At one-thirty a.m. on the same night, NYPD Sergeant Thaddeus Donaldson was riding through the mist-filled night at the north end of Central Park. He was seated on the back of his partner and best friend, a sixteen-hand, twelve-year-old chestnut gelding named Rambler. Sergeant Donaldson was a veteran of more than twelve years as a member of the department’s mounted unit, and because of his tenure and experience he’d been rewarded with what most in the unit considered the most plum assignment a mounted officer could get: patrolling the roughly one thousand acres of the park on horseback. As Donaldson approached the North Woods section of the park he slowed Rambler to a walk, then to a halt. He peered into the woods in the direction of one of the half dozen or so manmade waterfalls that were scattered about the area. No question. Someone or something was moving slowly toward the falls about fifty yards ahead of him. Though he could barely make out the dark shadow, he could tell it had the shape of a man. A man who Donaldson was pretty sure was dragging some kind of large bag toward the rocks that surrounded the falls. The cop dismounted and silently signaled Rambler to stay where he was. The horse was well trained and had had years of experience on the job. Donaldson was sure he would do what he was told.
The officer moved silently into the woods toward the man. Soon he could clearly see his prey. A big guy, maybe six foot two, with a full head of dirty blond hair. He was pulling what looked suspiciously like a black body bag toward the waterfall. Donaldson drew a Glock 19 from his holster and advanced silently till he was no more than ten yards away from his target.
“Freeze! Police!” he called out. “Put your hands over your head and keep ’em where I can see ’em.”
The man’s head snapped up. He looked around rapidly from side to side, and when he saw Donaldson he dropped his hold on the bag, turned and started to run.
“Stop or I’ll fire!”
The guy kept running. Donaldson fired a warning shot over his head and the guy stopped in his tracks. He turned. Looked back at Donaldson as if debating whether there was any point in trying run further. With Donaldson pointing the gun at his midsection, he apparently decided there wasn’t.
Instead he did what he’d been told and put his hands over his head. “What’s the problem, Officer?” the man asked in a tone of injured innocence.
“All right. You. Flat on the ground. Face down. Hands behind your back.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “But I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“I said down! Now!”
The man sighed, dropped to his knees and then lowered himself to a prone position on the rocks near the waterfall. Donaldson moved in. Pulled the guy’s arms behind his back and snapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Donaldson patted him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying any weapons. At the bottom of the man’s left leg he found an ankle holster and a small caliber automatic. He removed the gun.
“Hey, I have a permit to carry that and you have no right . . .”
“Shut up.”
The man stopped talking and Donaldson continued his search. In a side pocket of the guy’s jacket he pulled out a small but deadly-looking folding knife.
“I’m placing you under arrest . . .” Donaldson started reciting the suspect’s Miranda rights.
“All right, Hopalong,” the guy interrupted, and twisted his neck trying to look up. “I know my goddamned rights and your ass is going—”
“I said stop talking.” Donaldson’s words interrupted what the cop figured was going to be a long spiel about citizen’s rights. Finished going through the Miranda recitation. When he was finished he asked, “Where’s your ID?”
“Hey! You have no right to be handling me like this. I’m just an innocent citizen enjoying a walk in a public park.”
“Okay, innocent civilian, please show me your ID and tell me exactly why you were dragging what looks an awful lot like a body bag into the woods at this time of night?”
“Oh, fuck.”
“ID! Now!”
“Back pocket. Left side,” the guy said, resignation in his voice. Donaldson reached in and pulled out a brown leather wallet. A New York driver’s license identified him as Corey Ziegler. D.O.B. 6/22/82. Address listed as 543 West 12th Street, Apartment 4B, which Donaldson knew was way over on the West Side. It had to be close to, if not directly under the High Line—the old set of elevated freight tracks that had been transformed a few years back into an elegant public park and walkway. Donaldson took a business card from one of the slots in the wallet. It identified Ziegler as an attorney employed by a company called the Caswell Agency, which apparently offered theatrical and film representation. Donaldson figured Caswell must be a pretty profitable company, since it occupied some of the city’s most expensive real estate on the twenty-first floor at 51 West 52nd Street, one of Manhattan’s landmark office towers that had been nicknamed Black Rock and was located on the corner of Sixth Avenue.
“All right, Mr. Ziegler, maybe you’d like to tell me what you’ve got in the bag?”
“I have no idea.”
“You were dragging it into the woods and you don’t know what’s inside?”
“That’s right.”
“Since it happens to be a body bag, you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a human body in there, now would you?”
“I told you I have no idea what’s in there.”
“If you don’t know what’s inside, can you explain why you were dragging it off into the woods?”
There was a slight pause before Ziegler spoke in calm, measured tones. “I was simply taking a late stroll through the park. Getting a little air. And I almost tripped on that damned thing. Thought I’d better get it out of the way so nobody else would trip and maybe hurt themselves.”
“Just being a Good Samaritan, eh?”
“Well, I was.”
Donaldson stifled a laugh. It was a weak attempt at a lie but at least it was original. “Really? Well, since you discovered it by accident, I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look so we can both find out what’s inside.”
“That’s up to you. But you know you shouldn’t just go looking at people’s private property without permission or probable cause.”
“Sorry, Mr. Ziegler. The simple fact that full body bags usually carry dead bodies, plus the fact that you tried fleeing the scene when I ordered you to stop, plus the fact that you say you came upon it by accident, gives me more than enough probable cause to take a look. I understand that you’re an attorney, but I’m pretty sure a judge would agree.”
Donaldson, keeping one eye on Ziegler, walked over to where the bag was lying on the rocks. Kneeling on one knee, he pulled down the zipper and separated the flaps. He pulled out his mini Maglite, flipped it on and peered into the bag. Gazing back at him were a pair of empty blue eyes and the pale and very dead face of Marzena Wolski, the young actress who starred in what just happened to be one of the Sergeant Donaldson’s favorite crime shows.
Donaldson swore silently to himself. He rose and looked down at Ziegler. “Does Marzena Wolski happen to be one of your agency’s clients?”
“What are you talking about?” Ziegler shouted.
“Your card says you work for a talent agency. One that represents actresses. There’s a dead actress in the bag named Marzena Wolski who’s been missing two weeks. She wouldn’t happen to be one of your clients, now would she?”
“A dead body? Jesus Christ, you’ve got to be joking. Poor Marzena! Oh my God! Marzena Wolski! How horrible.”
Donaldson told Ziegler to drop the histrionics and quiet down. He then used his cell phone to make the necessary calls to inform the department that he’d found the so-called Star-Struck Strangler and had placed him under arrest. Told his captain he’d just caught the guy in the act of trying to hide the body of his third and most famous victim.
“What are you doing?” Ziegler called out.
“Me? Exactly what you just heard me tell the department I was going to do. I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder. Just take a few minutes for the troops to arrive. While we’re waiting, maybe you want to tell me why you had to go and kill one of the stars of my wife’s favorite show. One of my favorites too.”
Ziegler started squirming. “I didn’t kill anybody! I couldn’t kill anybody. If there’s a dead body in there somebody else must have put it there.”
“Y’know, Mr. Ziegler, you really picked the right profession. What with all the bullshit you’re feeding me, I figure you just had to be a lawyer. Or a politician.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Mr. Ziegler. You sure as hell ain’t lacking in the chutzpah department,” said Donaldson.