Deadly Betrayal - The CBS Murders

2:45 AM
December 27^th
Manhattan, New York

From the flashing lights of police cars, it wasn’t hard to spot the site of the carnage. NYPD blue and whites sat blocking traffic at both ends of Baxter Street in Chinatown. A half dozen uniformed officers and barricades were holding back onlookers and the media. In the middle of the intersection, Dan stopped the car and stared down the block.

“Come on buddy, keep it moving,” an NYPD uniformed officer said as he rapped his nightstick on Dan’s car window. “Move it!”

Dan pulled over to the curb in front of a hydrant and sat in the car looking down the block. What was he doing here? He placed the red light and FBI placard on the dashboard, and walked toward the restaurant.

At the roadblock, Dan flashed his credentials to a uniformed policeman wearing sergeant stripes. “Sarge, who’s in charge?”

“Detective LeBeau.”

“I need to talk to him.” Dan started to walk past the sergeant.

“Hold on a minute fella.” The sergeant extended a muscled arm and blocked his path. “This is a homicide. I don’t know why the FBI needs to be here. Why do you need to see LeBeau?”

“That’s between me and LeBeau.” Dan glared at the sergeant. The sergeant held and returned the intense gaze. Then without breaking eye contact, he called to a uniformed officer. “Hey Murphy. Come here a minute.”

“What, sergeant?” said a uniformed officer as he trotted towards the pair.

“For some reason FBI Agent,” the sergeant glanced at Dan’s identification, “Robertson, thinks he needs to speak with LeBeau. Escort him, find LeBeau, and as soon as this guy’s finished, bring him back so he doesn’t contaminate our crime scene.”

“Thanks sergeant,” Dan said, keeping his anger in check. He slipped his badge onto his coat pocket, ignored the sergeant’s stare, and followed Murphy.

Baxter Street was narrow and difficult to navigate on the best of days, but tonight it was a total impasse. Up and down the entire block, Radio Motor Patrol cars, or RMPs, their lights flashing and radios crackling, were parked half on the sidewalk, half on the street. Eight black minivans from the Coroner’s Office lined the middle of the street, their drivers waiting for the release of the remains. Murphy silently led Dan around and between cars. At the restaurant, they ducked under the yellow “Crime Scene...Do Not Enter” tape, walked up the stairs, and stepped into the foyer.

Dan took in the crime scene. Tables and chairs were overturned and riddled with bullet holes. Tablecloths were stained with spilled food, pieces of bone, body, brains, hair, and lots of blood. The mirrors on the walls had bullet holes in them, all of which had been marked with a wax pencil. On the floor near the door, small numbered pieces of paper had been placed near each spent cartridge.

Several detectives were directing the collection of evidence. While Dan looked over the scene, Murphy walked over to a detective wearing a fedora and spoke in hushed tones.

The ME was examining one of the eight blood-soaked bodies that lay where it had fallen. One victim was an old man...missing the lower part of one arm and half of his neck. Two were young women, one with the left side of her face gone, and the other with most of her chest blown away. The other five victims were young men. Dan’s eyes quickly darted among them. One of the men had been cut in half at the waist, another had a diagonal row of bullet holes across his chest. The third had no face left on his skull. It might be easy to misidentify someone. Maybe there’d been a mistake and Sammy hadn’t been killed. The head of the last young man was turned slightly away, as if he tried to avoid facing his death. Dan stepped to his left to get a better look.

“What do think you’re doing?” It was the detective with the fedora, stepping over the bodies and around the furniture towards him. “You’ve got no business being here! Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dan ignored the detective’s shouts, and stepped over the body so he could see. Dan’s shoulders sagged. The back of the young man’s skull was missing, but he could see the face. It was Sammy. No mistake. He wanted to reach down and touch Sammy’s face, wipe the blood from the two bullet holes in his cheek, but that was impossible.

The detective finally reached him. “I’m LeBeau. What the hell do you want?”

“My name’s Robertson. I’m an FBI Agent.” He showed his identification, and tried to think of something to tell LeBeau that wouldn’t sound asinine. “I got a call that there’d been some people killed.”

“Yeah?”

“I thought I might know one of them.”

“What was their name...this person you might just happen to know?”

“They’re not here.” As he said it, Dan felt in not acknowledging Sammy, he had betrayed him. But if he told this detective the whole story . . . No, the operation was need-to-know, and there was no need for this detective to know.