Elm City Towers: FBI Agent Marsha O'Shea Series

By John A. Hoda

Twenty years ago, Sandra Jenkins, a law student in New Haven, CT, was brutally murdered. Her alleged killers were quickly apprehended. Case closed. End of Story. That was until new evidence exonerates them and a new investigation is begun, but not by the cops. An investigative journalist turned podcaster is looking to make headlines and is burning up social media. FBI agent Marsha O'Shea is working the case quietly as a special project for the FBI Deputy Director. As they get closer to the truth, bodies start to drop. Will Marsha find the killer before she becomes the next target?

This police procedural is the fifth book in the series where Agent O'Shea must work outside of normal channels and she puts together a diverse team to solve the case. In real life, podcasters are using social media to bring much light and heat onto cold cases with some excellent results.

Elm City Towers is the action-packed fifth book in the FBI Agent Marsha O' Shea crime fiction series. If you like determined heroes, constant twists and turns, and realistic police procedurals, then you'll love real-life-investigator John A. Hoda's high-octane thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Hoda
• Release date: Apr 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223764076

John A. Hoda

John A. Hoda is an investigator and author. He blogs, YouTubes, and podcasts from his All Things Investigative website. www.johnhoda.com. He is a former police officer and insurance fraud investigator. He is a licensed Private Investigator with expertise in Forensic Genealogy and Investigative Interviewing and is the creator of the DVD: The Ultimate Guide to Taking Statements. He is a Certified  Legal Investigator and Certified Fraud Examiner. He has sat on the board of the National Association of Legal Investigators and the CT Assoc. of Licensed Private Investigators. He has run marathons and bicycled long distance. He played club soccer and semi-professional football. He has written, produced and acted in amateur theatre in New Haven, CT. He is the Author of Phantasy Baseball: It's about a second chance and Mugshots: My favorite Detective Stories

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"W elcome to Season Four of Truth Be Told . I am your host, Nick Davis ." He was keeping his mouth eighteen inches from the Blue Yeti microphone in front of the monitor. He joked with friends how he always put on his ‘movie guy’ voice for the promos.

"With your help, we are going to solve the Sandra Jenkins murder. The Truth Be Told closed Facebook group is now open. Gold level Patreon members have full access to the case files. As a bonus, the autopsy photos will be available this season. They are public, as they were presented in a court trial, but viewer discretion is advised. Anyone reposting this content will be banned for life from Truth Be Told." So far, the threat had worked. The rabid fans paid $9.97 a month to have gold status. No one wanted to lose the status of being a gold member of the hottest podcast in the nation. Nick cracked one million downloads per episode in the beginning of season three and doubled that amount by the stunning conclusion.

Autopsy photos are true crime porn, Nick noted. But the crazy thing was, these amateur sleuths—housewives from Anywhere USA, truck drivers, business executives, teachers, bored-with-life folks—figured shit out from reading the police reports and viewing photographs.

On May 4 th, 2000, a week before graduating law school from prestigious Elm City University in downtown New Haven, Connecticut, Sandra Jenkins was stabbed to death in the basement of her off-campus apartment building. Jay Duckett, his producer would drop in the local TV news feed coverage describing the discovery of the body. The entire footage would be on the Patreon feed along with all the other print and TV coverage that Jay had located.

Two young Black men, Scotty Johnson and Kwame Morant, were quickly arrested on robbery, theft, and murder charges. Jay would add the press conference footage at the New Haven Police Department headquarters here. The combination of narration and real-life media accounts increased the realism of the show. During this promo, they would rely heavily on the sensationalism of the crime to hook listeners.

Thanks to the efforts of the ECU Law Clinic Innocence Project, Scotty Johnson was freed, as DNA tests proved Johnson and Morant were not involved, that their confessions were coerced, and the testimonial of the only eyewitness was false. Unfortunately, Kwame Morant died in prison from Covid earlier this year and never breathed the air of a free man during his entire adult life. Nick had met the law school professor, who was unsurprisingly cold to him, who had spearheaded the effort to free Scotty and Kwame. Snippets of the presser the day of the exoneration on the courthouse steps on Church St. in New Haven would be played next. Nick glanced at his monitor and took a breath. Here he had to lay it on thick, his investigative journalist indignation tilting at the windmill of yet another example of the flawed criminal justice system.

The cops and prosecutors steadfastly refuse to admit they got it wrong and their refusal to reopen the case begs the question, who killed Sandra Jenkins? That is what we will find out. The power of the people to re-examine this case in minute detail will uncover clues leading to Sandra’s killer. Her family was sold on a false narrative. It is time to right this wrong and make sure that—the truth will be told. He ended it on the upbeat.

Nick listened briefly to the playback, then uploaded the Amadeus Pro recording of the promo to Dropbox. He glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning on Labor Day Monday. He added a comment to Jay: Better late than never. He cut and pasted that into a text message to Jay along with, Promo is in Dropbox. Call me.

He pushed back his chair and stood. If the listeners knew that he created the podcast from a walk-in closet in his Alexandria, Virginia townhouse, they’d laugh. The clothes and small space made for a great poor man’s sound booth.

He walked to the stand-up kitchen, instinctively reached for the Glenlivet Scotch Whisky, and poured a healthy slug into his glass along with two ice cubes. After the first sip, he closed his eyes and said to himself, Someday this will be Glenfiddich Single Malt.

Nick took his drink out the sliders off the living room to the reason he bought this place all those years ago. The view from his balcony of the Potomac and the nation’s capital in the background made it worth the price. Party boats with twinkling lights chugged upstream or floated lazily on the current in a never-ending parade. It was too late for jets to be making landings at nearby Reagan International. A military copter made its way over the Capitol Building, its dome lit up in a resplendent yellow. He never tired of the view.

The Rocky theme snippet played on his phone. That was Jay ringing in.

Hey, Jay.

Hey, Nick.

Time to do your magic, man.

I listened to it. Sounds good. I can splice in the pieces we discussed. This one is a little different though, isn’t it? Jay said.

Yeah, it’s the first time we are tackling a cold case following a wrongful conviction exoneration.

With all the missing teenagers or cases of mysterious death, what made you choose this one?

Nick said, At its core, the story has two hooks. An unsolved murder at a prestigious law school of a girl with a bright future, and a fucked-up police investigation. Like our other cases, we get to beat up the police for their tunnel vision. Here is the interesting part. They locked onto these two kids, at the time they were kids, and made up the evidence. Morant’s estate and Johnson are suing the detectives, their supervisors, the chief and the city in federal court. That will play out real time while we go back into the past and try to find the suspect. The kids recanted their confessions immediately and said they were set up. Why? Who had the juice to set them up? It’s more complicated than anything we’ve touched before.

That’s for sure. How do you think the faithful will take to it?

That’s a good question, and that’s how I sold it to the sponsors. When I pitched it to the sponsors, they loved it. Made the demand for a 20% bump go down easier. This is the surprise that he wanted to lay on his producer.

"Nick, you are the magic man. They accepted the proposal without any focus group testing? Damn!"

Back to your original question, I ran this idea by the Goldies and they loved it. The media coverage on this case sold them. They inhale shows on Oxygen and Investigation Discovery. We aren’t the only ballgame they tune in. They think this crossover can get more true crime junkies, and those were the comments that stoked the sponsors. Our thousand Gold Patreon members are our focus group. We’ve reached critical mass with them now.

Advertisers, subscribers and merchandise, the trifecta of podcasting! Who would have thunk? Jay exclaimed.

Nick took a congratulatory sip of scotch. If you would have told me back in the day, that we’d be in the top ten on iTunes and Spotify for this stuff, I would have said you were high on ‘shrooms.

It was solving the Dorothea Blanchette case that put you on the map.

Tru dat, Nick said. Cincinnati didn’t know what hit them. The publicity Nick generated about the disappearance of the prom queen-valedictorian years ago was so great that an abused ex-wife came forward and fingered her ex-husband’s dirt-bag brother. He pled to life with parole in exchange for leading the DA to the gravesite. Nick had broadcast that discovery live. Who knew that my little closed Facebook group would lead the investigation? It started out as an exposé of a piss-poor county sheriff investigation and ended up with the conviction of the killer and finding the body.

Wild stuff. That’s when the sponsors came a-courtin’ and you needed help.

Yep. Nick took another sip. I liked what I heard you doing for what’s his name. Nick never mentioned the competition out loud. Didn’t want to show any deference or respect.

It was the equity piece that sold me, Nick, he said. I was just an underpaid hired hand for what’s his name.

Man, don’t kid yourself, you work this podcast hard. You clean up all that news audio and the recorded interviews we get from Freedom of Information requests. You put it all together, the music, the intros, the stuff the cat drags in, and my dulcet tones.

Jay said, That reminds me. When are you gonna drop the new commercial? I need it by noon.

Shit, I better do it now. You know what my morning voice sounds like.

Foghorn Leghorn. Jay then did his imitation of half-awake Nick before he ended the call.

The long-anticipated fourth season of Truth Be Told had a new internet company sponsor. They wrote the copy and expected him to deliver it. The first episode was going to drop tomorrow. They bought the prime mid-episode sixty-second spot. Nick learned from experience to mark up the copy at natural breaks and pause for five seconds before hitting the next beat. Xycore Meal Replacement Shakes. Remember to pronounce it as ZIGH core, bunky.

He brought the dregs of his drink back into his closet studio. He broke his own rule of only having a warm tea with lemon and honey in a container with a sippy lid on the tabletop. The takes took longer and the exhaustion of another eighteen-hour day after working both weekend days of the holiday weekend caught up with him. Almost like taunting tech gremlins, he was on the sixth take on the call to action at the end of the promo.

Listeners receive a twenty percent discount when they enter TBT in the promo code. That’s T-B-T. Reclaim your energy and mental clarity with ZIGH core Meal Replacement Shit. Dammit. I can’t tell them what I think it tastes like. Nick waited five seconds. Reclaim your energy and mental clueless. He shook his head, C’mon Nick, suck it up. It’s not an acceptance speech at the Washington Press Club. Reclaim your energy and mental clarity with ZIGH core Meal Replacement Sh—Shakes. He slumped in the chair, waited the five seconds, then summoned the last of his energy. He raised his voice. ZIGH CORE MEAL REPLACEMENT SHAKES.

He hit the stop button. Forty-seven minutes to record a one-minute commercial. Fuck me. Nick saved it and, zombie-like, sent it to Jay in Dropbox. He disconnected the microphone, closed his laptop, and swallowed the last of his watered-down scotch. I’m selling soap on a postmodern soap opera.

CHAPTER TWO

T his time of year always reminds me of my school days, Grayson Stanfield said. I went to Elm City University, studied history and ate too much pizza. He stared out of the window of the coffee shop, seemingly lost in nostalgia.

She could count on one hand the number of times they met. It was almost always here where the acoustically tuned grapevine in FBI headquarters couldn’t hear them. It was mid-morning, and the place was hopping with the those involved in business for or with the federal government. They sat in the corner with the coffee grinder grinding free-trade beans nearby, separating them from any eavesdroppers.

Marsha O’Shea studied the Deputy Director of Field Operations over the rim of her iced ristretto with coconut milk. She was cheating on this first Monday of fall as a hot and humid streak blasted Washington, DC. She still drinking a cold drink and hadn’t switched to lattes yet. She also was wearing white after Labor Day, a nice blouse over navy blue slacks and sensible shoes. The AC in the shop was barely keeping up with the heat, and her chestnut blonde hair was frizzing out.

Stanfield was faring much better, looking like a CEO or high-powered lawyer. Steel gray hair cut short, charcoal pin-stripe suit, Bostonians shined mirror-black, a starched white shirt and burgundy red tie completing his take-no-prisoners power ensemble. Onlookers might fantasize they were planning their next tryst, the foxy blonde and the Washington power broker. They had a visible intimacy of sorts.

Stanfield came to Marsha with his problem cases. She was the special agent that he relied on when a delicate case came across his desk. She had gotten her mojo back in recent years after he rescued her from a back-water unit in her hometown of Philadelphia. Back then, she had stayed under the radar, counting the days to early retirement, when she had caught a special case and, like a dog with a bone, wouldn’t let go of it. He took notice and began challenging her with more difficult and sensitive cases.

How’s our favorite Russian spy doing? he asked.

Svetlana gives her regards.

He smiled. I’m sure. We gave her a hell of a get-out-of-jail-card.

Marsha had been Svetlana’s handler for the past couple of years. She and her intelligence analyst, Myra James, were attached to a counterespionage unit that rounded up spies that had co-opted players in the conservative far-right movement. It was interesting to watch leading members of Congress abruptly decide to not run again in districts where they were a shoe-in. One congressman pled guilty to state charges of the attempted rape of a sixteen-year-old based upon evidence from Svetlana. It had been hard for the congressman to explain away his blood and semen on the girl’s clothes.

Mega-donors were not spared either, as their sexual proclivities with teenagers from the former Soviet Union were exposed. The best part was watching federal judges, who were appointed for life, suddenly give up their bar licenses to pursue work in the non-profit sector as if it was community service. There was still much work to do, but Svetlana was squeezed for every drop of intel, and importantly, she never lied to Marsha. The biggest thing in the sex-trafficking ringleader’s favor was that at the time of her capture, Svetlana was trying to protect from certain death the same Ukrainian farm girl who had broken that same congressman’s nose while fending him off. At the end, Svetlana grew a conscience, and it was the beginning of her redemption.

We certainly did, Marsha replied. "I won’t be surprised if I see her managing a Cinnabon’s in Des Moines someday as part of her witness protection plan.

And the girl?

After all the players pled out and Congressman Hastings fell on his sword, the girl, Irina Muldakova, was quietly reunited with her family in Lugansk. Before she returned, she became fluent in English and completed high school and two years of community college. She wants to be a police officer when she’s old enough. Tough kid.

Makes me wonder what you were like when you were her age.

Was he softening up in his mid-life? We’ve never had a conversation about college or growing up. Irina was way tougher than me. Yeah, I stood up to bullies, but I did it on the playground of a Catholic school, not in a foreign country where I didn’t understand the language.

Stanfield sat back and fiddled with his coffee. Marsha thought that his usually commanding presence was tempered today by a hint of indecisiveness.

Finally, he said, Things have wrapped up nicely with your case on the Russians. I want to ask you to go to New Haven. Myra can stay here with the unit and keep following all the corrupt influence money trails uncovered in the investigation. He paused, took a sip, and continued. A girl that went to my alma mater was murdered in New Haven over twenty years ago. She had a bright future. Two guys were quickly arrested for her murder, but this year they both were exonerated, one posthumously. The cops refuse to reopen the case, and there are reasons why I don’t want the local office to investigate. There’s another twist to this case.

There always was a good reason why not to involve the local FBI field office, Marsha thought, but a twist?

A podcaster, who is making a name for himself in the true crime community has his sights on this case. His MO has been to beat up the local cops or sheriff’s office for doing a piss-poor job and then enlisting a state bureau of investigation or even our office.

Sounds like an investigative journalist on steroids, she said.

Here’s the interesting part. He gives access to a closed Facebook group of much of the public access information along with any investigation he conducts, such as recorded interviews and videos, but then he has a Patreon group where members pay ten bucks a month for special access and first peeks.

Sounds voyeuristic if you ask me. Who gets off on crime scene photos or autopsy reports? Marsha shivered.

Here is what he is doing a little different. His podcasts are very well produced. The editing and splicing of outside content with his reporting propels the story, but he is engaging the listeners to take part in solving the case. He has thousands of regular folks tuning in and because they come from all walks of life, they have many different perspectives. They see things that were missed by investigators and crime scene technicians. Everybody in this online village gets to look at the evidence and have their say, if they want. Plus the podcaster brings so much light on a cold case, he heats it up. Witnesses and informants crawl out of the woodwork.

Don’t we do something similar with rewards and press conferences? Marsha asked.

It’s a different dynamic. There is something organic taking place here. He’s crowdsourcing an investigation. I can argue with his methods, but not his success. Is there a way to harness this power of the many without jeopardizing the integrity of the investigation?

Marsha and Stanfield had done this dance before. There were always good reasons not to involve the local office on the cases that he assigned her in the past, but this was different. Stanfield’s rules were simple. Work alone or with an IA, don’t report to or work with the local office, be careful when engaging local law enforcement officers, and don’t expect to have wiretaps, subpoenas, or search warrants at your disposal. She had gotten pretty good at playing cops and robbers with one hand tied behind her back. Ah Watson, the game’s afoot.

What are you thinking? he asked.

You’ve never asked me if I want to go out on a case before. Can I say no? she asked. All of this was surprising coming from a man who kept his cards so close to his vest.

He shrugged. Well, I suppose. There’s an opening for liaison with the Bureau of Indian Affairs in North Dakota I can slot you into. When can you leave? He smiled.

Bismarck, here I come.

His eyes opened wide as his mouth fell.

Only kidding. You say they have good pizza in New Haven?

The best.

Damn, Joe looks good in a uniform. Marsha gazed a short distance from her box seats at First Energy field, the home of the Reading Fightin Phils, at her boyfriend, first-base coach Joe DiNatale. Their story went back further than her career with the bureau.

Good time for a hit and run, the younger and equally handsome man on her right, John Chudzy, said.

Dave Wentz, on Marsha’s left, replied back across her with the old-time announcer Ritchie Ashburn phrase, The guy on first looks runnerish. Both Dave and John were state troopers and friends of Joe and Marsha.

Trenton’s pitcher checked the runner, who was inching off the cutout, then blazed a fastball. The runner took off. It was a pitchout. The batter didn’t bother to flail at it. The catcher was up and in throwing position before he received the heater. He threw a dart to the shortstop covering second base, who applied the sweep tag on the instep of the sliding runner’s foot before it hit the bag.

Out! yelled the umpire, his arm raised. The inning was over, and Joe ran to the home dugout in front of Marsha and the other two.

A Philadelphia sports fan to the core, Marsha couldn’t resist. Way to run us out of the inning, Coach.

Recognizing her voice, Joe looked up and grinned. The fans around her burst out laughing. They all were season ticket holders and knew by now that the coach and his heckler were a hot item.

Marsha had driven up from Washington, where she had an apartment, with an overnight bag for her stayover at Joe’s place. During the off-season, he had a key to her place, and they spent as much time together as they could when she wasn’t flying around the country tracking spies and the persons co-opted by the ring.

Her visit was a short one as she would drive five hours to New Haven in a couple of days.

John Chudzy and Dave Wentz had helped her solve the sex-trafficking ring and rescue young Irina. Back then, they were local cops, albeit Dave was a part-timer. Now both were Pennsylvania State Troopers assigned to the Media barracks. They were continuing their studies at West Chester University in Criminal Justice. She kept them apprised of the case without giving out secrets, and now that her portion was concluded, they decided to celebrate.

The Fightin Phils came up a run short, and game ended. Marsha, Dave, and John made their way out to the parking lot. They piled into Marsha’s card and headed to Carmine’s. It was a downtown bar complete with a dance floor, shuffleboard, and dartboard. It was owned by Joe’s Uncle Carmine, and she was welcomed like family.

They arrived at the bar and headed in. How’s my favorite FBI Agent? Carmine asked before giving Marsha a bear hug.

I dunno, Carmine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you were hitting on me.

Anytime you want to trade up from that loser of a coach, you know where to reach me.

These are my friends, Dave and John. Marsha tried to hide her blush by introducing them.

They shook hands. Do I know you? Carmine asked John.

I had to take your statement about a fight here when I was on the job a while back.

Not a cop anymore? Carmine asked.

State Police, John replied.

Good outfit. See Marsha, everybody is trading up, Carmine said as he led them to the back room reserved for family and special guests. Tell Joey I’ll have his usual ready when he gets here.

They seated themselves, and in no time, Carmine returned with four frosted mugs and two pitchers, one beer and one ginger ale.

Joe and Marsha were the lightweights by choice. Both had had too much fun in their younger days with Mr. Budweiser and his buddy Jack Daniels, so they’d stick to the ginger ale.

A few minutes later, the overflowing platter of steaming cheesy nachos found hands reaching from three directions.

Marsha stood to greet Joe when he arrived.