Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  * * *

  25

  MATTITUCK, LONG ISLAND

  DECEMBER 1994

  Ashley Van Buren was lost. Having driven the Long Island Expressway its full length, she exited at Riverhead, just as Shannon had instructed. But now as she passed empty vineyards and potato fields, she was beginning to lose her bearings. And there was absolutely no one around to help her.

  Ashley had never visited the North Fork of eastern Long Island before. She had often taken the bus, the Hampton Jitney, to the South Fork during the summer to join the thousands of Manhattanites who made the Hamptons their summer headquarters. It was a scene that made Ashley somewhat uncomfortable.

  The ocean beaches from Westhampton to Montauk were exquisite, but the constant posturing was exhausting. Social status was ostentatiously on display in the Hamptons, and the pressure to appear successful and powerful was intense. Just to get a table in a restaurant on summer weekends was a major challenge to one’s place in the social pecking order. Even where one was seated in the restaurant was extremely important. It could make or break an entire evening.

  Young professionals swarmed to the Hamptons, renting space in houses, called shares, at exorbitant prices. A small three-bedroom house would often be home to ten people over a weekend. It was all too much for Ashley, who preferred to vacation in the relative quiet of Cape Cod.

  But in December, eastern Long Island had returned to its natural, desolate state, and Ashley badly needed directions. As she drove along Route 25, she wondered where all the yearlong residents were. Finally, an oasis appeared in the form of a combination gas station and food mart. She gassed up and asked the overweight attendant to pinpoint her exact location. Luckily, she was not far from Shannon’s house.

  Driving quickly past the Old Steeple Community Church, Ashley turned northward at the tiny village of Mattituck. She crossed the railroad tracks and took the next right, heading east toward Orient Point. All around her was beauty—low rolling hills and quaint farmhouses. It was a regular “Field of Dreams,” she thought.

  Shannon’s house was located atop a steep cliff, directly overlooking the Long Island Sound. Ashley turned off a small farm road and onto the property. Out of view, about a hundred yards away, a blue sedan was parked. Inside, sitting low in the front seat, were two tough-looking New York City policemen.

  Ashley drove down a long, dirt driveway flanked on both sides by high hedges. At the end of the driveway was a clearing big enough to park a half dozen cars. A small A-frame house painted white with black shutters sat peacefully in front of her. Shannon had said it didn’t look like much, and he was right.

  But behind the house was something quite fantastic, as Ashley discovered when she took a quick peek outside. The glass-enclosed living room overlooked a small backyard, and then it was a seascape view all the way to Connecticut, which was visible in the distance. A long wooden stairway descended to the beach, which stretched for miles in both directions. The small house itself was surrounded on both sides by pine forest. It was extremely private. Ashley loved it immediately.

  Despite his initial suspicion, Shannon Michaels was happy to see Ashley Van Buren. He greeted her with a deep kiss and, because it was cold, quickly ushered her into the house and sat her down. Shannon had some New England clam chowder simmering, and served it up along with two tuna sandwiches and coffee. Ashley was disarmed immediately.

  “This is great, Shannon, the perfect place to write a book.”

  “It is that. Not a distraction for ten miles.”

  “How did you find this place?” Ashley asked.

  “It was easy. After Labor Day, all the summer rentals end. If you drive out here, you can find plenty of places. This one is owned by a schoolteacher in Queens. It’s been in his family for decades. He uses it in the summer, and was thrilled to get a long winter rental.”

  Ashley stared out the huge window that covered the entire back of the house. In the corner, she noticed a mounted telescope. The house was everything Shannon Michaels had said it was, she thought. Tommy O’Malley would not be pleased to hear that, but it was the truth. And the truth was what Ashley Van Buren was after.

  The New York Knicks were losing and Pat Riley looked mad. His face looked mad, that is. The rest of him always looked the same: well groomed, in an oily way, and well pressed. Tommy thought the guy was a great coach, but somehow didn’t trust him.

  Tommy was lying on his couch watching the game and feeling sorry for himself. It had been a terrible week. Nothing was breaking on the GNN case, and he had been scolded by the NYPD’s assistant director of communications—he wasn’t important enough to hear directly from the director. No, the assistant director had called him and said, in a snotty tone, that the commissioner would appreciate it if O’Malley would alert the police press officers before he talked with any newspaper people.

  This, of course, was in response to Ashley Van Buren’s column on defense lawyers. The press flack told Tommy that the consensus downtown was that his remarks were “simplistic.” The between-the-lines translation, Tommy knew, was that he was not smart enough to articulate a reasoned position on the lawyer issue.

  Tommy didn’t argue with the press flack because he knew that anything he said could and would be held against him. After the flack finished his condescending remarks, Tommy uttered just one word: “Fine.” He did alert his boss, Lt. McGowan, to the call, and McGowan told him not to sweat it. Tommy wasn’t sweating. He was pissed off. The department, he believed, was filled with more self-important jerks than ever before.

  Tommy watched as Knick John Starks missed a three-pointer, but his mind continued to wander. The surveillance on Shannon Michaels had only turned up the location of his rented house in Mattituck. But just the fact that there actually was a house angered Tommy. Now Michaels had an alibi. It was flimsy, but it existed. The phone records of Shannon Michaels also turned up nothing incriminating. None of his calls went anywhere near Martha’s Vineyard or California.

  And then there was Ashley. Tommy hated the fact that she was out there with Shannon Michaels. He hated the fact that, unless Shannon really screwed up, Ashley was Tommy’s only hope. And a screw-up was doubtful. The man was meticulous—the guy had received expert training, Tommy believed. These killings were professional hits, not the work of some out-for-revenge amateur.

  Tommy’s dark thoughts about Shannon Michaels were interrupted by the phone. Anything was better than thinking about this frustrating case, so he picked up immediately.

  “Tommy, this is Angela,” his ex-wife began.

  Jesus Christ, Tommy thought as he looked toward his ceiling, why are you persecuting me?

  “How’s it goin’, Ange?” he said instead.

  “Fine, Tommy, very well.” Tommy thought her voice sounded unusually calm. The fact that she was doing “fine” was a radical departure from her norm. “And you?”

  “Happy as the proverbial clam, Ange. What can I do for you? I know I’m all paid up because my checking account is empty.”

  “I’m just calling to tell you something, Tommy.” Angela paused. And paused again. Tommy knew she was purposely keeping silent.

  Finally, he said, “Yes, Angela?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  Tommy sat upright. What a lightning bolt! He recovered quickly enough from the shock to calmly ask: “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “You don’t sound surprised, Tommy. Have you been spying on me?”

  Tommy was back on familiar ground. “Yeah, Ange, I’m lookin’ in your window every night. You know how much time I have on my hands.”

  Angela Rufino O’Malley ignored the sarcastic remark. “I’m marrying Sal Lamonica. He’s a deacon in the church. We’re in love, Tommy, but we need your help.”

  “What?” Tommy said, surprised again. “Why would you need my help?

  “We need an annulment from the church, so you have to fill out some forms and come to an interview with the priest.”

  “I have to
?”

  “Please, Tommy. Sal won’t get married without the annulment. He says Jesus won’t recognize the marriage.”

  “Well, maybe if I talked to Jesus . . .”

  “Don’t be sacrilegious, Tommy. Talking like that is a serious sin.”

  Tommy O’Malley couldn’t believe it. All he wanted was to go back to watching the Knicks game. Now he was in trouble with Jesus!

  “Send the forms over, Ange. I’ll fill them out. I’ll tell them that I have a pact with Satan. They’ll let you off the hook.”

  “You must take this seriously, Tommy. The priest says that, when we took our vows, we were too immature to understand the true nature of a Catholic marriage. So we might be able to get an annulment.”

  “Well, he’s half right anyway. Look, Angela, I’ll help you out with this, but I’m not payin’ for it. Sal Whatever will have to do that. These annulments are expensive, aren’t they?”

  “But Sal doesn’t have any money. He’s devoting his life to Christ.”

  Tommy bit his lip. Typical Angela, trying to put the arm on him for the annulment fee. He could have said at least ten nasty things. But he didn’t. “Ange, I’ll help out, but Sal is payin’. Period.”

  Angela Rufino O’Malley didn’t like that one bit. “I’ll talk to him about it,” she said.

  “Oh and Ange? Give him a big hug for me.” Tommy knew it was a cheap shot, but he couldn’t resist.

  “Goodbye, Tommy.” The click on the other end of the line was emphatic. Tommy tried unsuccessfully to refocus on the game. It didn’t bother him that his ex-wife had found someone. He actually wanted her to remarry. Financially, it was beneficial to him. But he was constantly amazed and disappointed at the self-absorption all around him. Angela Rufino had been his wife, had said she loved him. Now, she just wanted to use him. Angela couldn’t care less about Tommy or his life. He couldn’t believe the woman’s nerve, asking him to pay for her annulment.

  But if he confronted Angela, he knew she could easily justify the request—at least to herself. Her thinking was, and always had been, If it’s good for Angela Rufino, then it’s good in perpetuity and nothing else matters. As John Starks missed another three-pointer, Tommy stared at the TV and thought that Angela Rufino truly represented the crass selfishness that had infected America. That he had ever been married to such a woman added black layers to his already smothering depression.

  “So, O’Malley thinks I’m a vicious serial killer,” Shannon said, watching closely for Ashley’s reaction. There was none, and she continued chewing her sandwich. “Just because I didn’t like those two GNN people, he is convinced I’m a murderer. And he doesn’t have a shred of evidence against me. It’s so ludicrous.”

  Ashley dabbed her lips with the paper napkin Shannon had provided. She didn’t know what to say. She sucked in her left cheek and raised her eyebrows in a quizzical way. “I just think he’s frustrated and looking at a number of suspects,” she said.

  “And I think he’s jealous because you’re spending time with me.”

  Again, Ashley felt uncomfortable. “Why do you think that?” she asked, knowing full well why Shannon thought that.

  “During our conversation at my house, I mentioned your name to him. The guy got all flustered. You should have seen him. I think he likes you, Ash.”

  “What’s not to like?” said Ashley, smiling. But Shannon, feeling uneasy, decided to press her.

  “Why do you think O’Malley is coming down on me?”

  Ashley decided to answer the question honestly. She didn’t like playing games. “His information is that the three people who were killed all hurt you, hurt your career. Come on, Shannon, if you were in his position, you’d think the same thing.”

  “And how ’bout you, Ash? What do you think?”

  “I believe you when you say you didn’t do it. But I know that Detective O’Malley has to follow every lead he has.”

  Shannon stared at his companion. She had tied her blond hair back and was wearing a red turtleneck sweater and black jeans. And she looked great. Her green eyes stared at him questioningly, as if waiting for some revelation. Shannon decided to change the mood.

  “Well, I don’t blame the detective for being infatuated with you—I know I am.”

  Ashley saw the man’s sly smile. She knew he was teasing. He wasn’t the type to confess undying love. “Well, I guess that comment is dessert,” Ashley said. “But a little overly sweet, if you ask me.”

  Shannon laughed. The woman had spunk. He truly hoped she wasn’t working with O’Malley.

  Ashley took a sip of coffee while looking at the man across the table from her. As always, he was not completely relaxed. And she was curious about something. “Do you miss working in TV, Shannon?”

  The question took him aback. But his answer came quickly. “I miss doing something that I was good at, but I don’t miss the pressure and I don’t miss a lot of the people. I worked very hard to develop myself as a journalist and as a performer, and it seems a shame to waste those skills.” Shannon got up and walked to the old, overstuffed couch. He eased himself down on to the sofa, resting his right arm across the back of it.

  “That’s what most newspaper people don’t understand. When you do TV news, you have to be able to handle the pressure to perform. You can’t just write a good story. You have to look into that camera and convince people that you know what you’re talking about. You can’t be threatening, or nervous, or silly, or inarticulate. You can’t fumble your words or lose your train of thought. You have to come across as a nice, smart, honest, objective newsperson who is also perfectly groomed. And we both know that’s the way most newspeople are in real life, right?”

  Ashley laughed and said: “Yeah, and I’m Oprah Winfrey.”

  “Now there’s a perfect example, Oprah Winfrey. This woman is an enormous talent. She started out doing the weather on local TV. But she made it big because she convinced people, through the television camera, that she was just like them. She was performing, but it looked so natural. Now, because she’s a huge celebrity, the audience expects Oprah to know everything, to be able to solve all their problems. They look to her as a role model and advisor. She’s no longer just like them. She’s much more. Can you imagine the pressure on her to perform every day under those circumstances? It must be excruciating.”

  “But she makes forty million dollars a year!” Ashley said.

  “It doesn’t matter, and anyway, she deserves the money. She makes the people who sell her show three times that. But money doesn’t alleviate pressure. It just makes it worse. If you’re paid the big bucks, then you have to carry the ratings. So not only do you have the pressure to perform flawlessly, but you also have to worry about how many people are watching. That kind of pressure makes people crazy.”

  “But you loved it,” Ashley said, playing with the handle of her coffee mug. “You liked the challenge.”

  “That’s true. I liked the competition. I liked to win. But the success and money came at a big cost.”

  “Really, what do you mean?” Ashley asked.

  “Your feelings become hardened. You fight so many battles with people who try to hurt the broadcast. Sometimes they’re just ignorant, but sometimes they’re lazy or disinterested. And once in a while it’s blatant sabotage because they dislike you. No matter why, there’s conflict nearly every day. You get hurt, and then you lash out at others. It’s like getting calluses on your heart.”

  Not a bad line, Ashley thought, filing it away.

  Shannon was staring out the window. The sky was gray, the pine trees swaying under a light breeze. Shannon turned his eyes back to Ashley. “You know, the anchorpeople are the quarterbacks. And although they’re not allowed to call the plays, they are held responsible for the final score. Plus, the bosses can fuck things up royally and the anchors don’t have the authority to stop it. That’s why most anchor people don’t even bother to fight anymore. They just shut up and hold on for as long as they can.” />
  “But you didn’t do that.”

  “No, and look where it got me. The bastards took me down hard. But I took a lot of money out of there, so I guess I shouldn’t be feeling too sorry for myself.”

  “But you are,” Ashley said.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. Many TV people are good at that because they’re always thinking about themselves. It’s a self-obsessed business. ‘How are things going to impact on me? Is this person my friend or my enemy? I’ll get him before he gets me.’ That kind of thing. It’s a brutal way to live.”

  “But you’d go back.” Ashley’s green eyes swept over Shannon. She could see he was struggling to contain his emotions.

  “Yeah, I probably would. I’m so jaded I’d go back into the jungle. That’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it?”

  Ashley remained silent. It was obvious how much Shannon’s career meant to him. But it was a destructive force, Ashley was convinced. “Why do you think the TV business attracts so many bad people?”

  “The same reason politics does. Power. There’s tremendous power in television news. If you’re calling the shots, you can help someone tremendously, or you can crush that person. With a well-positioned negative word, you can ruin a career or endeavor forever, virtually unchecked. You can make the most powerful people on earth tremble. By deciding what stories the public will see and hear, you can influence history. People who are greedy for power realize that television is the most influential tool ever invented. For some, it’s a place to be reached, no matter the cost. You can make more money on Wall Street, but nowhere else can you accumulate personal power as fast as you can in television.”

  “And power corrupts,” Ashley said.

  “It’s not that simple. Many people working in TV were corrupt before they even got there. Somebody once said: ‘The TV industry is the health club for megalomaniacs.’ Well, all the ego exercise equipment is in place.”

  “And you worked out pretty hard there, didn’t you, Shannon?”