Читать книгу A Memorable Murder - John Schlarbaum - Страница 8

Television viewers from sea to shining sea watched in reverent silence as Jason Morris brought the country up to date on the morning’s tragedy. The network’s coverage was into its second hour, although for everyone present in the conference room, it already felt like the second day. With no quick resolution in sight, the identity of the victim still unknown and no rational explanation for the shooting, the news executives were frantic to keep the story going without looking as though they were enjoying all the attention. As today’s incident had occurred during one of their shows, the news status code was immediately elevated to that of a Presidential assassination: Code Blue.

“We’ve got to make a statement, Colin,” the head of marketing said.

At 65, Colin Doherty was no stranger to pressure situations. As the President and CEO of the network for 15 years, he’d taken a hands-on approach to every major crisis. Using a remote, he turned down the television volume and joined the seven other men and women at the conference table. This team represented the brightest and best and it would be their job to help him decide how to proceed for the remainder of the day.

“I’m going to go around the table,” Doherty finally said. “Let’s start with public relations. Beverly?”

“A statement has been written,” Beverley said as she handed out photocopies. “Simply put, we state that we are very concerned The Nation Today was used as a deliberate backdrop for this killing and that we are co-operating fully with the authorities. It’s short and sweet, plus we don’t assume any liability.”

“Joel?” Doherty inquired in the direction of the network’s chief attorney.

Joel re-read the statement.

“My only concern is the deliberate part. It sounds as though we know for a fact this thing was staged. I recommend we drop that one word and keep the rest.”

“Done,” Doherty stated putting the paper aside. “What kind of manpower do we have on this story, Kenny?”

WCNY’s news director, looked up from the statement.

“Well,” he stammered, “Mary and I have assigned eight reporters to get information from the police, witnesses and passersby.”

“Tanya is our main network correspondent and has already given several live updates,” Mary, the assignment desk director, added. “We’ve also called in three camera crews that were scheduled off today.”

“Okay, keep on top of this, because I don’t want to be scooped on any information. This is our story and cost is not a factor.” Doherty turned to Ryan and smiled. “Ryan, if we stay live for the rest of the morning, what type of money are we talking about?”

Roberts pulled out his calculator and started inputting figures.

“As a network roughly $2 million,” the accountant said, “and as a station roughly a hundred thousand.”

“We’re losing most of that money for commercials that would have run during The Nation Today,” Kim, the head of marketing, added. “If this had happened at the tail end of the show, our losses would have been a lot smaller.”

“So, Stanley, as the show’s producer and segment scheduler, I guess this is your fault, isn’t it?”

Stanley didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure if Doherty was trying to lighten the mood or if he was simply stating what everyone else was thinking. The notion of rushing to the washroom to vomit again washed over him.

Hoping the comment was meant as a joke, he said, “I’ll bring it up at our next production meeting.”

He was too nervous to look around the table to see anyone’s reaction.

“Very well,” Doherty said with a sly smile before proceeding. “So, Charlie, that only leaves you. As president of the station, what do you think of this mess?”

“I hope the police locate this psychopath soon and that she gives us an exclusive interview before the trial. Other than that, it looks like everything’s under control at this point.”

“All right then, here’s my view,” Doherty said, leaning forward in his chair. “First, let’s get that statement on the air. Next, get those extra crews out on the street, instead of reading papers in the newsroom. Send a couple of them down to police headquarters with whatever other anchors or reporters we’ve got covering this thing. Make sure any information reported is first confirmed by one other source. I don’t want any wild theories masquerading as fact. Leave that to the tabloid shows. As far as our continuing coverage, we stay with the story until the victim’s identified and his family is notified. After that, we’ll air special reports throughout the day whenever any new information comes to light. Also, let’s get a reporter covering our co-operation with the police—show the cops screening tapes etc. etc.”

“What about our on-air personalities?” Kenny asked.

“Jason and Susan until the end. They’re both professionals, they know what they’re doing.” Doherty looked at Mary. “Keep those experts coming. There’s nothing duller than two anchors babbling to each other—although that ‘not since Oswald’ stuff played pretty well. Let’s do some research on how often this type of thing actually happens. Remember, you’ve got the network’s archives right downstairs with 40 years of murder and mayhem at your fingertips.” Doherty looked at the faces before him. “Any questions?”

“What about tomorrow’s show?” Stanley asked tentatively. “Do you want two hours rehashing this thing or say, the first hour—depending on what happens today, of course.”

“The studio windows will be covered and the street microphone is gone,” Doherty said without hesitation. “Those are certainties. The rest we’ll play by ear as the day’s events unfold. The killer may be in jail by noon and then we’ll have to decide how much coverage the killing warrants. Regardless, the first guest will be some eminent psychologist who can help counsel those viewers affected by having witnessed a live execution.” Standing, he added, “And don’t think people aren’t calling their employers right now saying there’s no way they can come in today. Whether we like it or not, this thing’s going down in television history.” He let that sink in before adjourning the meeting.

As everyone rushed back to their posts, Doherty asked Stanley to stay behind.

“Stanley, I know you’re living through your own personal hell. I want you to know I’m not holding you or anyone else responsible for this incident.”

“I appreciate that, although I’m not so sure everyone shares that view.”

Doherty walked toward the door.

“You’re probably right,” he said before disappearing down the hall.

Stanley slid back into his chair and stared at the ceiling tiles.

In a near whisper he said, “If anyone finds out how Barker came to stand before that microphone this morning, Colin, your opinion of me is going to change drastically.”

* * *

“Come on, let ’em through,” the officer said as he watched the ambulance attendants make their way toward the body.

The onlookers were now over two thousand strong with more joining the group with every bus that stopped near the studio. The four corner subway walk-ups were also jammed with the arrival of each new train.

Then there were the small independent groups of people actually making the news. Crews from every television and radio station were on the scene, all clamouring to get the best shot or a great sound bite for their bosses.

In no time, agents from all the major crime squads were flashing their credentials to the cops securing the immediate area. FBI, DEA, the terrorist unit, the bomb squad. Their bickering about jurisdiction came to an immediate stop with the arrival of Detective Michael Speers.

“This is an everyday occurrence in my neighbourhood, gentlemen. That it was televised doesn’t change that. Now, everybody out of my way!”

Speers was a very imposing individual, standing 6’4” and weighing a muscular 270 pounds. His chestnut brown eyes, crooked nose, scarred right cheek, pursed thin lips and cropped black hair relayed to everyone within striking distance he meant business.

Speers walked to the body, bent down and lifted the blanket. He saw the man’s right temple had been blown away and congealed blood was everywhere.

“Where’s forensics?” he barked at the officer in front of him.

“On their way, sir.”

“ETA?”

“10 seconds?”

Speers glared up at the officer and was ready to question him when the forensic team descended upon him.

“Very well, officer.”

While forensics took pictures, measurements and samples, Speers listened to the station’s security guard giving his statement to an officer.

“Yeah, I saw her,” he insisted. “Came right under the barrier. I asked her to move back but she said she was with the dead guy.”

“So you believed she was his wife or girlfriend?” the officer asked, jotting the information into his notebook.

“Wouldn’t you? This microphone thing’s been going on for a month and every day I see this happen. Not the killing part, mind you but some relative is always trying to get behind their husband or wife or friend so they can be on TV too.”

“What did this woman do next?”

“She kinda stood there a few seconds. Nothing unusual like. Then the man he startin’ to talk and she comes toward him. It was then I seen the gun in her hand. Without even hesitatin’ she brought it up to his head and blew him away. They’ve got to have that on tape,” he said shaking his head. “You know, this ain’t the first person I’ve seen killed. Growing up I seen lots of people die but this was different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe it was her expression when she did the deed. It was cold, hard-like.” The guard looked at the officer and then at Speers. “You knows—like she enjoyed it.”

“After she shot him, what did she do?”

“Starts runnin’ away. Wouldn’t you? I gave chase but stopped when the bomb, or whatever it was, went off. The last I seen her was when she got into a grey Volvo.”

“Get the plate number?”

“I only gots a 5 and a 3. I couldn’t tell ya what order though. Someone else musta seen the car leave. She wasn’t being very careful.”

After a few more questions, Speers stepped forward.

“You found something, didn’t you?”

“How’d you know?” the guard replied.

“The look in your eyes. You shouldn’t be this excited unless you’ve got a bombshell to drop. So what is it?”

“You’s good,” the guard smiled. He quickly surveyed the area. “If you all don’t mind, I think I should show you what’s I got inside.” He looked at Speers’ perplexed expression. “Away from the TV cameras.”

Speers and the uniformed officer turned and saw the sea of media behind them.

“Fine, but let’s make this quick,” Speers agreed reluctantly.

Once inside the building, the guard led the men to the empty security office.

“I think this’ll help you out.” The guard pulled a gold bracelet from his pocket. “I saw it drop off her wrist when she was running away.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Speers said as he was handed the bracelet. He let out a long whistle when he turned it over. “To L.B Love R.B. - Aug. 9th.”

“Pretty nice clue, huh?” the guard said triumphantly.

“Not bad at all,” Speers concurred.

Speers left the uniformed officer to complete the statement and went outside. Seeing forensics were gone he went over to the body.

“We confirm his I.D. yet?”

The officer guarding the dead man took out his notebook and began to read.

“Robert Barker of 378 Whitecastle Boulevard, New Liston. They found a couple of business cards in his wallet indicating he was the president of Mantis Pharmaceuticals.”

“The drug company?” Speers asked, more to himself than to the officer. “That place is worth millions.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Was he carrying much cash on him?”

“A couple hundred and change.”

“Anything else of note?”

“Guy’s dead—officially, that is.”

For the second time, Speers was about to take the officer to task until he saw the big stupid grin. “Very well, officer . . . ?”

“Kendall. Barry Kendall, 56th Precinct.”

“Make sure he gets to the morgue safely,” Speers said walking away. He strolled over to another plain clothes detective. “Mario, what have you got?”

“Hey, Mike,” Mario replied with a smile. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine, all right?”

“Deal,” Speers laughed.

“From the witnesses we’ve talked to, the shooter was either a Caucasian or Hispanic or Asian female in her 20s, 30s or 40s, between 5’3” and 5’11” in height, with a petite to muscular build. The only thing everyone agrees on is she was blonde. The problem is some think she’s a strawberry blonde, some think she’s definitely had a dye job, and quite a few think she was wearing a wig.”

“What about the gun?”

“Anything from a .22 to a .38 to a .45. One guy said he thought he heard her pump it once before she did the guy.”

“A shotgun?”

“What do you expect this early in the morning?”

“What about the explosion? Got any ideas?”

“The bomb guys said it was a harmless pipe thing. Homemade. Strictly by the book using household cleaners and stuff you can buy at any electronics store.”

“Was it hooked up to a timer?”

“A low frequency detonation. Our girl turned the bomb on, dropped it on the sidewalk, killed our boy, then sent some kind of shortwave back to the bag and ka-boom. Timed it perfectly, too.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of watching the replay yet,” Speers said. “I think I’ll meander up to the control room. I might as well view what everyone else in the civilized world has already seen a hundred times by now.”

Speers began to walk away and felt the bracelet in his pocket.

“One more thing, Mario. No one talks to the media until I say so. ‘No comment’ will have to hold them over.”

“Sure thing, Mike.”

After watching the replay of the killing, Speers gave a short statement saying only that the victim had been identified and next of kin still needed to be notified.

Speers proceeded to Whitecastle Boulevard where he discovered that 378 was a mansion on a large estate. Accompanied by a uniformed officer, Speers pressed the front doorbell several times. A few moments later, a small woman with long dark hair opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

The woman, who was wearing an apron, looked nervously at the officer.

“Is this the residence of Mr. Robert Barker?” Speers said in a soothing voice.

“Yes. Is there something wrong?”

“Is Mrs. Barker home?”

“No, she isn’t. Has something happened to them?” she asked alarmed.

“Is something wrong?” Speers asked back.

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I’ve worked for the Barkers many years and they always tell me if they’re going away but not today. When I got here this morning, no one was home and there were no notes for me. I get very worried and then you showed up.”

“What is Mrs. Barker’s first name?”

“Lynn.”

“Can we come in, Miss . . .?”

“I am Francelina Lopez. Yes, please come in.”

The foyer was the size of Speers’ backyard and decorated with Italian marble and sculpted statues in each of the four corners. In the room to his right, he saw a large fireplace and a baby grand piano. On top of the piano were several portraits that caught his eye.

“Could I look at those pictures?”

“Yes, yes.”

After confirming the two pictured people were the Barkers, Speers began to study them as he continued to ask Francelina questions.

“What does Mr. Barker do for a living?”

“He owns a big drug company. Mantis Pharmaceuticals.”

“And his wife?”

“She doesn’t have a job but is on many boards and, how you say, committees? She especially likes the arts.”

“Is that so?”

Speers came across the one thing he’d been hoping to find. Turning to face Francelina, he held up the security guard’s find: a gold bracelet. When she saw it glittering in his hand, she gasped aloud.

“Is this Mrs. Barker’s? The same one she is wearing in this photo?”

“Yes, yes,” Francelina said, her eyes beginning to water.

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Barker?”

“Yesterday.”

“You haven’t seen or heard from her this morning?”

“No. Please tell me what’s going on, I beg you.”

“I’m sorry to have to break this news to you. Mr. Barker was shot and killed this morning by a woman who was wearing this bracelet.”

“No—it can’t be. You are mistaken! Mrs. Barker could never do such a thing. Never!”

“Excuse me, I have to make a call,” Speers said stepping away, taking out his cell phone, all the while ignoring the maid’s theatrics.

Speers was quickly connected to the crime scene.

“Mario, this is Mike. If you’re done there, get your butt to 378 Whitecastle Boulevard—the dead guy’s place.”

“You find something out there?”

“Only the killer, Mario.”

“Get outta town!”

“She isn’t here at the moment, although that doesn’t surprise me. After dropping your bracelet at a crime scene, it kind of puts a crimp on any airtight alibi plans you may have made.”

Within the hour the Barker mansion was tied off with yellow police tape and Speers and his men were awaiting a judge to issue them a search warrant.