Murder On Madison Avenue

By Don Potter

The ad game turns deadly as a killer prowls Madison Avenue.

Detective JP Kelly, assigned to his first big case, struggles to solve riddles the murderer deliberately leaves behind. He soon realizes his efforts alone will not be enough to trap this clever serial killer.

JP enlists the help of top advertising executive Ben Norris to decipher the meaning of the ad slogans found at each murder scene. They become convinced that these famous advertising lines hold the secret to cracking the case. The deeper Ben becomes involved the more he realizes the ultimate prize in this deadly cat and mouse game could involve his adult daughter, Katie, and ultimately him. Together, Ben and JP race to track down the killer before he strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620950883

Book preview

9781620950883

CHAPTER ONE

Advertising was good to Darrell Palmer. The expensive linen jacket he was wearing, his custom-made shirt and Italian-crafted alligator shoes demonstrated this. As he approached his car parked in the Midtown Manhattan garage on this quiet Sunday afternoon, Darrell thought about how satisfied he was with life.

He hit the button on the Mercedes-Benz key chain, opened the door to his shiny black S Class sedan, and slid onto the soft leather front seat. Suddenly a gloved hand reached from behind, grabbed his head, pulled it back against the headrest, and held it still. The assailant’s other hand quickly ran a razor-sharp knife across Palmer’s throat.

Instinctively, Palmer reached up to the gaping wound as if this action would slow down the fountain of blood that belched out in cadence with his rapidly rising heartbeat.

If he had not been so busy dying, Darrell Palmer would have seen the killer in the rearview mirror watching with fascination and timing the process. When all was still, the murderer reached over the seat again and placed an object in Palmer’s hand then pinned a note on the dead man’s blood-soaked shirt.

Once the scene was properly arranged, the killer exited the car and took the stairs to the street. He walked toward Central Park carrying the weapon and gloves in a gym bag. Along the way, he systematically disposed of the items in several trash cans and wondered what the police would think, what the media would report, and how long it would take before they catch on?

It was a week since Palmer’s body was found, the third unusual murder in as many months in Midtown. The growing concern surrounding the unsolved crimes was the scheduled topic at the regular Monday morning briefing session Lieutenant Johnson conducted with the members of his homicide unit. The date was July 10, 1999, and Earl Johnson was not going to let any dumb-ass killer stand in the way of him making Captain by the end of the year.

Listen up, people, he commanded. The group, which had been milling around the faded gray room drinking coffee and talking about every imaginable subject other than homicide, began to take their seats at the well-aged tables. It was only 8 AM, but the air already smelled of smoke escaping from the detectives’ clothes and of perspiration oozing from their pores on the hot, humid summer day.

City Hall is demanding answers about three murders in my precinct in three months. So I want each lead detective of each team to tell the group what you know about your assigned case so we can see if there’s a link between them. We’ll start with the first case and do them in order. Alverez, you’re up.

The victim, Sanford Fleming, a white male, forty and single, lived in Turtle Bay on 44th Street just off Second Avenue. He worked in Midtown, Madison Avenue near 39th Street. His cleaning lady comes by every Monday, has her own key, and lets herself in. She found him on Monday, May 2nd about nine in the morning. The vic was dead for about twelve hours when the body was discovered. The perpetrator used a metal ring, an old-fashioned garrote, to strangle Fleming. It was still around his neck when the body was discovered. No sign of forced entry and nothing in the apartment was missing or out of place. Nothing unusual about the vic, except for being gay. So we’ve been working on the gay love went bad angle. Haven’t turned up anything yet, Detective Alverez said.

You mean you guys have hit every gay hangout in town and can’t get some dope on this guy? Maybe you’re having too much fun making the rounds? Most of the cops laughed following the lieutenant’s remark, but it struck a sour note with some. Johnson thought it was funny even if the politically correct ones in the crowd didn’t.

Who’s next, Esposito?

That’s right Lieutenant. Felecia Justice, but went by the first name of Lee, was a black female, thirty-two, resided with her parents in Kew Gardens, Queens and worked at 41st and Madison. She was discovered on Thursday, the second of June at 11:30 PM in an alley down the street from where she worked. The estimated time of death is 10 PM. According to her boss, they worked late that night. She left the office before him and was going to take a cab home with the fifty bucks he gave her. It wasn’t burglary, because she still had the money in her purse. Apparently she was hit with a blunt object and dragged from the sidewalk to the spot where, about an hour later, a night cleaning crew found her. There was a bouquet of flowers shoved in her mouth. Pretty disgusting. Other than that, there are no clues. The crime scene is surrounded by offices and stores, so no one was around to see or hear anything at that time of night.

Did you check out the places in the area that sell flowers to see if they remember someone buying a similar mix or arrangement?

Yes sir. It’s a standard ‘Spring Assortment’ sold everywhere.

Okay Kelly, I hope you can shed more light on your case then your compadres, Johnson stated.

"Of the three cases, the most recent is also the most gruesome. The vic is Darrell Palmer, Creative Director for a big ad agency over on Madison and 43rd. This forty-five year old white male was married, with two kids, and lived near Montclair, New Jersey. Good son too. Drove into the city every Sunday to visit his mother in a pretty fancy senior living facility on East 55th. Usually he went alone and visited for an hour or two before going home. Always parked in the garage across the street from the place. The attendant was making his rounds before closing at 6 PM on Sunday, July 3. Things were quiet, what with the long holiday weekend and all. Palmer was found in the front seat of his car parked on the third level of the garage. His throat was slit. The perp must have been waiting in the back seat, did the deed, let Palmer bleed-out, and then arranged a weird little scene for us. When the body was discovered, there was a full cup of coffee in the dead man’s hand -- you know the take-out kind of Styrofoam cup. And there was a note pinned to the vic’s shirt. It said, Good to the last drop."

Sounds like an ad for coffee rather than a murder note, the lieutenant commented.

"That’s right, Good to the last drop is the ad slogan for Maxwell House Coffee. This matches up with the COD, since virtually every drop of blood was drained from the body. And the vic worked for an advertising agency, so there could be a connection," Detective Kelly stated.

Does his ad agency handle the coffee account?

No, and never did.

Maybe the vic worked on the business in the past?

We’re checking on that, Kelly reported.

Okay, I want each team leader to review your case files. See if anything might have fallen through the cracks or if there’s a new direction to explore. We’ll meet again on Thursday. I promised the chief a progress report Friday morning. So you better have something for me. The lieutenant paused and, with a cynical chuckle said, "Or your ass is grass and I’m a big black lawnmower.

CHAPTER TWO

JP dodged his way through the late afternoon crowds at Grand Central and boarded the subway line headed toward Flushing. He was reluctant to seek his father’s advice, but there was no one he knew that was a better homicide detective than Mike Kelly.

When the train surfaced on the other side of the East River, JP stood against the door and peered through the dirt-smeared window. Beneath him, reaching out in all directions, were rows of old factories and warehouses -- many of them boarded up or in disrepair. These soon blended into an endless sea of shabby low-rise apartment buildings and duplexes. From his elevated perch, JP viewed a patch-work of black and gray flat roofs. The curious designs were a result of years of repairs rather than costly full-roof replacements. While the roofs looked very different, the neighborhoods below were quite similar. It was in one of these blue-collar neighborhoods that John Paul Kelly grew up.

JP walked the few blocks from the Sunnyside station to where his parents owned a small duplex. They lived on the first floor and rented out the second. He normally enjoyed his mother’s bland cooking but had called to ask his father out to dinner. She welcomed this because her husband spent too much time around the house following his retirement two years earlier from the same precinct were JP was now assigned.

Mike Kelly’s favorite place to eat, and drink, was a short stroll from his home. Since the two men rarely spent time alone with each other, the father tried to break the ice by starting with a safe question.

How’s your wife?

When she’s working, Maria’s fine. When she has time on her hands, she’s pissed off at how much time I spend on the job.

That’s goes with having a cop for a husband.

I don’t need this kind of tension on the home front.

You doing anything to make it better?

Why the sudden concern about my marriage? You were against it from the beginning.

What’s done is done. Mike Kelly shrugged, wishing JP had married a nice Irish-Catholic, even a local

My personal life is mine, so please let me handle it.

Just trying to see if you need help.

Well if you really want to help, I could use it on the cop side of things.

Oh? You never talk to me about work.

Got a possible serial killer out there. Solving this could be good for me. Problem is I’m getting nowhere fast. And Lieutenant Johnson is all over everybody, because the people downtown are putting pressure on him.

Yeah, shit flows down hill, and I know all about Johnson. Remember, I trained him before he became my boss. No love lost between us.

As they stepped inside Casey’s Corner, JP felt as if he had been dragged back into history -- a bad history to him but one his father enjoyed reliving every chance he could.

How long since you were here? the father asked.

Guess it’s been five years since the last niece was christened. Before that probably when I graduated from Fordham.

JP remembered the large party hall beyond the dining room used by local service clubs and other groups. This stark, drab room was also the scene of many family events. It was here they celebrated each of the four Kelly children’s First Holy Communion, high school graduations, the birth of both of JP’s sisters’ children and held the wake for his older brother, Mickey, who was killed in a car accident while home on leave from the Army. The ghost of his brother, although the death was fifteen years ago, haunted this place as well as the relationship between JP and his father.

They sat at Mike Kelly’s regular booth in the bar. The elder Kelly wanted to get his teeth into whatever police problem JP was trying to solve but did not telegraph his feelings. Instead he waited for his son to make the first move. He did not have to wait long. Before the first round of drafts arrived, JP opened the large envelope he was carrying and handed three case files to the retired cop.

Let’s see what you’ve got, my boy. The senior Kelly read the files in order and in silence. Finally he spoke.

Okay, what do you know?

Three vics. Three different CODs. One note.

And?

The perp is quick, strong and has powerful hands based on the way he pulled off the murders and then moved the bodies around to arrange his little killing scenes.

So it’s a guy. Got more?

The vics all worked for advertising agencies.

Do the other lead detectives know this?

They should. We made copies of each others’ files. That’s how I got the ones you read. There are no connections that I can see other than the agency link. Do you think this could be a coincidence? JP asked.

Maybe. There are a lot of ad agencies in Midtown.

JP reacted to his father’s doubting expression. You don’t believe in coincidences?

Never have and don’t see any reasons to start now.

Let’s say that working for an ad agency is the common thread. That means the first two murders could have been trial runs leading up to the bleed-out killing.

Or the clues from the first two murders were too subtle, so he added the note, Mike Kelly stated.

Either way, we appear to have a serial killer on our hands. And he’s not finished yet.

So you’ll want to find out if all the murders relate to ad slogans, why the perp is doing this, and who he’s targeting at the ad agencies? Anything is more then you have now.

Getting a handle on the slogans calls for some expert help, but I don’t know anyone in the ad business.

I got one who can make you a hero.

Who?

Ben Norris. Ten years ago, his wife was murdered, and he was a suspect for a while. Turned out, the only thing he was guilty of was being a drunk. Johnson worked with me on the case. We both sorta liked Norris and didn’t think he was the kind of guy who would do his wife, even in a blackout. We cut him a little slack and Johnson worked the media to be sure Norris had some favorable publicity when we got the real perps. Mike Kelly took another draw on his beer before continuing.

Anyway, Norris stopped drinking, and is a big-shot on Madison Avenue these days. He’d know everything you need to know about ad slogans. Want to meet him? Norris still owes me a favor. If he doesn’t think so, I’ll convince him he does. Give me your cell phone.

CHAPTER THREE

Mr. Norris, Inspector Kelly here or I should say ‘retired inspector.’ It’s been a while. You’re probably ready to leave for the day, but this will only take a minute. I’m calling for my son. He needs your help.

Congratulations on your retirement. Hope you’re enjoying it. Your son’s interested in the advertising business? Ben was surprised to hear from the ex-cop but assumed he knew the reason the man was calling.

No, no. My son’s a detective, just like his old man. There are questions about a case he’s working on; your advertising expertise could prove helpful. What time is good for you to meet with us tomorrow morning?

Can’t imagine how an adman can help with a police investigation, but I’ll do my best. How’s eleven-thirty?

That’s good. By the way this is a homicide, but we won’t mention that. We’ll just use our names, like we’re there for a business meeting.

Come directly to the fiftieth floor rather than the main reception area on forty-eight. I’ll be expecting you. Ben knew if the son looked anything like the father, everyone would know they were detectives without them showing their badges.

Mike Kelly could not help but smile as he flipped the cell phone shut and handed it back to JP.

Ben’s mental image was confirmed when the two men arrived. Mike, whom he had not seen for a decade, was still a slovenly Irish-looking cop, only he was older. His hair had turned gray to match his unhealthy complexion. JP, on the other hand, was a slender young man with very white skin, dark rusty colored hair, and had a distinct twinkle in his brown eyes. Neither man was dressed as if he belonged on Madison Avenue.

The contrast between the Kelly’s and Ben Norris was like night and day. Ben was six feet but carried himself in a manner that made him appear taller. He wore a tailored suit and a custom shirt that fit as if they were an extra layer of skin. And his classic good looks were accented by an ever-present tan. At nearly fifty, Ben kept his gray hair under control, with the help of his stylist, but let the silver peek through around the temples. His pleasant smile, which he used generously, and clear blue eyes made Ben attractive to all he met.

How are you Inspector? Ben greeted the detective with a firm handshake. And this is your son?

JP, sir.

Come have a seat. Ben directed them to a spacious conversation area with a direct view of the Chrysler Building and a panorama of the eastside of Midtown Manhattan.

Would you like some coffee or a cold drink? Both men declined as they gawked in amazement at the huge and richly furnished office of one of Madison Avenue’s most successful executives.

Let me get right to the point, the older Kelly said. We’re trying to determine if there’s a connection between three homicides committed in the last few months in Midtown Manhattan.

Where do I come in? Ben asked.

The victims all worked for ad agencies. And the perp, I mean perpetrator, could be using ad images and slogans to send messages to us, JP said.

That’s where you come in, Mike Kelly stated.

Let me tell you about the most recent murder and the clues we have. JP laid out the photos of the crime scene on the huge coffee table around which the men were seated. Ben pulled away at first. He tried to disassociate himself with the dead body and all the blood, but it was difficult to ignore the focus of each shot. The senior Kelly pointed out the disabling cutting of the throat, the resulting bleed-out, the cup filled with coffee placed in the dead man’s hand, and the note containing the slogan that completed the disturbing tableau: Good to the last drop.

Maxwell House Coffee. They’ve used the slogan for nearly a century, Ben confirmed.

JP told Ben about the first two murders and showed him photos of the other crime scenes. After studying them, Ben went to his desk and pulled up some information on his computer screen. When he was ready to provide his opinion, Ben held up an 8X10 police photo of the first murder.

"The first death with the strangulation by a thick garrote brings to mind the Wisk Detergent line, Ring around the collar."

JP and his father waited for the answer concerning the other murder.

"The second one, with the bouquet stuffed in the victim’s mouth, might depict FTD’s famous ad theme, Say it with flowers."

Do you have any idea how the slogans relate to each other? JP asked.

Off hand, I don’t see any correlation between them. These are divergent categories, the ad lines were created over a period of many years, and they were developed by different ad agencies too. The only connection is these are ad slogans for some of America’s most famous brands, Norris concluded.

No other thoughts? Mike Kelly asked.

You might want to find out if the victims ever worked for the agencies that created these slogans. Ben went back to his desk, typed a few words, pressed the print key on his computer, and retrieved a sheet of paper showing the names of the agencies credited with each of the three ad slogans.

Thanks for your help, JP said.

Yeah, this gives my son something to follow up.

Do you really believe there’s someone killing agency people and using ad slogans as a calling card? Ben asked.

I can’t tell you why anyone would go to the trouble of leaving such clues, but I intend to find out what these connections mean. JP promised.

As they rose to leave, the senior Kelly added, And, more important, who’s doing the killing.

CHAPTER FOUR

The digital clock registered 11:36 PM, Monday, August 1 when Lieutenant Johnson called JP. Found another body. Get your tail to 280 Madison Avenue, thirty-fifth floor. And make it snappy. JP darted out of bed and began to put on his clothes.

What’s happening? People always pick the worst times to get murdered. Maria jested. Her pout expressed disappointment for being interrupted from the sexual foreplay they were engaged in when the phone rang.

It may be an inconvenience for us, but it certainly is the worst time for them. JP replied with the seriousness of a homicide detective.

"I know. Its part of being a cop’s wife. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Here I am horny and alone in this big bed while you get to go to a crime scene and meet all kinds of interesting