New York City Murders

by W. D. Frolick

“Oh, my God. That must have been devastating losing her husband like that. The poor woman.”

  “Yeah, she took it hard. To get over her grief, the captain threw herself into her work and practically lives in her office. And don’t ask her about her husband. That subject is taboo.”

  “Thanks. That’s good to know.”

  Changing the subject, Buck said, “I don’t see a ring on your finger. Are you single?”

  “I’ve been divorced for three years. I was married for a couple of years to a guy named Trent Boxer. He’s an investment advisor on Wall Street. Almost two years from the day we were married, I found out he was having an affair with his twenty-five-year-old secretary. Three months later we were divorced. I changed my name back to Karlsson. I didn’t like being Kristie Boxer. All the jerks on the force used to kid me about my last name. They’d ask me if I’d like to go a few rounds. Because of my job, I was working crazy hours and wasn’t home much. I guess Trent got frustrated and decided to have a fling. I suppose in a way I can’t blame him. Looking back, I was married more to my job than to him.”

  “Yeah, the life of a cop, especially a homicide detective, and married life don’t seem to agree.”

  “You’re right about that. After our divorce, I vowed to never get married again.”

  “That sounds pretty drastic. As time goes by and the wounds heal, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I don’t think so, but we’ll see.” Kristie laughed. “Maybe I should’ve married a cop. At least we’d have had the job in common.”

  “I’m curious, what made you want to become a cop?”

  “To make a long story short, it runs in my blood. Dad was a cop back home in California. He was a homicide detective on the LAPD. He retired about five years ago after we found out Mom had liver cancer. She hated going to doctors. By the time she was diagnosed it was too late. She lasted three months. My father was devastated. He became depressed and began to drink heavily. He died of a heart attack last May.”

  “I’m so sorry, Kristie. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a younger brother. He’s a lieutenant in the Marines based in Quantico, Virginia. Jake’s an instructor in the Officer Candidate School. He has a lovely wife, Janet, and they have a ten-year-old son named Simon.”

  “Are you and your brother close?”

  “I wouldn’t say we’re close, but we do stay in touch.”

  “Were you close with your parents?”

  “My mother and I were very close, and I was always Daddy’s little girl. I still can’t believe they’re both gone. My dad worked long hours and wasn’t around much, but Mom was always there for my brother and me.”

  “How did you end up in NYC?”

  “After I graduated from Grand Canyon University in Phoenix with a degree in Criminal Justice I decided that applying to the LAPD wasn’t a good idea since my dad worked there. I wanted to get away as far as possible. I didn’t want to be under my father’s scrutiny all the time. That’s how I ended up in New York City. What about you, Buck, what’s your story?”

  As the waiter approached, Buck breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I think it’s best we leave my story for another time. The food’s here, and I’m famished.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The day after the body of Detective Dan Mason was discovered, the killer sat drinking beer and wolfing down a double cheeseburger with fries in a small mom-and-pop restaurant in the Bronx. The New York Times sat on the table in front of him. He smiled when he read the headline: NYPD COP MURDERED! The article said that Narcotics Division Detective Daniel John Mason was murdered in a rented condo on Palisade Avenue. It mentioned that the killing appeared to be a “professional hit” and that the NYPD was tight-lipped about any leads they were pursuing. The police would only say that an investigation was currently being conducted by homicide detectives from the 52nd Precinct. The article went on to give a brief history of Detective Mason’s career in the NYPD.

  The killer smiled again as he reread the words––“professional hit.” The job had gone off without a hitch. It was an easy way to earn a quick ten thousand dollars. He raised his glass in triumph, took a long gulp, then put the drink down and picked up the sports section.

  Buck and Kristie attended the funeral of Detective Dan Mason five days after the discovery of his body. The 11:00 a.m. service was held at the Madison Avenue Baptist Church. The church was overflowing with relatives of the deceased and NYPD officers and personnel, along with representatives from police forces nationwide.

  Lieutenant Karl Kruger gave the eulogy. Without showing any emotion, he said, “Detective Dan Mason was an outstanding young man. He was a brave and courageous officer who gave his life trying to make our city a safer and better place in which to live. Dan always had a positive attitude and a dry sense of humor. Detective Mason was a people person, and he got along well with others. He will be sorrowfully missed by his loving family and all of us who knew him. Dan, you have my word that I will work closely with the homicide detectives assigned to find and bring your killer to justice. We will not rest until this is accomplished.” Kruger looked up at the ceiling. “You are now in the hands of God. Rest in peace, Daniel, my friend.”

  The morning after Dan Mason was laid to rest, Buck and Kristie arrived in the squad room at eight. Since their desks faced one another, it allowed them to carry on a conversation looking into each other’s eyes. Beyond Kristie, Buck’s view was that of a large cork board filled with wanted posters and police cartoon jokes. The bulletin board hung on a faded green wall desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint. Beyond Buck, Kristie’s view took in the same green wall, and two grime filled windows that allowed a limited amount of sunlight to filter in on bright days but did little to alleviate the depressing, claustrophobic atmosphere of the cramped squad room.

  Patrol officers were coming and going, and several detectives were sitting at their desks carrying on telephone conversations. Homicide Detectives Rob Burke and Jim MacRae were standing by the coffee maker, shooting the breeze. For some reason, they were looking directly at Buck and Kristie, smiling and laughing. Curious as to what the big joke was all about, Buck picked up his mug and asked, “Kristie, can I get you a coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  Buck casually walked to the coffee machine. After filling his cup, he turned to the two detectives and said, “Good morning, guys. What’s up?”

  “Not much,” Burke replied.

  “I saw you two looking at Detective Karlsson and me laughing. What’s the big joke?”

  Looking embarrassed, MacRae said, “We were telling a few cop jokes and checking out your sexy new partner. I’m wondering, is she available?”

  MacRae had been divorced for a few years and had just broken up with his girlfriend.

  “Sorry, Jim, she’s going out with a six-foot-three good-looking stud.”

  “Oh, and who might the lucky guy be?” MacRae asked, disappointment registering on his face.

  Buck gave a sly smile. “Me.” He turned and walked away, leaving Burke and MacRae speechless.

  As Buck sat down, Kristie asked, “What was that all about? I noticed them staring at us and laughing.”

  “Nothing. Cop jokes––MacRae and Burke were telling cop jokes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Burke even told me a joke.”

  Calling his bluff, Kristie said, “Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay,” Buck said. He cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee, stalling for time. “A guy went to the police station, wanting to talk to the burglar who broke into his house the night before. ‘You’ll get your chance to confront him in court,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘No, no, I just want to know how he was able to sneak into our house without waking my wife. I always get caught.’”

  Kristie laughed. “That’s cute. S
peaking of cop jokes, I’ve got a good one for you.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “Yesterday the NYPD Critical Response Command arrested three out of four terrorists. Bin Snortin’, Bin Dealin’, and Bin Thievin’. So far there’s no sign of Bin Workin’.”

  “Good joke, Kristie. Where did you get that one?”

  “My crazy brother, Jake, sent it to me in an email.”

  Sorting through papers on his desk, Buck said, “Looks like we’ve got a summary from the ME.”

  “Oh, what does it say?”

  Woods picked up the report. “It says that Detective Dan Mason was killed by a 9mm caliber weapon. The database search from the footprint casting revealed the shoes were a size twelve Nike. The treads were hardly worn, indicating that the runners were almost brand new. The search in the system didn’t find a match for the DNA found on the marijuana butt. That’s it.”

  Buck handed the report to Kristie. She filed it in the murder book, along with notes and pictures from the crime scene and autopsy.

  “Getting back to the case,” Kristie said, “it looks like we have four leads. The ME’s report confirms the weapon used was a 9mm pistol. I’m guessing the gun is probably at the bottom of the Hudson River. If we ever get lucky and find it, I’m sure the serial number would have been filed off, and the gun won’t be registered. The size and make of the shoes could be a good lead, providing the killer is still wearing them. I doubt he would have thrown them away since they appear to be almost new. The other concrete leads we have are the White Skulls tattoo on the unsub’s neck and his gray eyes. Since there wasn’t a match to the DNA, it indicates that our perp doesn’t have a record.”

  “And so far every Confidential Informant we’ve talked to hasn’t given us a damn thing. It’s almost as if they’re too afraid to talk. There’s got to be some way we can find the suspect. Maybe his gray eyes will lead to his downfall,” Buck said.

  Just then, Buck’s desk phone rang.

  “Detective Woods.”

  “Good day, Detective. This is Joan Tanner, secretary to Mr. Powell from the law firm of Powell, Taggart, and Marks. Could you please hold for Mr. Powell. He wishes to speak with you.”

  “No problem, I’ll hold.”

  A few seconds later, a man with a deep baritone voice came on the line.

  “Detective Woods, it’s John Powell. How are you today?”

  “I’m good, Mr. Powell. What can I do for you?”

  “Please, Detective, call me John.”

  “Okay, John, how can I help you?”

  “You may or may not know, I’m the attorney administering the estate of the late Detective Daniel Mason.”

  “No. I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Recently, Dan left me a sealed envelope with explicit instructions that in the event of his death I was to give it to you in person. Would it be convenient for you to pop by my office in about one hour? It’s nine now. Would ten work for you?

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll see you in one hour.”

  “Do you have our address, Detective?”

  “Yes, I know where your office is located.”

  “Good. I look forward to meeting you.”

  After hanging up, Buck looked at Kristie. “I’ve got to go pick up an envelope from Dan Mason’s lawyer’s office.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I open it.”

  The law office of Powell, Taggert, and Marks was only a few blocks away. Since it was a mild, sunny day, Buck decided to walk. He left at nine thirty and arrived at the office of John Powell at nine fifty-five.

  As he walked through the door, Joan Tanner smiled warmly and said, “You must be Detective Woods.”

  “Yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you in person, Joan.”

  “Likewise, Detective. Please take a seat. Mr. Powell will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like a coffee, Detective?”

  “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  While he waited, Woods thumbed through a Sports Illustrated magazine. He didn’t absorb a thing. He was thinking about the envelope from Dan Mason and wondering what it contained.

  At ten minutes after ten, the door opened, and a distraught elderly woman was ushered out by John Powell.

  “Don’t worry Mrs. Brickman. Everything will work out just fine. Please go home and try to get some rest. Joan will call you when the paperwork is ready for signing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Powell,” the woman said. She turned and slowly shuffled out of the waiting room.

  “Ah, Detective Woods, sorry to have kept you waiting. Please come in.”

  In his early fifties. Powell was short, bald, and overweight. His pale, pudgy face had a thin gray mustache under a pug nose.

  After shaking hands, Powell retreated behind his large rosewood desk. Buck took a seat in a plush armchair directly in front of him.

  “I was shocked and saddened to hear of Detective Mason’s murder. Dan was a fine young man. Have you had any luck finding his killer, Detective?”

  Woods ignored the question.

  “You mentioned on the phone that Detective Mason left an envelope for me. Do you have any idea what it contains?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. Detective Mason dropped it off a few days before he was killed. It was sealed, and he gave me explicit instructions the contents were for your eyes only.”

  Powell opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a small white compact disc-size padded envelope and put it on his desk. He placed a pen and a duplicate copy of a receipt next to the envelope.

  “Please sign this receipt, and the package is all yours.”

  Buck signed the receipt, and Powell handed him his copy and the envelope.

  “Before I leave, I’m curious, did Detective Mason seem nervous when he brought you the package?”

  Powell paused for a moment. “Come to think of it, he did appear to be a little jittery. He was speaking faster than usual. I might be imagining, but it was almost as if he was looking over his shoulder, afraid that someone had followed him.”

  “Okay, John. Thanks. Have a good day.”

  “You too, Detective. It was nice meeting you. Good luck with the case. I hope you catch Detective Mason’s killer soon.”

  “So do I.”

  The two men shook hands, and Woods left.

  On his walk back to the precinct, Buck’s mind was racing. Why did Mason leave me a package for my eyes only? It must have something to do with his death? That’s crazy. How would Dan know he was about to die? Woods began to jog. He could hardly wait to get back and find out what was inside the envelope.

  CHAPTER 4

  When he arrived in the squad room, Buck found a note on his desk. It was from Kristie. It said that she had gone to do some banking and would be back before noon. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven fifteen. He grabbed his letter opener and was about to attack the envelope when Captain Robertson approached his desk.

  “Detective Woods, I’d like a word with you in my office, please?”

  As soon as he was seated, she said, “I’ve gone through the security disc from your building a few more times, and I would have to agree the mystery man wearing the ski mask could be our killer. The tattoo on his neck links him to the White Skulls. Have you had any luck with your CIs?”

  “They were useless. I think we’ll have to do our own surveillance. It might be the only way we’ll find the suspect.”

  “You’re right. You and Detective Karlsson will have to hit the streets. The sooner you get back out there, the better.”

  “Okay, Captain. We’ll start again this afternoon.”

  He mentioned the medical examiner’s report and gave Captain Robertson a synopsis of its contents.

&
nbsp; “Well, at least you have a physical description of the unsub.” She gave an amused smile. “Now all you have to do is find someone with a White Skulls tattoo on his neck, with gray eyes who wears size twelve Nikes, and he’ll probably be our killer. Of course, finding him and proving he’s the man we’re looking for may be hard to do since we’ve never seen his face. Good luck, Detective, I think you’re going to need it. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  Back at his desk, Buck picked up the letter opener. He was about to try again when his desk phone rang. Shit! Frustrated, he placed the items on his desk, checked the screen, and picked up the receiver.

  “Lieutenant Karl Kruger. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Buckley, my man, I just wanted to touch base to see how the investigation into Mason’s murder is coming along. Do you have any leads or suspects?”

  “We have a few things we’re working on, but nothing concrete has turned up yet.”

  “Sounds like you and your partner will have your work cut out for you. Speaking of your partner, I didn’t notice a ring on Kristie’s finger. Is she single? Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Kruger, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re still a sex maniac,” Buck said, laughing.

  “Ah, come on, Buckley, help a buddy out here.”

  Don’t call me Buckley, and I’m not your buddy, you arrogant son of a bitch.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself.”

  “Okay, I will. Is Kristie there?”

  “Sorry, she’s out at the moment. Call her later.”

  “I just might do that.” Kruger chuckled and hung up.

  Buck hung up and thought, Kristie’s suspicions about Kruger were bang on. He probably did undress her with his eyes.

  Once more he picked up the envelope and opener. This time he managed to slit the package open without being interrupted. He tipped it up and dumped out the contents. A flash drive and a folded handwritten note lay on his desk. He was about to read the letter when he heard Kristie’s voice.

  “What’s going on, partner?”