New York City Murders

by W. D. Frolick

  “I always use the back door. My apartment is only a short distance from the theater, so I usually walk home when the weather permits. It helps to clear my head, and I sleep better.”

  “On your way out, did you notice if Mr. Peterson’s car was parked near the back door?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes. Peterson’s car was in its usual spot.”

  “Did you notice if anyone was in the vehicle?” Buck asked.

  “I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think anyone was in the car.”

  “How long does it take you to walk to your apartment from the theater?” asked Kristie.

  “It usually takes about twenty minutes to a half hour.”

  “What time did you arrive home that night?” Buck asked.

  “It was around eleven or shortly before.”

  “Was there anyone who can verify the time you arrived home that night?” asked Kristie.

  Suddenly Ashton looked uneasy. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I don’t understand. You’ve already got your killer.”

  “Just routine. Mr. Tillman is sticking to his story that he was framed. He said someone stole his gun and is trying to make it look like he killed Peterson,” Buck said.

  “We’re just double-checking to make sure everybody’s story checks out. If you didn’t do anything, you have nothing to worry about,” Kristie said.

  Ashton seemed to relax.

  “What were you wearing the night of Peterson’s murder? Buck asked.

  “I’m not sure. I really don’t remember. Why is that relevant?”

  “Please, think, Mr. Ashton,” Kristie said.

  “Before I head home, I change into casual clothes that I keep in my dressing room, but I don’t remember what I put on that night.”

  “Let me see if I can jog your memory,” Buck said. “Do you own a black New York Yankees baseball cap?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own a red windbreaker?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own blue jeans?” asked Buck.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own white sneakers?” Kristie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you wearing those items the night Grant Peterson was killed?” asked Buck.

  Ashton’s hands began to shake, and he looked up at the ceiling.

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Ashton,” Kristie demanded.

  He lowered his head, “Yes…yes…I was.”

  “One more question, Mr. Ashton. Were you wearing white latex gloves that night?” Buck asked.

  The blood drained from Ashton’s face. “No. Why…why would I be wearing latex gloves?”

  There was a knock on the door, and an officer came into the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you, Detectives.”

  “Let’s take a five-minute break,” Buck said.

  Buck stopped the recorder, and he and Kristie left the room.

  They almost didn’t recognize Charlie Wilson. His scruffy beard was gone, his shaggy hair had been cut short, and he wore clean clothing. Charlie had on a plaid shirt, a beige down-filled winter coat, blue jeans, and white running shoes. He looked like a completely different man. Father Murphy had worked his magic.

  “Charlie, you look great,” Buck said.

  Wilson grinned from ear to ear. “When I looked in the mirror I couldn’t believe my own eyes. I didn’t recognize myself.”

  “We have a man we think is the person you saw shoot Grant Peterson. Please look through the window and tell us if you recognize him,” Kristie said.

  Charlie stepped up to the window and gazed through the one-way glass. A smile lit up his face, and he said, “That’s him. That’s the guy who shot that movie dude. He’s the man on my phone video.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Buck asked.

  “Yeah, I’m positive. That’s the man. I swear on my mother’s grave. It’s him.”

  “Thanks for your help, Charlie,” Kristie said. “The officer will drive you back to Mission House now.”

  After Charlie had left, they went back into the room, and Buck turned the recorder on.

  “Sorry for the interruption. Mr. Ashton, would you like to tell us the truth about who killed Grant Peterson?” Buck said.

  That question caught Ashton entirely off guard. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. Marcus Tillman killed Peterson.”

  “We have a witness who has positively identified you as the person who shot and killed Grant Peterson,” Kristie said.

  Ashton’s stammered. “I’m…I’m not…I’m not saying another word. I would like to call my…my lawyer.”

  “Before you call your lawyer, we’d like you to view a video,” Kristie said.

  Buck placed Charlie’s cell phone in front of him, and as the video played, tears began to roll down Ashton’s cheeks.

  “I…I didn’t mean to kill him. I…I just wanted…to…to scare him. That son of a bitch told me he had more talent in his pinky finger than I had in my whole body. He…he rubbed salt in my wounds when he started sleeping with Crystal O’Connor, my…my girlfriend. Peterson got what he deserved. I’m…I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  “How did you get Marcus Tillman’s gun?” asked Kristie.

  “One day, when Tillman and Peterson left for lunch together, I snuck into Tillman’s office and took the gun from his desk. I wore gloves so that his fingerprints would still be on the gun. I…I wanted to frame him because he replaced me with Peterson, his big shot movie star friend. I…I wanted to get even with those two assholes.”

  “Your plan almost succeeded,” Kristie said. “Whoever thought that a homeless man would end up being your downfall.”

  “A homeless man? Wha…what homeless man?”

  “Troy Ashton, you are under arrest for the first-degree murder of Grant Peterson,” Buck said. He read Ashton his rights, and Kristie stood him up. She walked him to booking, where he was photographed, fingerprinted, and his personal belongings were taken and stored, after which he was allowed a phone call to his lawyer. When the call was over, Ashton was placed in a holding cell to await his attorney’s arrival.

  Forty-five minutes later, criminal attorney Anthony Travis met with Ashton in the basement holding cell. Travis, a short, balding man in his mid-fifties, was the founding partner of Travis, Michaels, Thomas, and Burnside, a prestigious New York City law firm. Travis spent thirty minutes talking with his client, after which he and Ashton were escorted by an officer up to the interrogation room where Buck and Kristie waited.

  Once everyone was seated, permission was granted to record the interview. As soon as the recorder was started, Travis asked, “Who is this so-called witness you say saw my client kill Grant Peterson?”

  “His name is Charles Wilson. He’s a homeless man who was rummaging inside the dumpster behind the Broadway House Theater when he heard two loud voices. He peeped out of the dumpster and saw Mr. Ashton standing at Grant Peterson’s car door, arguing with him. A few minutes later, he saw Mr. Ashton pull out a gun and shoot Peterson. Mr. Wilson ducked down when he saw Mr. Ashton turn and head toward him. The next thing he heard was the gun hitting the floor of the dumpster and the sound of Mr. Ashton’s footsteps running away,” Buck said.

  Buck placed the cell phone in front of Travis and hit play. When the video ended, Travis said, “It looks like your evidence is overwhelming. I need a minute with my client, please.”

  He whispered something into Ashton’s ear. Ashton nodded and whispered back. Travis turned to Buck and said, “We’d like to make a deal. Talk to the DA’s office and see if they’ll reduce the charge to second-degree murder. If they’ll do that my client is willing to sign a confession without going to trial. If not, we’ll go to court and take our chances.”

  “All we can do
is take your request to the DA’s office and see what they say,” Buck said.

  “If they agree to second-degree murder, it will save the state the expense of a trial. And even though my client could get fifteen to twenty-five years, he at least has a chance to eventually be paroled.”

  Two days later, after much deliberation, the DA’s office agreed to reduce the charge to second-degree murder. Since the court system was so backed up, the DA decided that saving the expense and time a trial would take was worth it. Troy Ashton signed a full confession, and four days after that he was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison with no chance of parole until he had served twenty years. The charges against Marcus Tillman were dropped, and he was released from Rikers, where he was being held awaiting trial.

  The media was all over the story like fleas on a dog. For a few days, Charlie Wilson became a celebrity, doing interviews with several local newspapers and TV stations.

  A week after Ashton’s sentencing, at the bus terminal, Buck paid for Charlie’s fare to Orlando. He gave Wilson three hundred dollars for the cell phone that had been placed into evidence.

  “Thanks,” Charlie said. “I sure need cash more than I need a cell phone. I’ll use some of the money to go to Disney World. I’ve never been there.”

  “That sounds like fun, Charlie. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” Buck said.

  “Thanks, Charlie we really appreciate you coming forward and helping us catch Grant Peterson’s real killer. We couldn’t have done it without you.” Kristie hugged Wilson, and then she handed him two hundred dollars. “Enjoy Disney World and your winter in Florida, Charlie.”

  Smiling like a kid in a candy store, Wilson said, “Thank you, Detectives, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. While I’m basking in the sun, I’ll think of you two suckers freezing your asses off in New York.” He laughed. They shook hands, and Charlie was about to board the bus when they heard someone call out, “Charlie…Charlie Wilson, don’t get on that bus.”

  They turned around and saw Marcus Tillman running toward them. When he got there, he was panting and out of breath. Tillman bent over for a moment and placed his hands on his knees. Finally, he stood up and said, “I’m glad I caught you in time, Charlie. I want to thank you for coming forward and telling your story. You saved my bacon and kept an innocent man from going to prison.” He handed Charlie a handful of hundred-dollar bills.

  The shocked expression on Charlie’s face was priceless. He gave a broad grin, then tears began to flow. His voice cracked, and he said, “It’s so good to see you, Mr. Tillman. You don’t have to give me all this money.”

  “Oh, yes I do. You deserve it, Charlie. I’m so grateful for what you did for me. When you return from Florida, you can rummage in my dumpster any time you wish. But you won’t have to do that anymore. When you get back, I’m offering you a full-time job as an usher at the Broadway House Theater. Plus, I have a one-bedroom apartment for you near the theater rent- free. How does that sound, Charlie?’

  Overwhelmed by Tilman’s generosity, Wilson said, “That sounds great, Mr. Tillman.”

  “That’s not all, Charlie.” Tillman handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s the address for my three-bedroom condo near Disney World in Orlando. I have instructed the manager to give you a key. You can stay there rent-free for the winter. Every month, you will receive two thousand dollars in cash to go toward clothes, food and pocket money. Here’s my business card. If you need anything just call me. When you’re ready to return, I’ll send you an airline ticket. Enjoy yourself, Charlie. I look forward to seeing you when you get back.”

  Charlie couldn’t believe his ears. Tears of joy washed down his face, and his smile grew wider. “Thank…thank you, Mr. Tillman. I don’t know what…what to say. See you in the spring…I guess.”

  After everyone shook Charlie’s hand and wished him a pleasant stay in Florida, with a broad smile lighting up his face and tears in his eyes, Wilson turned and boarded the bus.

  “How did you know where to find us?” Buck asked Tillman.

  “I called the precinct, and the desk sergeant told me you were bringing Charlie to the bus terminal. I’m glad I caught him in time.”

  “What you did for Charlie was very generous, Mr. Tillman,” Kristie said.

  “I owe him my freedom. That’s the least I could do. By the way Detectives, no hard feelings, you were just doing your job. Based on the evidence, if I were a cop, I would’ve arrested me too.”

  They shook hands, and without another word, Tillman turned and walked away.

  Murder On Broadway was shut down until a new leading man, and an understudy could be found and rehearsed. The five million dollars that Tillman received from Grant Peterson’s life insurance payment helped to ease the pain from lost box office revenues.

  CHAPTER 14

  Once the Grant Peterson case was officially closed, Kristie decided to buy a condo. Thanks to a tip from Hank Rogers, before the unit went on the market, she viewed it, liked what she saw, and presented an offer at ten percent below asking price with a quick closing. The following afternoon, when the offer was accepted, Kristie was ecstatic. The two-bedroom condo was located on the tenth floor and was recently remodeled. Her unit, like Buck’s, had a breathtaking view of the Hudson River.

  The Monday morning after the weekend Kristie had moved into her condo, her desk phone rang at nine fifteen. It was Kruger. She hesitated briefly before answering.

  “What do you want now, Lieutenant?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Detective,” Kruger said, chuckling. “You don’t sound happy to hear from me. Have a bad weekend, did you?”

  “And why should I be happy to hear from you? Actually, I had a great weekend. Thank you.”

  Kristie smiled. Her thoughts flashed back to her and Buck making love in his new king-size bed.

  “I’m calling to congratulate you and Buckley on solving the Grant Peterson murder. You really caught a lucky break with your witness, the homeless guy,” Kruger said sarcastically.

  “You know as well as I do that in this job sometimes a little luck goes a long way in helping to solve a case.”

  “Anyway, have you thought about joining me for dinner?”

  “I’ve thought about it for two seconds, and the answer is no way, Jose.”

  “C’mon, Kristie, give me a break. I promise to be good.”

  “I’d love to give you a break––like an arm or a leg. Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

  “You bitch,” Kruger said as she hung up.

  Kristie glanced at Buck, who began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” Buck said. “You just love it when Kruger calls, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I love it like I love having a root canal.”

  Before Buck could reply, Captain Robertson appeared and said, “I’d like to see both of you in my office, please.”

  When they were seated, she said, “Now that the Grant Peterson case is closed, I want you to get back to finding the murder suspect in the Detective Mason case. From the video, you have a good idea of his size and the tattoo on his neck should help. Work the streets in the area where Kruger and the suspect were seen on Mason’s video. When you find him, bring him in for questioning. Update me as things progress. That’s all. Now hit the pavement.”

  Buck and Kristie had been confined to the car day and night for three days. Periodically, they would go home to shower and change into fresh clothing and then head back to the stakeout. They were surviving on coffee, doughnuts, and cold sandwiches. On the morning of the fourth day, deprived of sleep, their bodies stiff and aching from all the sitting, Kristie spotted the suspect on the other side of the street walking toward them.

  Woods was out like a light, having a cat nap. Kristie elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Buck, wake up.”

  Startled, he jumped. “Wha…
what the hell?”

  “I just spotted our suspect. He went into the restaurant across the street.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Damn straight. It’s definitely the suspect we’ve been searching for. Same black hoodie and he’s wearing jeans and running shoes. I’m sure it’s him…unless he has a twin brother.”

  They bounded out of the car, weaving through traffic, as they crossed the street to the sound of horns honking and angry commuters screaming and giving them the finger. When they entered the restaurant, at first, they didn’t see the suspect. Scanning the room, Kristie spotted him sitting in a booth at the back. He had pulled the hood down, and his face was clearly visible. The suspect’s hair was cut short and dyed the color of straw. He was reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. They casually approached and slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up, his steel gray eyes surprised to see someone invading his privacy.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked gruffly.

  They showed their badges and Buck said, “NYPD, Detectives Woods, and Karlsson.”

  As the suspect tried to stand up, Buck reached over and pushed him back onto the seat.

  “Sit,” Buck commanded.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked, scowling.

  “We need you to answer a few questions,” Kristie said.

  “What the fuck about?” he asked defiantly.

  “Lose the attitude,” Kristie said sternly.

  Zeroing in on the tattoo on his neck, Buck said, “I see you’re a member of the White Skulls.”

  “So what if I am. What’s it to you?”

  “A suspect in a murder we’re investigating fits your description, and he has the same tattoo on his neck,” Buck said.

  “We have a few hundred members, and most of them have the same tattoo on their neck.”

  “But not all of them fit the description. You do,” Kristie said. “What’s your name?”

  “Donald Trump,” he said laughing, thinking he was funny.