New York City Murders

by W. D. Frolick

  “What? I’m not playing hard to get. I don’t want to go out with that jerk ever again.”

  “I know, I know, but think about it. It’ll give us another opportunity to pump him for information. Information that may prove helpful in nailing him for ordering the hit on Mason and for taking bribes.”

  “Let’s just drop it. I don’t want to talk about it now. I’m tired, and I could use a stiff drink.”

  “Okay, let’s call it a day. I’ll buy you dinner, and we can relax for a while. We won’t talk about Kruger.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. I’m not in the mood to go out. Why don’t you meet me at my apartment, and we can order in Chinese? Actually, I’ll order it when I get home, and you can pick it up from the restaurant across the street. I’ll let you pay for the food, and I’ll provide the drinks.”

  “Deal. I’m game for that.”

  “Why don’t you stop by your hotel and grab a change of clothes just in case you don’t want to drive back after a few drinks. You can sleep in the spare room again,” Kristie said with a sly smile and a big wink.

  “I could do that,” Buck said, returning her smile and wink.

  Woods arrived a few minutes after seven, and Kristie buzzed him in. When she opened the door, he stood there juggling a paper bag containing the food, another bag with two bottles of wine, and a garment bag. She gave him a peck on the cheek and took the wine.

  “That was fast,” she said.

  Buck laughed. “I cheated. I used my siren.”

  She wagged a finger at him, trying to look serious. “You’re a naughty boy, B.J. Woods.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes it’s fun being naughty.”

  She returned his smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Maybe we can get naughty tonight.”

  “I think I might like that.”

  As she removed the wine from the bag, Kristie said, “Thanks. It’s one of my favorites. You didn’t have to do that. I said I’d provide the drinks.”

  “I know, but I wasn’t sure if you had any wine. I thought it would go well with the food.”

  “That’s very thoughtful. Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  While Kristie set out the food, Buck opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a drink. He joined Kristie at the kitchen table, handed her a glass, and said, “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “How do you like it at the Five-two so far,” Buck asked.

  “I really like it. It’s a unique building. Do you know that it’s got an interesting history?”

  “To tell the truth, I’ve never thought about it.”

  “I was curious, so I Googled it and found out a lot of neat stuff on Wikipedia.”

  “Such as?”

  “The station house was built during the horse and buggy era, between 1904 and 1906. The architects were Stoughton & Stoughton of Mount Vernon, New York. The unique three-story building was designed to look like a Tuscan villa. In 1974 the station house was designated a New York City Landmark and was listed on the Register of National Historic Places in 1982. The distinguishing feature is the clock tower at the back of the building with its three-sided clock, and the current garage was originally a horse stable.”

  Buck laughed. “Very impressive, Detective Karlsson. You sure did your homework. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t know any of that stuff.”

  When they had finished eating, Buck poured them each another glass of wine, and they retired to the living room couch.

  Relaxed, Kristie smiled. “That feels better. What do you want to do?”

  “Maybe we could find a good movie and not think about work for a while,” Buck suggested.

  “Good idea, work is the last thing I want to talk about. And I don’t want to think or talk about Kruger.” Kristie picked up the remote control and turned on the large screen TV. She punched in the numbers for the Action Channel.

  “The eight o’clock movie is about to start. And wouldn’t you know, it’s Dangerous Journey, one of Grant Peterson’s early films,” Kristie said. “We can’t seem to get away from that man.”

  “You’re right. I think Peterson is going to haunt us until we solve his murder. Have you seen the movie before?”

  “Not that I can recall. How about you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Buck said.

  “Good. I’ll be right back.”

  Kirstie popped to her feet and dashed into the kitchen. She opened a box of Orville Redenbacher, pulled out a bag and placed it in the microwave. A few minutes later, just as the movie was about to start, she returned with a bowl of steaming popcorn.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, at 10:00 a.m. sharp on the stage inside the Broadway House Theater, sixty-year-old Police Commissioner George Gowan, six-foot-two with thinning gray hair and a somber face, stepped up to the podium. He took a sip from a glass of water and cleared his throat.

  “Good morning. I’d like to welcome and thank you all for attending this press conference.” He paused briefly and glanced down at his notes. “I’m sorry to announce the death of Mr. Grant Peterson one of today’s greatest actors. Yesterday morning at approximately 9:00 a.m., Mr. Peterson was discovered shot to death in his vehicle in the parking lot behind this theater. Detective Woods and Detective Karlsson, here with us today, have been assigned the task of solving Mr. Peterson’s murder. As you may know, Grant Peterson was born in New York City and started his acting career here on Broadway. Eventually, his talent took him to Hollywood, where he became a legendary action-adventure star similar in stature to Tom Cruise, Bruce Willis, Jason Statham, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Mr. Peterson was in New York pursuing his passion for live theater. The play, Murder on Broadway, was written, directed, and produced by his good friend and owner of the Broadway House Theater, Mr. Marcus Tillman. Mr. Peterson leaves behind, in Hollywood, his wife, actress Lauren McCarthy, and two young children, Mary, ten, and John, eight. You can rest assured, we at the NYPD will do everything in our power to apprehend and bring Mr. Peterson’s killer to justice as quickly as possible. I will now take a few questions.”

  Every media person began to ask questions at once. The commissioner held up his hand.

  “Whoa! One at a time, please. He pointed to a New York Times reporter in the front row. “Yes, Peter.”

  “Mr. Commissioner, do you have any suspects?”

  “I’ll let Detective Woods answer your question.”

  Buck and Kristie were standing to one side behind the commissioner. He motioned for Buck to come to the podium.

  Buck began to speak slowly and clearly. “We have just started our investigation and are working on a few leads. However, we do not have anything concrete to report at this time. You will be updated from time to time as the investigation into Mr. Peterson’s death progresses.”

  Woods pointed to a television reporter who had his hand raised. “Detective Woods, do you have any idea what the motive was for Grant Peterson’s murder?”

  “The medical examiner did not find any ID or cash on Mr. Peterson’s body. His murder could be the result of a robbery that went bad. However, we do not wish to speculate on what might have happened at this time. You will be updated as our investigation progresses.”

  After Buck had answered a few more questions, Commissioner Gowan stepped back to the podium. Once more, he thanked everyone for coming and called an end to the press conference.

  Buck and Kristie returned to the station house at eleven thirty. Captain Robertson came into the squad room and asked, “How did it go?”

  “It went well,” Buck said. “I’ve got a feeling that Peterson’s murder is going to be a huge story worldwide.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be. Let’s try to get this one solved as quickly as possible. The longer it takes, the more flak we’ll have to take from the media, not to mention from the com
missioner and the mayor. By the way, did anything turn up at Peterson’s condo?”

  Kristie filled Captain Robertson in on the letter and divorce papers from Peterson’s wife, the telephone messages, the woman’s clothing, and their suspicion that Peterson may have had a health problem.

  After digesting the information, Captain Robertson asked, “What’s your next move?”

  “We’ll grab a quick lunch then head over to Peterson’s autopsy. It’s scheduled for one,” Buck said. “If Peterson had a health problem, it should be revealed during the autopsy.”

  “Okay. Let me know if anything significant turns up.”

  The autopsy took almost four hours to complete. By the time it was over, Buck and Kristie had the answer to their suspicions. The autopsy revealed that Grant Peterson had advanced pancreatic cancer. According to Dr. Rodriguez, if he hadn’t been murdered, Peterson probably would have died within three to six months.

  Later that afternoon, they met with Captain Robertson. When the update was completed, she leaned back in her chair and said, “I suppose that’s the reason Dr. Harrison wanted to speak with Peterson. He either wanted to break the bad news or talk to him about options for treatment.”

  “Based on how advanced the cancer was, I doubt that it was treatable,” Buck said.

  “Dr. Rodriguez said Peterson was living on borrowed time,” Kristie said.

  “It sounds that way,” Captain Robertson agreed. “But we still need to find his killer. Have you received the lab report yet?”

  “Not yet,” Kristie said. “We’re expecting it soon.”

  “What leads are you working on?”

  “If the bullet that killed Peterson matches the pistol found in the dumpster, and if Tillman’s prints are on the gun, we’ll have no choice but to issue a warrant for his arrest,” Buck said.

  “Okay, let me know when you get the results, and we’ll go from there.”

  Just as they returned to the squad room, Buck’s desk phone rang. He glanced at the screen––Unknown Caller.

  He looked at Kristie. “Shit! I don’t like answering my phone when I don’t know who’s calling.”

  After four rings his curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up.

  “Homicide, Detective Woods speaking.”

  “Good morning, Detective. It’s Paul Parker from the New York Times.”

  Parker was a pesky investigative crime reporter that Buck didn’t care for. They had had a few run-ins in the past. He was like a junkyard dog. Once he latched onto a story, Parker never let go until he got what he wanted.

  “What the hell do you want now, Parker?” Buck snapped, clearly agitated.

  “Gee, Detective, you don’t sound too happy to hear from me.”

  “Talking to you never makes me happy.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, I have a question for you.”

  “I thought your question was answered at the press conference.”

  “Just one more question, Detective, and I won’t bother you again.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, Detective, I promise.”

  “Okay. What’s your question?”

  “A confidential source tells me that Grant Peterson’s autopsy revealed that he had terminal cancer. Is that correct, Detective?”

  The question caught Buck entirely off guard. “Who told you that?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t reveal my confidential source’s name. If I did that, he or she wouldn’t be confidential.”

  “I have no comment,” Buck said, hanging up.

  “You don’t like that man, do you?”

  “Let’s put it this way, he’s not on my Christmas gift list. I don’t want to talk about that jerk.”

  “Wow! We’re touchy this morning.”

  Realizing he was taking his frustration with Parker out on Kristie, Buck mellowed and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Can we change the subject?”

  Buck’s phone rang again. It was forensics.

  “Homicide, Detective Woods.”

  “Good morning, Buck, it’s Hector. I’ll be sending you a preliminary report shortly. In the meantime, I thought you’d like to know that the .45 caliber gun found in the dumpster is the murder weapon. And we found fingerprints on the gun. They belong to Marcus Tillman.”

  “Good work, Doc. Thanks for the info. Take care. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Buck.”

  Woods hung up and turned to Kristie. “That was Rodriguez, it was Tillman’s gun that was used to kill Peterson, and Tillman’s prints are on the weapon.”

  “That was fast. What do you think?”

  “I think it was too easy. I believe Tillman when he said he’d have to be an idiot to throw the gun into his own dumpster, and Tillman’s not an idiot. I really believe someone is trying to frame him.”

  “Who would want to frame Tillman?”

  Buck shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “And why would someone want to frame Tillman?”

  “Who knows. Those are two good questions. In the meantime, all the evidence points directly at Tillman.”

  “If you look at it motive-wise, Tillman had five million reasons to want Peterson dead. What do you think?” Kristie asked.

  “That’s possible, but I still think it smells fishy. Right now, as I said, all the evidence points straight at Tillman. Let’s update the captain and see what she thinks.”

  After presenting the crime lab findings, Captain Robertson agreed that it all fell into place too conveniently, but she said they had no choice but to issue a warrant for Tillman’s arrest.

  As they were leaving the captain’s office, Kristie said, “Now that we’ll be arresting Tillman for Peterson’s murder, we won’t have to interview everyone at the theater.”

  “At least for now. But I still think it’s possible that Tillman is being framed.”

  By two o’clock, the arrest warrant had been obtained, and Buck and Kristie headed over to the Broadway House Theater.

  Buck knocked loudly on the entrance door, and within a few minutes, Bart Hanley appeared and led the way to Marcus Tillman’s office. As they entered, surprised, Tillman looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Detectives. How can I help you?”

  “You can help us by standing up and placing your hands behind your back. We have a warrant for your arrest for the first-degree murder of Grant Peterson,” Buck said.

  “You’ve got the wrong man. Someone is framing me,” Tillman protested.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Tillman. Ballistics found your gun to be the murder weapon, and they found prints on the gun that match the prints you provided when you purchased the firearm,” Kristie said.

  Buck read Tillman his rights while Kristie frisked him. Not finding any weapon, she snapped the cuffs on his wrists and marched him toward the door.

  “I tell you, I’m being framed. I want my lawyer,” Tillman demanded.

  “You’ll get to call your lawyer from the station house,” Buck replied.

  After he was processed, Tillman got to make his call. His lawyer, Justin Harper, a famous NYC criminal attorney, arrived an hour later. He was a partner in the prestigious law firm of Harper, Mayo, Truman & Shuster.

  Harper, a handsome man in his early forties, was allowed a private meeting with his client. When they were finished, he followed as the guard led Tillman from his holding cell to the interrogation room, where Buck and Kristie were waiting for them.

  Tillman and Harper took seats opposite the detectives. Captain Robertson and Commanding Officer Deputy Inspector Martin Forester listened and watched through the one-way glass.

  “Before we get started, we’d like your permission to record this interview,” Buck said.

  “You have our permission,” Harper sa
id.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Justin,” Tillman objected.

  “It is a good idea, Marcus. By recording the interview, it protects you. They can’t come back later and say you said something that you didn’t say. Please let me do the talking,” Harper said sternly. “I’ll let you know if and when I want you to speak.”

  Tillman opened his mouth to speak but stopped without uttering a word.

  Woods started the recorder and for the record stated the date, time, location, and the names of all persons present.

  Buck began. “Mr. Tillman, the evidence shows that Mr. Grant Peterson was shot and killed by a handgun owned by you. The fingerprints found on the murder weapon also belong to you. Would you like to change your not guilty plea?”

  Tillman was about to open his mouth when Harper jumped in before he could speak.

  “My client sticks with his not-guilty plea. Have you looked into the possibility that my client is being framed?”

  “At this time, we have no evidence or reason to believe that Mr. Tillman is being framed,” Kristie said.

  “Do you not think it’s possible for someone to have slipped into Mr. Tillman’s office and removed his pistol while he was not there?” Harper asked.

  “I suppose anything’s possible. But why would anyone want to do that?” Buck asked.

  “To frame my client, of course. It’s my understanding that Mr. Peterson was not well liked by his fellow actors and most of the staff at the theater.”

  “That may be true, but people don’t usually go around killing someone just because they don’t like them,” Kristie said.

  “Mr. Tillman had a motive to kill Mr. Peterson. Peterson wanted out of his contract. If that happened, Mr. Tillman said he stood to lose a lot of money. If Peterson breached his contract, Mr. Tillman would be forced to sue him, and there’s no guarantee Mr. Tillman would win. By killing Peterson, he would collect five million dollars from a life insurance policy he had taken out on Mr. Peterson’s life,” Buck said.