Two Simple Murders: A Story of the Reaches of Crime Through an International Conspiracy of Evil.

By Joseph C. Glavin

Two Simple Murders is a story about two killings occurring in a fictional municipality near New York City that have all of the appearances of failed robbery attempts but which are in reality a small part of a much greater conspiracy. The killings are followed by an attempt to assassinate the senior United States Senator of the State of New York. The local police are called upon to identify and apprehend the killer or killers and find themselves at the periphery of an international cartel of crime with unimaginable proportions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491807644

Joseph C. Glavin

Joseph Glavin, is a retired attorney having spent fifty years at the bar including several years as a prosecuting attorney in Newark, New Jersey. The father of seven, he is an avid tennis player and former golfer, having written a book about the latter sport called The Auld Man, a story of the reminisces of an ageing Scottish professional who recounts some of his experiences and knowledge of the grand game. .Mr. Glavin is a prodigious writer and has several more novels in preparation for publication as well as a book of poetry and essays. He and his wife Cathy reside in Northern New Jersey.

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© 2015 Joseph C. Glavin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   05/19/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-0161-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0765-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0764-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904253

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PROLOGUE

I n a centuries- old one room stone building, baked deep brown by the elements, seven men sat on rude wooden stools around a simple oaken table scarred by the work of generations of cheese makers. The men were dressed in the style of the differing parts of the world from which each had come. The sole illumination in the room came from a loft opening above the door and the windows built high on the otherwise barren walls. The roof was thatch and there was no electricity or running water. The place bore the unmistakable permeating odor of dairy animals and wood smoke. Simple cups of water and of a local wine, a loaf of hard bread and half wheel of cheese had been placed in the center of the table. Outside the thick walls, covered with an ivy-like growth on the north side, the soft still brown earth was creased with the furrow from the tires on the heavy luxury automobiles that had brought the men there. The cars were waiting in line fifty meters away on the only road that crept up the hills to the crest where the building lay, the drivers remaining behind the wheel of each and unobservable through the dark-tinted windshields. The cars were not close to one another and no one of the drivers gave recognition to another. The men and their drivers were alone, all other traffic, human and otherwise having been carefully sent elsewhere. The men spoke in quiet tones. They were obviously men of authority and distinction. None carried a single scrap of paper, yet the meeting lasted four and a half hours of intense conversation. Then without a further sound, the men rose and left, each to his own vehicle. The motors purred to life and in a single file the great automobiles moved into the road and disappeared down the hill. About thirty minutes later, a sole figure dressed in the clothes of the Swiss peasant trudged slowly up to the building, entered, pulled shut the loft, cleared off the table and then swung the massive entrance door closed and locked it and walked away. Those of the local population that had ever seen the men referred to them as Les Vieux.

Ten days later, the economy of one European nation was staggered by a labor strike, threatening the viability of the entire Common Market and the government of a small island country fell, neither from apparent causes. The seven men, satisfied with their work, did not meet again for several months thereafter.

A continent away the residents of Newell City, a quiet suburb of New York City, went about their daily activities blissfully unaware of the events that would soon play a major role in the plans of Les Vieux.

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T he heavier man looked up from the body, rubbed his brow with a handkerchief, and said in a gruff voice, This is a real professional job. One in the temple, not much blood and not much noise. Small caliber, maybe a twenty-five or a thirty-two. Don’t see them much anymore. These damn kids like the big noisy ones, three fifty- sevens or forty-fives. He stood up. The other man grunted. That’s because they do it in drive-bys. Can’t do much damage with small calibers at forty MPH. Let’s get some breakfast. The ME’s gonna be here soon and the uniforms will take care of things. Did you check for ID? Both men shivered in the cold early morning air.

Yeah. No wallet in the pockets and no cash. I didn’t look for anything else but the boys down town at the morgue can do a tattoo and scar search. Doc will do the prints right here before the ambulance takes him. The two men, dressed alike in the dark business suits that shrieked police, moved away from the body. Any ideas who he might be? You know almost all of these dealers by sight. The two plainclothesmen, senior detectives in the Newell City Metropolitan Police Force, climbed into an unmarked black sedan.

I don’t think he’s a dealer or even involved in the drug business, the other officer said, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. First, he is well dressed in an Ivy League way. Secondly he had no cash to speak of in his pockets. If he was a big player I would most likely have recognized him but I don’t. Thirdly, this is not drug territory. Because his wallet was gone and he had no cash, I vote for a stick-up for now. That may change once we get on the computer back at the office. You want Wendy’s or the diner? The unmarked sedan sped off as a few early commuters began to gawk at the now partially covered body.

Mark Stanton was a ten year man on the Newell City Metropolitan Police Force, having made detective- sergeant and then lieutenant within the space of that time. He was well thought of by the brass, particularly after he solved an arson-multiple murder case in the Mayor’s neighborhood in record time by the simple expedient of tracing the fire accelerant used to spread the flames to the hardware store that sold it and then examining the security tapes for the month before the fire to see who purchased it. The rest was easy. While there was some grumbling by older men who had been passed over by Stanton for promotion, Mark’s easy personality and even- handed commanding style finally won over even the most disappointed of his fellow officers. He was often given the most difficult cases including long closed unsolved chestnuts but generally came through. This day he had two plainclothesmen in his office when he arrived, one from homicide and the other from narcotics. He knew both men well and poured coffee for each and for himself.

What’s up, Pete? he said to the heavier of the two. Not enough to do at Murder Inc. or Narc so you and Woody came up to help me?

Sorry, Hotshot. This time we need your help. Know this guy? He handed a four by eight black and white photo of the deceased he and his companion had seen earlier, to Stanton who put down his mug and studied the picture closely for a while. His name is Roger Decater Thornhill and he is a card- carrying member of the Fortune Five Hundred. He was found by a doorman in the alley behind Fifteen Carnegie Plaza this morning, Mark. Downtown thinks he’s more your type.

Stanton squinted at the glossy. That’s a high powered address. No one with an income under Five Million would even walk around there. Did he live there?

Yes and no, the smaller detective said. He has digs all around the country but he had a squeeze who has the penthouse apartment. She’s away in Europe but he’s single so he may have been house sitting for her. He often stays with her for months at a time. Our angle is simple so far. Robbery and murder. But the boss thinks you might have an idea because Thornhill was on the jury that convicted your arsonist three years ago and he wrote a letter later to the Mayor and the Commissioner commending your work. Did you know him?

Never heard of him but I’m glad he was a fan. Come to think of it though, he could have been on the Good Citizen’s Council that wanted to do patrols to help the uniforms on the beat. That would have been a disaster. Can you imagine Wall Street types after a few Martinis carrying Mace or Stun guns on the beat with the cops and shooting every black or Latino they saw in the street? The Commissioner weaned them off that idea but gave them a tour of the whole department. I think your stiff was here with that tour so I probably shook his hand and thanked him for the help. If he was on that jury, I don’t remember it. Nobody at Homicide or Narcotics knew him?

Are you kidding? If they did they would never admit it. We deal with the more basic types in general and leave the Fortune 500 to you. If anything comes to mind, let us know. Pete and I are specially assigned to this and I hear you are going to be our leader. The Mayor went to college with Thornhill somewhere so he wants a solution yesterday. Good to see you, Mark. Both men nodded at Stanton and left the office.

Mark stood up from his desk, stretched his six foot body to full length and rubbed his hand through his sandy colored hair. Life as a detective agreed with him for the most part but the run of the mill matters he was working on did little to excite his intellect. Maybe the new murder would be more of a challenge.

Two weeks later Mayor David Douglas, an overdressed, overweight and over ambitious politician at age 42 serving his first term as municipal chief executive, sat fuming behind his massive mahogany desk with the George H. Bush autographed photograph on the wall behind. He had refused to allow photographs of the current President to replace the several Bush photographs in the mayoral office as was the custom, calling the refusal an economy move. However it was well known in City Hall that the Mayor had once shaken the hand of then President Bush and considered it the highlight of his political career. Now he was blistering the Commissioner of Police who was sitting across the table because there had been no arrest in the matter of the murder of Roger Thornhill.

Dammit, Harry, your boys have had plenty of time to at least get a clue or two. Thornhill was my fraternity brother and his sister calls me every day. What the hell’s going on over there at Homicide?

I have had the Chief put two of his best detectives on the case, one from Narcotics and one from Homicide. They’re good. We’ll have the bad guy in short order.

I sure as hell hope so. Look, if they don’t get him by the end of next week, pick up some stray minority and hold him for a couple of days. It’ll look good in the press and Gloria Thornhill will get off my back.

You know I can’t do that, Mr. Mayor. I’ll add Mark Stanton to the task force and we should get real action. The Commissioner rose to leave.

Alright. I know Stanton. He’s the cop who got the arsonist around the corner from my house. The three of them should do the job quick.

The Commissioner left and the Mayor opened his cell phone and called the beat reporter to announce his latest strategy to find the killer of Roger Thornhill. The scribe, Maya Frederick, a thirty year old looker was a favorite of His Honor, often getting scoops on city business well before any other reporter and spending a lot of time at late meetings with him. The Mayor’s staff called these sessions the Intimate Interviews but never where or when the chief executive might be within earshot.

Mark Stanton left his office at five-thirty that evening. The murder of Roger Thornhill had not crossed his mind again until he got a call from the Chief’s office. He walked up the two flights of stairs, avoiding the elevator and telling himself it was good exercise but it also allowed him to avoid the prying eyes of Deputy Chief Janet Martino. The lady was not only the first female superior officer on the force but also the nosiest. She would have intercepted Mark and quizzed him mercilessly about why he was with the Chief. Better by far that she did not know he had the meeting with the Chief until it was over and he had left the building,

Chief Adrian McQuade was an old- time cop. He had come up from the ranks and he never forgot it. He tolerated the newer generation of technically proficient graduates of the police academy and also of some of the best universities, that were being appointed to the department but he relied primarily on the hard work of the beat cops to keep his town law abiding. He also believed in preventive measures and the man on the street who knew his neighborhoods was the best medicine for that. He did not look like the cartoon characterization of an old cop. He was slim, neatly dressed, of average height and well-spoken. He was a true product of a line of lawmen reaching back to his great-grandfather and his rapid rise to the top office reflected the excellent education he had received from the Jesuits at Saint Ignatius High