop haircut and mirrored sunglasses. He was not in a good mood. Besides being bored doing traffic duty on Long Island, he was working on Sunday when he usually watched the pro football games.

  “Shut up and stand over there,” the trooper said harshly. “Now, will the driver please step forward and produce a license, registration, and insurance card.”

  The pimply-faced kid casually shrugged and said, “Left ’em home.”

  Tommy shook his head and smiled to himself as he saw the trooper remove his sunglasses, his eyes narrowing. It was all over. He walked around the Mustang and up to the driver. “Nice car. Yours?”

  “My dad’s,” the pimply boy said tersely.

  “What does your dad do?” Tommy asked.

  “Dentist.”

  “So he’s got plenty of money to get you out of trouble, right?”

  All the boys smiled defiantly. “Maybe,” the pimply-faced kid sneered.

  “I’ll tell you what, Officer,” Tommy said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I would like to press charges against this young man for reckless driving, speeding, and failure to heed a police request to stop.”

  Then Tommy walked toward the kid who had given him the finger. Suddenly, the teenager looked doubtful, his false bravado fast slipping away. Like the driver of the car, he wore his black Chicago White Sox hat backwards, and was chewing gum. Tommy stopped a few feet away from the kid, looking down into his eyes. “And I will also press charges against this person for harassing an officer of the law. That middle finger got anything else to say, son?”

  “Okay, gentlemen,” the state trooper said, “hands on top of the car, legs spread apart. You are all under arrest, and your car will be impounded. Please follow my directions at all times.”

  Tommy walked over to the Mustang and watched as the trooper patted the boys down. He didn’t particularly like the situation, remembering his own wild days as a kid. But things were different now. He was beginning to despise a permissive culture that allowed teenagers to disrespect just about everything. In his own younger days, he may have broken some rules, but he took his punishment like a man. These kids, Tommy thought, didn’t have a clue about what it took to be a man and probably never would. They were spoiled and damaged by the privileges of wealth.

  Tommy knew the three teenagers standing before him would get off lightly. In fact, the case would probably be dropped. But he also knew that lawyers would have to be hired and most likely would soak the parents. Good. These three kids and their parents needed to be taught a lesson. That speeding Mustang could have easily killed somebody.

  As the boys were about to be put into the backseat of the trooper’s car, Tommy pulled the pimply kid aside. “You know, son, it would be extremely convenient for you if I lost my temper.”

  The kid looked at Tommy, confused but impenitent. “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Because then you’d really need a dentist.”

  Tommy O’Malley was late for the interview, much to Shannon Michaels’ surprise. O’Malley, he had thought, would be anxious to see him, especially after all the phone calls. As for himself, Shannon knew he had little choice but to speak with the detective, however risky it might be. Dodging O’Malley would serve no purpose. No matter what he said or didn’t say, Shannon knew he would remain a suspect. There was no point trying to convince the man of his innocence. O’Malley would believe what he wanted to believe.

  Unlike Ashley Van Buren, who was hoping that Shannon was innocent, Shannon believed that Tommy O’Malley was looking to nail him as the killer. For Shannon, the only benefit of the upcoming inte
rview was to put O’Malley on notice that any half-assed attempt to pin the crimes on him would result in reprisals against O’Malley himself and the NYPD.

  Shannon knew the authorities still had very little evidence in the murder cases. Ashley had told him that the Massachusetts State Police had all but shut down the Martha’s Vineyard investigation, and up until the night before, Ash believed that investigators in Malibu had turned up nothing. But that would not stop Tommy O’Malley, Shannon thought. If Ashley’s assessment of the detective turned out to be true, O’Malley was under tremendous pressure, and would stay on the Ross case until cracking it.

  The late afternoon sun had dipped behind the tall trees surrounding Shannon’s house, and the wind was blowing in hard from the water. A cold night lay ahead as Shannon walked around his yard, dead brown leaves swirling about his feet. Shannon Michaels was actually looking forward to his upcoming battle of wits with Detective O’Malley. Shannon’s ego craved that kind of stimulating confrontation. He smiled to himself. People used to ask why villains would sit for an interview with a person like Mike Wallace on 60 Minutes. It was an ego thing. They wanted to see if they could hold their own with a tough guy like Mike. They usually couldn’t.

  But Shannon Michaels, preferring that O’Malley leave him alone after this single interview, knew it was vitally important that he handle himself well when talking to the detective. So, before taking a walk outside to clear his head, he had spent two hours in his library going over strategy. In the interview, he was going to be frank. He did not want to anger O’Malley, but would not be intimidated by him either. He knew his rights and was prepared to invoke them. He would take the direct approach that had worked so well with Ashley. The detective would ask his questions and then, he hoped, vanish quickly and forever.

  At twenty minutes after four, Tommy O’Malley pulled into the long circular driveway leading to Shannon Michaels’ home. Another rich TV guy, Tommy thought. He wished his mother could have a house like this.

  Shannon Michaels greeted Tommy O’Malley at the front door and ushered him directly into the library. Tommy apologized for being late, turned down the offer of refreshments, and did not attempt any small talk. He kept his face expressionless and his tone of voice even. Since he needed Shannon Michaels’ consent to even speak with him, Tommy knew he had to stay as low key as possible. He wanted to dominate the interview, get as much information out of Michaels as possible, but not alienate the man. If Michaels asked him to leave, he’d leave. He had no hard evidence against Shannon Michaels and therefore no cause to use his police powers.

  During the introduction, the two men, like expectant prizefighters, stood eye to eye, a few feet apart, in the thickly carpeted library Shannon had added to the back of his home. The room was dominated by hundreds of books and built-in oak bookcases that covered three entire walls. On the fourth wall hung dozens of journalistic award plaques Shannon had won during his career.

  Shannon was surprised by, and a bit uncomfortable with, O’Malley’s height. At 6'3", Shannon was used to looking down on people. But he had to slightly raise his eyes to O’Malley, who was an inch taller.

  Shannon motioned for Tommy to sit in a black leather reading chair that was soft and comfortable. Shannon himself sat across the room at a small table. On the table were a Sony micro-tape recorder and a note pad.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Detective, but I’m going to tape this interview for my own protection. This GNN situation has been very difficult for me. I’ve been getting calls from reporters, and I’ve been told that I may even be a suspect in the case.”

  “Who told you that?” Tommy asked, his voice low and emotionless.

  “I can’t divulge sources, Detective. But I have to ask you straight out: Am I a suspect in the GNN murders?” Shannon, who had turned on the recorder, was now staring hard at Tommy O’Malley.

  “Not at this time, Mr. Michaels. I’m just here to ask you a few questions about the case. Background stuff.”

  “Fine, but there are some ground rules before we begin. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but this is a very serious matter.” Shannon picked up a pen, made a check on the top of his note pad, and continued. “If at any time I become a suspect in this case I will not speak to you. All communications will have to be directed to my attorney. If the New York City Police Department deems me a suspect, or informs anybody that I am one, I will initiate a civil law suit. Any connection between a murder investigation and myself would severely damage the chances of resuming my career in broadcast journalism. I’m sure you understand that.”

  What Tommy understood was that the guy was trying to scare him. A major lawsuit against the department pissed everybody off including the mayor. Unless the suspect was clearly guilty, a police officer’s career could be badly hurt by a civil lawsuit, warranted or not. The brass downtown did not like to deal with these things. Lawyers could make a cop’s life miserable.

  “In addition, Detective,” Shannon went on, “anything I say to you in this interview, which is taking place on Sunday, December 4, 1994 at approximately 4:30 in the afternoon, is off the record. I do not wish to be quoted either publicly or privately. What I am telling you is for your ears alone. I am simply providing you with background as a professional courtesy. If you violate my trust, I will consider legal action. I also am not prepared to answer any direct questions about the criminal investigation surrounding the Global News Network because I know nothing about it. If you do ask me any questions specifically pertaining to your investigation, I will terminate our conversation. For the record, do you understand my conditions for speaking to you?”

  O’Malley was more amused than anything else. That was quite a speech, and the guy had only looked at his notebook twice. He was ice. “Yeah, I understand. But let’s get going before that tape runs out.” O’Malley smiled and thought, No way this guy is going to control the interview.

  His first question was a softball: “Tell me about your career, Mr. Michaels. Give me a verbal résumé.”

  Shannon Michaels had no problem with that, just as O’Malley had anticipated. Tommy was an excellent interrogator. He carefully practiced the first rule of the interview: get the subject talking about himself. Relax the person. Take the confrontational tension away. Besides, Tommy liked hearing about other people’s lives.

  It took Shannon about three minutes to run down his career. His speech was precise and relaxed. He knew O’Malley was warming him up. It was exactly what he would do in a television interview. Interrogation is an intellectual game won by the player who’s mentally faster afoot, and who can rapidly take advantage of an opening or an indicated weakness. Since O’Malley and the authorities had no eyewitnesses to the GNN crimes, and no physical evidence that could lead them to a suspect, their only hope in solving the case, Shannon knew, was a confession by the killer. That’s what O’Malley would have to aim for.

  “Tell me a bit about your personal background, Mr. Michaels. You mind if I take a few notes as well?”

  “Suit yourself, Detective,” Shannon answered, though he didn’t particularly like the note-taking. “I was born and raised in Denver. My parents were divorced when I was ten. Fortunately, I was an only child so my mother earned enough money to support me. She was a secretary. My father was what the English call a layabout. He wasn’t around much, and didn’t help my mother financially.”

  Tommy noticed that Shannon’s voice had become almost a monotone. His upbringing seemingly meant little to him.

  “In school I was a wise guy, but fairly intelligent,” Shannon continued. “I worked delivering newspapers so I could have my own money. That’s where I picked up on journalism. After high school, I drove up to Boulder to attend the University of Colorado. Did very well. Then I got a job at a TV station in Grand Junction, Colorado, as I told you. That started me off.”

  “Are you still close to your mother?” Tommy asked.

  “She died eight years ago. Brain tumor.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tom
my paused, looking for a reaction from Shannon Michaels. None was evident, so he continued his questioning. “Ever been married?”

  “Too busy with the career.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “Well, my father’s still alive, if you want to call it that. He lives in some low-rent trailer park in Arizona. He got in touch after seeing me a few times on GNN. Hinted around that he needed some money. I send him a yearly Christmas card. That’s about it.”

  “Don’t like the guy?”

  “Not much.”

  Tommy wasn’t surprised. He figured Shannon Michaels for a loner, an overachiever who depended solely on himself. There was something cold about the man, that was for sure.

  “Was your father an abusive man?” Tommy knew the question was tough, but it needed to be asked.

  Shannon Michaels looked first at Tommy, then at the tabletop. He was trying to decide whether to answer. Mental images hit him hard. He finally made up his mind.

  “My father let the bottle get the best of him. It destroyed him as an effective human being. He was very smart and charming, but he couldn’t control himself. He drank. We suffered. End of story.”

  Tommy didn’t push it but got what he was after. After questioning hundreds of killers, he knew that many of them had been abused as children. Their brutal experiences broke down their humanism, made them unfeeling. In many cases, child abuse warped their entire lives. The situation was well-known to criminal lawyers. They often used it as a defense for clients charged with murder. In California, the Menendez brothers were using the abuse defense for all it was worth.

  Shannon Michaels sat calmly, waiting for the next question. Tommy continued looking at the man, unable to comprehend how Ashley Van Buren could be involved with him. Yeah, he was handsome. But he was so icy and methodical. Ashley could surely sense that.