Tommy made a steeple with his fingers and asked, “Any interests, hobbies, Mr. Michaels?”
“What do you want? To date me, Detective?” Shannon smiled without any warmth. “History and current events. I like to read and visit interesting places. And I’m fascinated by law enforcement. Did you know, Detective, that according to criminal investigation manuals, only an exceptionally strong personality or a criminal indurated by bitter experience can withstand a prolonged, skillful police interrogation without incriminating himself in some way? That’s why the Supreme Court decided in favor of the criminal defendant in Miranda v. Arizona. Also, if a person does remain silent while being questioned by the authorities, his chances of being acquitted of any charge are inestimably improved?”
“I think I knew that,” Tommy said. “But I’m sure I don’t know what ‘indurated’ means.”
“It means hardened, unfeeling.”
Just like you, Tommy wanted to say. But he didn’t.
Instead, he asked another personal question: “Got any religious affiliation, Mr. Michaels?”
Shannon knitted his brow. “Not really. Never felt the need. How about you, Detective? Are you religious?”
“Your standard issue Irish Catholic.”
“You really believe that stuff?” Shannon asked.
“I do. Especially the part that says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ”
Shannon Michaels frowned again. He was starting to dislike O’Malley intensely. “Let’s get down to it, Detective O’Malley. How can I help you?”
“Tell me who’s killin’ the TV types.”
“Someone in TV, I suspect. But, of course, I have no idea who it is.”
“Why somebody in the business?” asked Tommy, his body language nonconfrontational. He wanted Michaels to start speaking about the case.
“As I’m sure you know by now, all three victims were awful people. They all had enemies within the industry. They ruined many careers.”
“Including your own?”
“I have no comment on that question, Detective. It might pertain directly to the case.” Shannon smiled. Staying one step ahead of O’Malley was clearly satisfying him.
“People don’t usually go around killing their coworkers. Why do you think this case is different?”
Shannon paused, tapped his fingers together, and drew a breath. “I want to make it clear that I am speaking hypothetically now, okay? I am theorizing.” O’Malley nodded. Shannon continued. “Working in television can be like a drug. You can get addicted to it, the action, the glamour, the money. When you work in big time TV, people are impressed. Doors open. You have a major piece of the American dream: status. So when that is taken away, the fall is hard. And the business is so small that once you lose an important job, it’s difficult to get another one. Many people get washed out, never to return.”
Shannon Michaels paused again, looking off to the side of the room. Tommy thought he might be thinking about his own situation. After about thirty seconds, Shannon continued, “Put yourself in the place of someone fired unfairly from a TV position that he or she had worked extremely hard to acquire. The rage that person might feel could be tremendous. And there’s absolutely nothing that person can do. If you sue, you’ll never work in the industry again. There’s an unwritten blacklist for those who sue. The unions are a joke. They can’t do a thing because most TV types are under personal service contracts, which give the companies the right to terminate them at will. All management has to do is pay off their contracts, just like professional sports teams do.
“So, logically,” Shannon continued, “it makes perfect sense that, again hypothetically, a TV person could snap. If it happens at the post office, there’s no reason it couldn’t happen at the broadcast center.”
As he listened to Shannon Michaels speak, Tommy O’Malley knew something was very wrong. His instincts shouted at him. The guy spoke too clinically about murder. He reminded Tommy of a Mafia hitman. Those guys could discuss killing and maiming people with absolutely no emotion whatsoever. What was that great line in The Godfather? “Leave the gun, take the cannolis. We’ll kill the guy and then eat dinner.” Shannon Michaels was like that, Tommy thought. Passionless in discussing heinous crimes.
Even while speaking, Shannon sensed that O’Malley was measuring him, judging him. The detective’s face remained impassive, but something about his body language had changed. Shannon felt the man had made a decision.
Tommy tapped his pen against his chin as Shannon finished his analogy about the post office. “I’ve got to ask you this question, Mr. Michaels. Is there anyone you know at GNN or anywhere else who you believe is capable of a killing rage?”
“Just as I do not want to be labeled a suspect, Detective, I would never implicate anyone else, even off the record, unless I had definite proof and, of course, I do not. Again, I know nothing about the case you’re investigating. What I will say is this: Almost everybody on earth is capable of killing rage. Certainly you are, Detective. And so am I, for that matter. If circumstances pushed us over the edge, most of us would react violently. Think about someone hurting your wife or mother. What would you do?”
“I like to think I’d control myself.”
“So would I, but we don’t know, do we?”
“But a normal person doesn’t kill over a job,” Tommy said. “Whoever is doin’ this is psychotic.” He looked Shannon Michaels straight in the eye to see if name-calling rattled him. It didn’t.
“Maybe. Or maybe the person sees it a different way. Here’s an example: A group in Texas is offering a bounty of five thousand dollars to anyone who kills in the legal protection of his family, home or personal property. The group is called Dead Serious, and I believe they are. Anyway, some might think this group is doing something evil, encouraging violence. But others might say the group is standing up for what’s right. Many people are fed up with criminals who go unpunished by a justice system that obviously doesn’t work.”
“But there’s a big difference between threatenin’ somebody’s family and gettin’ fired from a job,” Tommy said.
“Is there? For many people, their job is their life. The job gives them the means to provide for their family and loved ones. Taking that away is a very serious matter, yet it is done all the time, often arbitrarily. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that someone could feel justified in killing a person who unfairly takes away the most important thing in that person’s life.”
“Come on,” Tommy replied. “If that was acceptable behavior, we’d have anarchy.”
“I’m not saying it’s acceptable behavior, Detective. I’m saying that in some rare cases, it’s understandable. I believe the person or persons you are looking for have been exposed to psychologically brutal behavior in the workplace. I think whoever the killer is looks upon himself, or herself, as an avenger. That’s simply my theory. I’m not debating you. You know a lot more about these things than I do.”
Tommy O’Malley looked at Shannon Michaels and saw a smug, conceited man who thought he was intellectually superior—not just to Tommy, but to the world. He despised the man’s condescending tone. Michaels had the same kind of bloated self-importance that Tommy had seen in Lyle Fleming. These TV guys really are pricks, Tommy thought.
But much more importantly, Tommy sensed a detachment in Shannon Michaels, a coldness, a quiet rage. This man spoke much more passionately about the reasons for killing than he did about the murders themselves. And he knew the people who had been murdered! Tommy, growing uncomfortable, shifted in the leather chair and tried another tactic.
“I think whoever is killin’ these people is a coward.”
“Really? How so?” Shannon was interested.
“A courageous person takes what life gives him, does his best, and accepts the knocks. He doesn’t become some kind of brutal vigilante, hidin’ in the shadows, throwin’ women off balconies. That’s the behavior of a sick coward and no civilized society should tolerate it. Whoever thi
nks that murder is a solution for bein’ wronged is a very sick person.”
Shannon Michaels did not react. He knew O’Malley was trying to make him angry. He was too smart to take the bait.
“Interesting point of view, Detective,” Shannon said, curious to see if he could get O’Malley to respond emotionally. “I think you know Ashley Van Buren, the reporter. She feels the same way about the case as you do. In fact, just last night in my living room, she practically echoed your words here today.”
Tommy O’Malley felt a rush of anger. The man was turning the tables, baiting him. He fought not to show any sign of annoyance, but blood ran into his cheeks.
Shannon saw O’Malley flush slightly. So this detective has feelings for Ashley, he thought. A weakness. Advantage, Michaels.
Tommy knew he had lost momentum, but also knew he had locked in on a very interesting suspect—one he would enjoy taking down if the evidence permitted it. Shannon Michaels was a cold-blooded, arrogant bastard. Tommy couldn’t believe the man was provoking him with the reference to Ashley.
“So, Detective, is there anything else I can offer? If not, I have a question for you.”
“Go ahead,” Tommy said stiffly, still smarting over the reference to Ashley.
“From what I’ve read and from what Ashley has told me, you don’t have much hard evidence in the case. Now, I believe it’s true that most New York City homicides are solved because of information provided by informants. So how are you going to find this killer if he’s acting alone and keeps his mouth shut?”
“We’ve got some leads, Mr. Michaels. That’s all I can tell you right now. But if I were the deranged person who was doin’ this, I wouldn’t rest too easy.” Tommy paused, looking hard at Shannon Michaels. “We will solve this case.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck, Detective. We need more dedicated men like you.”
Again that condescending tone, Tommy thought. Shannon pursed his lips and the two men stared silently at each other. Each knew what the situation was. And each knew it had become very personal. Tommy O’Malley wanted to get up and knock Shannon Michaels on his arrogant ass. Shannon Michaels wanted to humiliate this detective, who was so judgmental, so holy in his ignorant righteousness. What right did this common policeman with the New Yawk accent have to insinuate that Shannon had committed a crime? Tension enveloped the room. Neither man would look away from the other. Finally, Tommy felt the standoff had gone on long enough and broke the silence. “Ashley tells me you have a place out in Eastern Long Island. Can you give me the address?”
“Sorry, I can’t do that, Detective. Writing is very difficult for me and I must have complete isolation. No phone calls, no visitors, no interruptions. If I lose my concentration, I might not get it back for days. Nobody has my address out there, not even Ashley. I hope you understand.”
Tommy knew that was complete bullshit from somebody who could concentrate in a typhoon. His anger briefly stirred by the latest Ashley reference, Tommy concentrated on breathing evenly. “What kinda book you writin’?”
“It’s a romance novel, if you can believe it. Kind of like a Bridges of Madison County. Figure I’d try to make some money.”
Tommy did not want to leave just yet. He knew that Michaels would probably not consent to see him again. He desperately tried to think of something that would put Michaels off balance. He knew if he mentioned Shannon in the context of the investigation, the dialogue would cease. He knew that threats and intimidation tactics were useless. Michaels would just use those against him. In the end, Tommy disappointed himself. He couldn’t come up with anything to rattle the bastard. “Well, I guess that’s it for now. I hope we can speak again.”
“It would be my pleasure, Detective,” said Shannon Michaels. “Meantime, good luck in your investigation. I hope you can put a stop to these terrible crimes.”
Shannon Michaels stood up and looked at Tommy O’Malley with a cocky grin. Thinking that the man might actually be mocking him, Tommy once again wanted to pop the guy. But he replaced that violent thought with a different one: If this guy is the killer, and I think he is, I will definitely take him down.
For Michaels, it had been an exhilarating interview. He felt he had bested the detective, even subtly humiliated him. Shannon was tempted to hurl one more remark about Ashley Van Buren at Tommy as he walked toward the door. But he resisted. He’d see this O’Malley again. And next time, it would be on his own terms.
Tommy O’Malley got little sleep that night. His fury and frustration saw to that. He replayed the interview over and over in his mind. He conjured up scenarios where he nailed Michaels as the killer. But, in reality, Tommy had no hard evidence. And the son of a bitch had succeeded in rattling him with the Ashley remarks. Tommy’s muscles tensed.
Minutes turned into hours, and Tommy O’Malley felt emotionally exhausted. Why not just take the guy out yourself? he thought. Justifiable homicide. It was very rare, but Tommy had heard of cases where cops did just that—eliminated a dangerous killer whom they could not obtain evidence against. The fantasy was sweet. As he conjured up various methods whereby Shannon Michaels lost his life, Tommy felt a strange, soothing sensation. His body began to relax, and the frustration melted in his mind. The more violent the fantasy, the more vivid his feelings of contentment and satisfaction. And then, finally, Tommy O’Malley confronted the seductive force that had flooded his mind with pleasure. A potent drug had been planted and harvested within his exhausted mind. The drug was called revenge.
* * *
21
MANHATTAN
NOVEMBER 1994
“Well, I don’t think we have to ask how your weekend was, do we, Ashley?” The voice belonged to Bert Cicero, the Globe’s assignment editor, as he briefly interrupted his coffee drinking to offer a smirking greeting to his star columnist.
“What are you talking about now, Bert?” Ashley said, a bit of reserve in her voice. It was eight-thirty in the morning and she had just arrived in the newsroom. All cryptic comments before Monday at noon should be outlawed, she thought.
“Check out your office, hon. Somebody suddenly likes you a lot.” Cicero grinned his most lascivious grin, replete with yellow teeth. Ashley was convinced no woman on earth could find that grin attractive.
Propped up against her office door were two long white boxes. Red ribbons tied them together. Flowers, probably long stemmed red roses. Everybody knew it from the boxes. In the New York Globe newsroom, receiving roses was as rare as showing compassion.
Ashley unlocked the door, put the boxes on her desk and opened the card. “Unforgettable—that’s what you are . . .” was written in neat black ink. It was signed “Love, S.” Even though the words sounded plagiarized from a Nat King Cole ballad, Ashley found the sentiment endearing.
The flowers were, of course, beautiful. So was the gesture, Ashley thought. She was surprised. She never expected the man to be thoughtful. Maybe the gamble she had taken with him would turn out to be a winner.
Ashley sat down in front of her computer terminal feeling pleased but also apprehensive. The GNN case was taking up a major amount of her time, and she was not developing as many other column ideas as she should have been. Her column for the next day was a hard-edged look at attorneys who represent killers in murder cases. Specifically, attorneys who charge huge amounts of money to defend obviously guilty people, and then try to get them off on legal technicalities.
Ashley’s take was that such lawyers were sleazy and their practice extremely destructive to the criminal justice system. But she was having a hard time getting anyone to say that for attribution. People were afraid. O.J. Simpson’s so-called dream team of lawyers was a powerful bunch. Even William Kunstler, as outrageous as any attorney, was feared in law enforcement circles. And Alan Dershowitz. Forget him. Nobody wanted to mess with a Harvard professor. Lawyers could hurt people who criticized them. They could uncover embarrassing things about people. They were to be feared.
Ashley’s
phone rang and she decided to pick it up rather than go through the voice mail routine. “Ashley Van Buren.”
“Hey, it’s Tommy. Got a minute?”
“Anything for you, Detective. You know that.”
“I wish that were true, Ash.” Tommy’s voice was businesslike. Now that he strongly suspected Shannon Michaels, it upset him even more that Ashley Van Buren was involved with him. “Look, I talked to your boyfriend over the weekend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Ashley sounded defensive.
“He’s not anyone’s friend, in my opinion. I’ve got a lot to tell you about him. When can I see you?”
“I’m free tonight.”
“Good, I’ll swing by your place around eight. We’ll get a drink.”
“Fine, but don’t hang up yet, Detective. I need your expertise on something.”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“I’m writing a column on criminal lawyers who defend killers even though they know their clients are guilty. Obviously, it’s a hot topic with the Simpson case and the Menendez brothers.”
“There are plenty of lawyers who’ll do that if the money is right or they get their mugs on TV,” Tommy said.
“So what do you think about it?”
“Are you going to quote me, Ash?”
“I’d like to, Tommy, if it’s okay with you.” Ashley used her sweetest, most endearing voice.
“You know the D.A. will get his colon inflamed if I talk publicly about defense lawyers. That kind of thing can always be used in court to show prejudice, blah, blah, blah.”
Ashley sighed. “Tommy, nobody with any credibility will talk on this subject and things need to be said. You know that. Won’t you stand up on this one?”
“‘Stand up.’ Very good, Ash. Police jargon. Okay, I’ll give you some copy. But I’m an idiot for doing it.” Tommy knew he was caving in for one reason and one reason only: He was completely infatuated with Ashley Van Buren.
“Attorneys who knowingly manipulate the justice system to get criminals off are just as guilty as the criminals themselves,” Tommy told Ashley as she typed notes into her computer. In his twenty-one years on the force, he continued, he had seen hundreds of sleazy lawyers beat the system for men and women who had committed thousands of brutal crimes.