New York City Murders

by W. D. Frolick

  Harper raised his voice. “Damn it, Detective, my client is not guilty, and we’re prepared to prove it in court.”

  “Then I guess that’s it for now,” Buck countered. “We’ll see you in court.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A day after the NYPD issued a press release informing the media of Marcus Tillman’s arrest for the murder of Grant Peterson, the story became front-page news on all the local newspapers and the lead story on all area TV stations. Within a few hours, the news became a national and world-wide story on CNN.

  At his arraignment, Tillman pleaded not guilty. At his bail hearing, after listening to arguments by the defense and prosecution, the judge granted Tillman bail. The amount was set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Even though his attorney argued that Tillman was an exemplary citizen with no criminal record and was not a flight risk, the judge ordered him to surrender his passport.

  Strolling past a newspaper stand, the vagrant man stopped abruptly. A picture of Marcus Tillman stared back at him from under the bold headline. While the attendant was busy with a customer, the man quickly snapped up the newspaper and stuffed it inside his tattered winter coat. He scurried down the street to a small park, where he found a vacant bench and sat down. Pulling out the newspaper, he began to read.

  After he had finished reading the article, he reread it once more. The man sat in stunned silence for a few minutes before his mind kicked back into gear. Mr. Tillman was the owner of the theater where he had often panhandled, hoping to catch generous theatergoers as they entered the theater. Mr. Tillman had confronted him on several occasions and had bribed him with twenty-dollar bills to leave. On the surface, Tillman seemed gruff, but deep down the man knew he had a heart of gold.

  Although he tried to stay away from the police, the homeless man knew what he had to do. He got up off the bench and slowly began to walk toward the 52nd Precinct.

  Buck’s phone rang. It was the desk sergeant.

  “Detective, I have a man out front who insists on talking with you and only you. He won’t speak with anyone else. He says he’s got information about Grant Peterson’s murder. He says he saw your name in the newspaper saying you and your partner made the arrest of Marcus Tillman.”

  “Okay, Sergeant. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  When Buck got to the front entrance, he saw a shaggy man with a snow-white beard and long, unwashed gray hair sitting on a bench, staring into space. The old man reeked of tobacco, alcohol, and body odor.

  “Hello, sir, I’m Detective Woods. You wanted to see me? How can I help you?”

  The man’s eyes focused on Buck, and in a low, gravelly voice he said, “You arrested the wrong man.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. Who are you talking about?”

  “Marcus Tillman. He’s the wrong man. He didn’t kill that movie star guy.”

  “And how would you happen to know that, sir?”

  “’Cause I was there.”

  “You were where?”

  “I was there when that movie actor guy got shot.”

  “Do you mean Grant Peterson?”

  Showing his frustration, Wilson raised his voice. “Yes. Who else could I mean? I saw Peterson get shot.”

  Calmly, Buck said, “I think it’s best that you follow me, sir. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk privately.”

  “I could use a cup of coffee and some food or a few bucks to buy something to eat.”

  “No problem. We’ll get you a coffee, and after we have our talk, I’ll see that you get something to eat.”

  “Okay. I would appreciate that.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Charlie Wilson.”

  “Where are you from, Charlie?”

  “Here there and everywhere. Originally I’m from Detroit.”

  “What are you doing in New York?’

  “I make it my summer home and go to Florida for the winter.” He laughed. “I guess you could say I’m a Snowbird. I prefer to spend the winter where it’s nice and warm.”

  Buck smiled. He was amused at Wilson’s sense of humor. “I guess I can’t blame you for that, Mr. Wilson. I’d love to be able to go to Florida for the winter, too.”

  Woods escorted Wilson into the same room where he and Kristie had met with Tillman and his attorney. He motioned for Wilson to take a seat.

  “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Black, no sugar or cream.”

  “Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”

  Before going to get Wilson’s coffee, Buck popped his head into Captain Robertson’s office and informed her of the new development in the Grant Peterson case. When he was finished, she asked, “Do you think he’s a credible witness?”

  “That’s what we intend to find out.”

  “I’ll grab Deputy Inspector Forrester, and we’ll watch your interview.”

  Buck went to the coffee pot and poured Charlie’s coffee. He stopped by Kristie’s desk, explained what was going on, and asked her to join him.

  When they entered the room, Buck handed the coffee to Wilson and said, “This is my partner, Detective Karlsson, she’ll be joining us.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson,” Kristie said without offering her hand.

  Wilson smiled. “My, my, you’re a pretty lady.”

  Kristie returned his smile, her face flushing. “Why thank you, Mr. Wilson.”

  Taking a sip of his coffee, Charlie said, “Ah, that tastes good. It’s nice and hot.”

  “Mr. Wilson, can you please start from the beginning and repeat the story you were telling me out front?” Buck said, “It saves a lot of note-taking if we can record our conversation. Do you mind if we do that?”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  Buck turned on the video recorder and stated the time, date, and location. He mentioned all their names and then said, “Okay, Mr. Wilson you can start now.”

  “As I was saying, you arrested the wrong man. Marcus Tillman didn’t kill that movie star, Grant Peterson.”

  “And how do you know that, Mr. Wilson?” Buck asked.

  “I know ‘cause I was there. I saw the whole thing.”

  “Where were you when you saw the whole thing?” Kristie asked.

  “I was in the dumpster looking for anything I could sell for a few bucks. The dumpster was fairly clean. I thought I might even sleep in it that night.”

  “Where do you usually sleep, Mr. Wilson?” asked Buck.

  “Some of my friends and I sleep in a vacant building close to here. I was told the building is going to be demolished soon.”

  “Please go on with what you saw,” Buck prompted.

  “As I said, I was in the dumpster when suddenly I hear two people arguing. I peeked over the edge and saw two men standing by the driver’s door of a fancy sports car. They were screaming at each other. One man got into the car. He rolled down the window, and they continued to argue.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?” asked Kristie.

  “Oh, yeah, I did. The conversation went something like this: The man outside the car said, ‘You make enough money in movies, why did you have to come here and take my job and my woman.’ Then I hear the man in the car laugh and shout, ‘Because you can’t act, I’ve got more talent in my pinky finger than you have in your whole fucking body. And as far as your woman is concerned, she prefers a real man.’ That’s when the man outside the car completely lost it. He pulled out a gun and screamed, ‘Give me your wallet and all your money.’ As the man in the car handed over his wallet a wad of bills, he said, ‘You’ll never get away with this, Ashton.’ The guy with the gun said ‘Oh, yes I will. You won’t be around to tell anyone.’ That’s when the gun went off.”

  “Did you get a good look at the killer?” Buck asked.

  “I did.
The light over the back door was on, and it lit up the area real good where the car was parked. The man was not as tall as Mr. Tillman. I’d say around six inches shorter, and he wasn’t as broad in the shoulders. He had dark hair that hung down below the New York Yankees cap he was wearing. He had on a red windbreaker, blue jeans, and white running shoes. And he wore white rubber gloves, the kind doctors wear.”

  “How do you happen to remember all those details, Mr. Wilson?” Kristie asked.

  “I recorded it all on my cell phone. I’ve watched it several times since then.”

  “What? You have a cell phone?” Buck asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, I do. I found it last week in a park.” Smiling, Charlie pulled the phone out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “It was lying on the ground under a bench.”

  “Do you still have the video on the phone?” asked Kristie.

  “Yeah, I do, but I think the battery might be dead.”

  Charlie turned the cell phone on, but the screen didn’t light up. Buck noticed the phone was the same make and model as his own. He put the recorder on pause and went to his desk and returned with his charger. “Let’s take a break while the phone recharges,” he said.

  While they waited for the phone to charge, Buck went out and picked up a ham and cheese sandwich from a vending machine. Charlie attacked the sandwich like a starving wolf.

  Thirty minutes later, although not fully charged, the phone worked perfectly.

  By the time the video had finished playing, Buck and Kristie looked at one another in a state of disbelief.

  Finally, Buck found his tongue and said, “Mr. Wilson, that’s amazing. We’ll need to keep your phone and place it into evidence.”

  “Will I get it back?”

  “Eventually, you will. If not, I’ll see that you get a new phone,” Buck said.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Wilson?” Kristie asked.

  “Yeah. The next thing I know, the man with the gun turns around and heads straight for me. I ducked down, praying he hadn’t seen me. I thought if he spotted me I was a dead duck. I heard a clunk and the gun lands at my feet. Then I hear the guy running away.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of, Mr. Wilson?” Buck asked.

  “No, that’s about it. I didn’t wanna touch the gun and get my prints on it. I was so scared, I got the hell out of that dumpster and ran as fast as I could to the vacant building. I had a hard time sleeping that night. That scene kept running through my head.”

  “Did you think about reporting what you witnessed to the police, Mr. Wilson?” asked Kristie.

  “Not at the time I didn’t. The police and I don’t get along. The cops always hassle me about panhandling. Once they even took me to the precinct and grilled me for an hour before they let me go. I think they just wanted to scare the shit out of me. And they succeeded.”

  “Why did you decide to come forward now, Mr. Wilson,” Buck asked.

  “Charlie, call me Charlie. Because I saw in the paper that Mr. Tillman got arrested for the murder of that Peterson guy. I knew he was innocent, and I didn’t want him going to prison for something he didn’t do. I like Mr. Tillman. He was kind to me.”

  “If it comes down to it, Charlie, would you be willing to go to court and tell this same story?” Buck asked.

  “Sure, if it gets Mr. Tillman off I would.”

  “That’s it for now, Mr. Wilson, err, I mean Charlie,” Buck said.

  Woods stated the time the interview ended and turned off the recorder.

  “If you wait here for a minute, Charlie, I’ll be back shortly,” Buck said.

  He left the room and went into Captain Robertson’s office, where she and Commanding Officer Deputy Inspector Forester waited.

  “What do you think?” asked Buck.

  “We watched your interview. Your eyewitness sounds credible, plus the video he recorded is proof positive that Ashton is our killer. I want you and Detective Karlsson to pay Ashton a visit and bring him in for questioning. Have your witness look at him through the glass to see if he can positively identify Ashton as the man he saw kill Peterson. You can arrest Ashton after he is shown the evidence against him. Hopefully, once he sees all the evidence, especially the video, he will confess to Peterson’s murder.”

  “Okay, Captain, we’re on it,” Buck said.

  Before returning to the interrogation room, Buck made a quick phone call.

  When he returned, he said, “Charlie, I’ve made arrangements for you to have some good food, a shower, some fresh clothes, and a comfy bed to sleep in for a few nights or longer if needed.”

  “That sounds good to me. Where am I goin’?” Wilson laughed. “I hope I’m not goin’ to jail.”

  Again, Buck was amused by Wilson’s sense of humor. He smiled and said, “No, Charlie you’re not going to jail. I’m having an officer drive you to St. Michael’s Mission House here in the Bronx. Father Michael Murphy is a good friend of mine, and he has agreed to help us out. He’s a nice man. I’m sure you’re going to like him.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Detective. Thanks.”

  “In a few hours, I’ll have a patrol car pick you up and bring you back here. We’ll bring the suspect in for questioning and let you look through the window to see if you can positively identify him as Peterson’s killer.”

  “Will he see me?”

  “No, Charlie, he won’t see you. You’ll be looking through one-way glass.”

  “That’s good. Okay, Detective, I’m ready to go.”

  An officer appeared in the doorway.

  “Officer Benson will drive you to the Mission House. Father Murphy is looking forward to meeting you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  After Charlie had gone, Buck dialed Marcus Tillman’s office number.

  “Mr. Tillman’s office, Monica speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Monica. It’s Detective Woods from the NYPD. I could use your help.”

  Her friendly demeanor turned as cold as an arctic blast.

  “And why would I want to help you, Detective?”

  “I understand how you feel, but this is police business. I need the address and any phone numbers you have for Troy Ashton.”

  “And why would you need them?”

  “As I said, police business.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Seconds later, Monica came back on the line, her voice still frigid. Buck wrote the information down, thanked her, and hung up.

  He turned to Kristie and said, “Tillman’s secretary wasn’t too happy to hear from me.”

  “Can you blame her? We arrested her meal ticket for murder. I’m sure she envisions her job being flushed down the toilet.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Buck knocked loudly on Ashton’s apartment door. When no one came, he pounded harder.

  “Hold your horses. I’m coming,” a sleepy voice yelled.

  When the door opened, a bleary-eyed man in blue boxer shorts stood in the doorway looking half asleep.

  “Troy Ashton?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes, I’m Troy Ashton. Who wants to know?”

  Holding up his badge, Buck said, “I’m Detective Woods, and this is my partner, Detective Karlsson.”

  “We need you to come with us to the station house. We have a few questions for you to answer,” Kristie said.

  “Questions about what?”

  “About the murder of Grant Peterson,” Buck replied.

  “Why do you need to speak with me? I thought you’ve already arrested your killer, Marcus Tillman.”

  “We’ll explain when we get to the precinct,” Kristie said.

  “Honey, who is it?” a woman’s voice asked from another room.

  “It’s nothing, dear, go back to bed. I’ll explain later.”


  Just then, a beautiful, dark-haired woman appeared in the hallway wrapped in a large white terry cloth towel.

  Buck and Kristie immediately recognized her from pictures they had seen. She was Crystal O’Connor, the leading lady in the play Murder on Broadway. The woman with whom Grant Peterson’s wife had accused him of having an affair.

  “What’s going on?” Crystal asked.

  “These are NYPD detectives, they need me to go with them to answer a few questions about Grant. It won’t take long. Give me a few minutes to get dressed, Detectives. I had a late night last night. We were celebrating my return to the play, and I had a few too many.”

  “Okay, but hurry,” Kristie said.

  They took Ashton into the same interrogation room they had used the previous day.

  Trying to put Ashton at ease, Kristie asked, “Mr. Ashton, would you like anything to drink?”

  “I would love a black coffee without sugar if you have one. My head’s still a little fuzzy from last night.”

  Kristie left the room and was back a minute later with Ashton’s coffee.

  Buck went through the usual routine and received Ashton’s permission to record the interview.

  “Before we get started, Mr. Ashton, I would like to thank you for agreeing to come in today,” Buck said.

  “No problem, Detective.”

  “Are you aware, Mr. Peterson was murdered in his car in the parking lot behind the Broadway House Theater?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes. Such a terrible tragedy. It made me sick to my stomach when I read about it in the newspaper. I couldn’t believe Marcus would do such a thing.”

  “Do you have any idea why Mr. Tillman would want Mr. Peterson dead?” Buck asked.

  “Sorry, I don’t have a clue.”

  “What time did you leave the theater the night Mr. Peterson was killed?” asked Kristie.

  “I think it was around ten thirty.”

  “When you left, which door did you leave by, the front or the back?” Buck asked.