BREAKING NEWS - Tragic Murder in the Heart of Manhattan!
Tuesday, January 1, 1995 - NBC New York | Reporter: Janet Kelley
In a tragedy that has shaken the entertainment industry and the American public, Jacob Doyle, a young actor known for his role in the TV series Rust Valley High, was shot and killed in front of the exclusive Prima neve Miracles casino, Manhattan, on Monday night.
However, it is not only Doyle's death that has made this news so shocking. Joey Carter, the rising young star of the Emmy-winning series A Genius Criminal, was at the scene when a bullet struck Jacob Doyle's head from a distance.
"We heard a gunshot and saw someone's body fall. People started screaming and scattering," said one eyewitness, a bartender at a nightclub across the street.
Police stated that Joey Carter was not injured and is now the key witness in this murder investigation. While the shooter's identity is still unknown, CCTV cameras around the location reportedly failed to capture the perpetrator due to blind spots and foggy nighttime conditions.
In a press conference this morning, the New York Police Department mentioned that the weapon used was a classic Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol, a firearm commonly used by professionals and the military.
"We are reviewing the possible involvement of organized crime groups," said Detective Mike Herrera, an NYPD spokesperson.
---
Charlie was jolted awake by a piercing telephone ring in his Soho apartment. Winter sunlight crept through the high loft windows, hitting his face still creased from a nightmare. His hand fumbled on the antique oak nightstand, knocking over a script before finally finding the phone receiver.
"Charlie Douglas," he mumbled hoarsely, eyes still half-closed.
"Charlie, it's Sheira." Joey's assistant's voice sounded unusual—shaky and rushed. "Have you seen the news?"
"What news? Sheira, for God's sake, it's seven in the morning—"
"Joey's involved in a murder. Jacob Doyle was shot dead last night in front of Prima Neve Miracles. Joey was at the scene, Charlie. He's the key witness."
Charlie sat bolt upright, sleepiness gone instantly. "What?!" His hand gripped the receiver tighter. "Is he okay? Is he hurt?"
"He's not injured, but... Charlie, this is bad. He was right next to Jacob when it happened. I just got a call from Detective Miller at the NYPD. They need Joey to—"
"Where's Joey now?" Charlie interrupted, already jumping out of bed and grabbing his jeans from the floor.
"At his apartment in West Village, they said the police took him home last night. But he hasn't answered my calls since three a.m. I've called fifteen times—"
"I'll pick you up in thirty minutes. Get all our lawyer contacts ready—Roth, Friedman, everyone. And shut down all media access for now."
·
Charlie parked his car roughly in front of a hydrant, ignoring the clear no-parking sign. The cold morning air stung his face as he jumped out. Sheira was already waiting in front of Joey's red brick building, her face pale behind a thick scarf. In her hands, two large phones kept ringing incessantly.
"Bobby is on a plane from LA," Sheira reported, hurrying after Charlie who had already pushed open the entrance door. "He lands at four p.m. The media have swarmed our production office in Midtown—CNN, NBC, they're all there."
Charlie just gave a brief nod, his fingers pressing the elevator button roughly. "Did the police tell us the next steps?"
"Detective Miller will come at nine for a follow-up interview. But Charlie..." Sheira lowered her voice. "According to a source in the police, this is an organized hit. Not a random robbery."
The elevator opened with a loud ding. Charlie took a deep breath before stepping out onto Joey's floor.
·
The New York morning fog shrouded the windows of Joey's West Village apartment, creating a gloomy aura in the usually bright living room. Joey was still sitting on the same brown leather sofa since last night, still wearing the dark blue sweater and now-wrinkled jeans. On the wooden table in front of him, a glass ashtray was full of cigarette butts—evidence of the anxiety that had haunted him all night.
On the muted television, the local news channel showed footage of him being taken to the precinct—his pale face clearly visible under camera spotlights, eyes vacant, with a reporter's dramatic narration: "... Joey Carter, Emmy-winning young star, now involved in a horrific tragedy..."
Suddenly, the apartment buzzer rang loudly. Joey ignored it, taking a long drag from the last cigarette in his pack. But then Charlie's panicked voice was heard from behind the door, followed by increasingly loud knocking.
"Joey! Open the door! I know you're in there! It's Charlie!"
Joey rubbed his face with both hands, feeling how rough his skin was after a sleepless night. He stood up, legs slightly wobbly, and walked slowly to the door. The sound of the lock turning felt like an echo in the apartment's silence.
The door opened, revealing Charlie's anxious face and Sheira standing behind him with teary eyes.
"Joey..." Sheira gasped upon seeing Joey's condition.
Joey's face was as pale as paper, with deep dark circles under his usually bright blue eyes. His usually neatly styled blonde hair was now disheveled, and most horrifyingly—there were specks of dried blood on his temple and neck, and brownish-red stains on his sleeves.
Charlie immediately stepped in, looking Joey up and down. "That blood...?"
"Not mine," Joey answered hoarsely. "Jacob's. When he... got hit."
Without another word, Charlie pulled Joey into a tight hug. For a moment, Joey let himself surrender—his head resting on Charlie's shoulder, his body starting to tremble like a leaf.
"Alright, kid," Charlie whispered, his voice tense yet full of affection. "I'm here. We're here for you."
Sheira closed the door quietly, tears finally streaming down her cheeks as she watched Joey—the young star who usually shone so brightly—now utterly shattered, looking more like a frightened boy than an award-winning actor.
Charlie guided Joey back to the sofa, still holding his shoulders tightly. "Now," he said, his voice firm again. "You're going to shower, change clothes, and then you're going to tell us everything that happened. Every detail. Understood?"
Joey nodded weakly, his eyes glassy. In the background, the television still showed his pale face—a brutal reminder that his life had changed forever in one night.
·
Sheira had made coffee while Charlie checked the almost-empty fridge.
"Have you eaten anything since last night?" Charlie asked.
Joey just shook his head, hands still trembling holding the coffee cup. "I couldn't swallow anything."
"Tell us everything. Don't leave anything out."
Joey recounted the events of the night in a flat voice. When he got to the shooting part, his trembling worsened.
"Damn," Charlie hissed after Joey finished. "You said the car was a black Chevrolet Caprice? Ski hat?"
Joey nodded. "Why? Do you know something?"
Charlie exchanged a look with Sheira. "That's organized hit MO, Joey. Not a random robbery."
Sheira took over. "I've already contacted Benjamin Roth. He's the best criminal lawyer in the city. He'll meet us at eleven."
"We also need to handle a press statement," Charlie added. "The studio has called me three times since this morning."
Suddenly, the apartment buzzer rang again. Sheira peeked through the peephole.
"Police," she whispered. "Two in uniform."
Charlie sighed. "Open it. We have to face this."
---
Meanwhile, Joey Carter's fans and the entertainment community have shown moral support for the young actor, who was seen leaving the police station with a tired expression and reluctance to speak to the media.
"Jacob Doyle's death is a reminder of how dark the unseen side of the celebrity world can be," wrote the New York Times in its editorial this morning.
As of this report, the NYPD has not announced any suspects. However, media and public pressure continue to mount. Analysts have called this case one of the most shocking scandals since the murder of actress Rebecca Monroe in 1986.
"There is something bigger behind this murder," said one criminal analyst from Columbia University, Dr. Leonard Bachman.
"We're talking about power, money, and perhaps..., the mafia."
·
The following days felt like a fog. Speculations spread quickly. Some said Joey deliberately provoked the conflict. Some accused him of colluding with the mafia. Others theorized that Jacob knew something that shouldn't be said, and that got him silenced.
But who pulled the trigger? And why?
One week passed. No suspects. No progress. Only a sense of dread that continued to settle in the Manhattan air.
And Joey? He was trapped as a victim under the spotlight, and as another living witness to the darkness he had been trying to forget.
---
"Jacob was an annoying person. Just seeing his face made me sick," Alice sneered while fixing her lipstick in the mirror, remembering Jacob's lopsided, cynical smile as he made sexist comments at a premiere event a few months ago. "No wonder someone ended up killing him."
Beside her, Chelsea—a young blonde with a neat fringe and the pale complexion typical of a newcomer actress—raised an eyebrow.
"Did it have to be by killing him?" she murmured, combing her bangs with her fingers. "The world is full of people like Jacob Doyle. Killing one won't teach the others a lesson. Besides..." She turned, looking sharply at Alice, "killing is still wrong. Except in a script."
Alice chuckled softly. "You're right, unless it's fiction."
Then she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest.
"Or..." she continued in a speculative tone, "maybe the killer watched too many movies. Who knows, maybe they thought this was a noir world and Jacob deserved to be the first victim."
The room smelled of hairspray and leftover coffee from paper cups. They were in a backstage dressing room, after an internal meeting with producers and crew. A sense of emptiness hung in the air, like a canceled celebration.
"Come on, Jacob really was that annoying," Alice repeated. "Just seeing him breathe made me want to throw a shoe at his face."
Chelsea laughed silently, shaking her head.
"I remember at the Emmys last year, he stood behind Joey, right when Joey went up to the podium." Alice squinted, imitating Jacob's stance. "His gaze was like—'I know all your secrets'—when really he was just jealous and craving attention."
Her hand clenched. "My fingers itched to scratch that sarcastic face of his."
Chelsea finally agreed. "If I were Joey, I would have punched his face right then." She punched the air with her small fist. "Screw the paparazzi."
Suddenly, a quiet voice was heard from behind them.
"And now that's on my list of life's regrets."
Alice and Chelsea startled, turning quickly. Behind them, Joey stood leaning against an empty makeup table. He was wearing a loose grey hoodie and black pants. His eyes were tired, but a faint smile still hung on his lips.
"Joey," they called simultaneously.
Joey slowly sat in a chair in front of the mirror, his back to the glass. He lowered his head slightly, looking at the two girls through the reflection.
"For my reputation's sake, I kept holding back my fists from landing on his face." Joey took a short breath, then added softly, "And now he's dead. That chance is gone."
Chelsea also sighed, her voice quiet. "Jacob the coward died just like that, leaving all this mess for you."
"I'm serious," Alice said, her tone suddenly gentle. "Are you okay?"
Joey didn't answer immediately. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, then murmured softly, "Every night the sound of the gunshot still echoes loudly in my ears. But the worst part is his gaze. Even in his last second, he was still mocking me."
Chelsea bit her lip. "That gives me chills just hearing it."
Alice glanced at Joey, hesitating, then said, "I heard from the makeup crew, the police said they have a few leads?"
Joey turned quickly. "What leads?"
Alice shrugged. "They said the bullet they used is rare. Old caliber. Not a common type of weapon. They suspect this wasn't a random murder."
Chelsea squinted. "Wait, you mean this was planned?"
Alice just gave a slow nod.
Joey was silent. His jaw tensed. His gaze empty. His head slowly nodded once.
"If someone did plan all this," Joey finally said in a low voice, "then Jacob wasn't the only target."
Alice and Chelsea looked at each other. For the first time that afternoon, laughter vanished. Silence took over the room.
And Joey knew his life was moving into a new chapter.
---
The conversation in the dressing room hung in the air like cigarette smoke—sharp, piercing, and hard to get rid of. Joey's last words, "...Jacob wasn't the only target," still echoed in his own ears as he walked down the now-quiet studio corridor. The winter dusk swept through the high windows, painting the hallway with a somber orange hue that matched his mood.
Alice and Chelsea had left earlier, each with looks of concern they tried to hide behind parting smiles. Joey had declined their offer to accompany him home. He needed solitude. He needed space to process the truth he had just uttered himself—a truth that made him feel like a pawn in a game of chess far larger and darker than he had ever imagined.
He paused briefly at the studio exit, taking a deep breath. Outside, a yellow cab was already waiting, its engine humming softly. The driver, a middle-aged man with a knitted cap, gave him a slow nod through the rearview mirror.
·
The ride back from the Midtown South Precinct felt like the longest journey of Joey's life. He sat in the back of the cab, staring blankly out the window, watching the Manhattan lights begin to glow in the winter dusk. His face still felt stiff from the third police interview that day. The smell of disinfectant and stale coffee from the police station seemed to cling to his clothes.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay at a hotel tonight?" Detective Miller had asked before Joey left. "We can arrange protection."
"No," Joey answered shortly. His apartment, with all its complicated memories, still felt like the only place where he could breathe. Or perhaps that was just an illusion—a hard habit to break.
The cab finally stopped in front of his West Village apartment building. Joey paid the driver and stepped out, taking a deep breath of the biting cold air. He raised his coat collar, hoping to hide his face from anyone who might recognize him.
The old building's wooden door felt heavier than usual as he pushed it open. The usually quiet lobby now felt like a vacuum echoing every step he took. He pressed the elevator button, listening to the old machine's creak as it descended.
On the third floor, the corridor appeared empty. Only the sound of a television from a neighboring apartment was faintly audible. Joey felt his fingers tremble slightly as he opened the door.
"Home," he murmured to himself as the door closed behind him. He tossed his coat onto a chair, feeling relieved to shed the mask of composure he had worn all day.
But that relief didn't last long.
---
A grand Roman-Italian style villa stood firmly on a rugged granite cliff overlooking the Ionian Sea on the coast of Calabria, Southern Italy. Surrounded by expanses of scrubland and olive trees petrified by the sea wind, the building looked like an ancient temple forgotten by time. Travertine pillars rose on the front terrace, supporting large arches with carvings of Roman gods and goddesses beginning to be worn away by salt and time. The greyish-white facade blended with dark red terracotta roof tiles and tall basilica-style windows, staring blankly at the dark, turbulent blue waters.
Below, a hectare of land stretched wildly yet in an ordered way—with a classical Mediterranean garden, marble paths slippery with moss, and guard posts hidden behind lavender and rosemary hedges. All of it belonged to one of the old 'Ndrangheta families, the silent rulers whose blood and honor had long been fused with the stone and soil of Calabria.
The mansion's left wing housed a quiet yet dignified private sitting room. The vaulted ceiling was adorned with faded gold mosaics, merging with the scent of sea salt and old book dust. Inside, 18th-century antiques stood in silent harmony—dark brown Italian leather sofas with carvings of local olive wood, a round marble table from Reggio Calabria, and tall chestnut wood bookshelves filled with yellowed leather-bound volumes.
A man sat in the middle of the room. His posture was calm, with a cold, aristocratic handsomeness. Middle age had not taken the sharpness from his gaze. He held a cup of chamomile tea, its steam rising slowly, blending with the salty and damp earth scents. In front of him, a local newspaper lay untouched. Snacks on an antique porcelain plate remained whole, ignored like the voice that kept speaking from the corner of the room.
"When you decided to join the military, I kept quiet. Even when you chose to defend a country that never cared about the South, I remained silent. When you built your own organization, turning your back on the family name and the blood of your ancestors—I didn't stop you either," the voice was slow, but laden with pressure. An old man stood with his back to the large window open to the sea—his silhouette framed by the orange twilight light falling on the water's surface.
"But now... you choose to join the government? Become their tool?"
"I told you, I'm not doing that, Father," the younger man interrupted, cold yet firm.
The old man's hair had turned white, his face adorned with sharp wrinkles, but it still held traces of a terrifying handsomeness. His body, once burly and feared, now bent wearily over a heavy wooden chair, accompanied by a worn book and reading glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose. He snorted, disliking the interruption.
"If you really want to be a politician, just say so. Democrat, socialist, or a puppet of Rome, I don't care. But don't expect blessings from this family."
Silence crept in. No sound except the crashing waves against the limestone wall below the cliff—as if affirming that time moved at its own pace here.
Domenico Cassano was in no mood to argue with his father about the old man's suspicion that he was interested in the politics of a foreign country.
"Isn't it interesting, having the authority and power to regulate the system of life of a country." Signor Enzio took a book from a shelf without moving from his seat. "You have a good image, Dom. Especially after you invested in that port. Also, your criminal record that the state's dogs in your country haven't sniffed out. Just monopolizing isn't enough, you must have full control. I'm right, aren't I?"
Domenico didn't answer. He diverted his attention to a newspaper on the table. He opened a page randomly, pretending not to pay attention to what his father was saying. That was the intention, until his eyes caught a photo of a very familiar blonde young man in an article titled: Joey Carter Becomes Key Witness in Jacob's Death After Being Shot by an Unknown Person in Front of a Casino.
Instinctively, Domenico sharpened his senses, reading what was written there.
Jacob Doyle—that name Domenico had heard several times, especially from Joey's own mouth; the young man had briefly told him how infuriating that actor was every time they met. On the other hand, his soldier had confirmed that Jacob Doyle was a cocaine dealer among artists in the entertainment industry.
Killed by a shot to the head, in front of a casino by an unknown person driving a car. That was the brief chronology from Joey Carter as the key witness.
It was clear: the mastermind behind Jacob Doyle's murder was the cocaine boss for whom he was a dealer. It wasn't clear who that was—a dealer could work for two or three people at once.
Domenico's mind began to grow restless. He was worried about Joey when he learned the young man was the key witness—who was highly likely to become the next target for elimination—to erase evidence of actor Jacob Doyle's murder.
"You're worried about that boy, Dom?" Signor Enzio asked, seriousness audible in his tone.
Domenico didn't answer. It turned out the old man already knew about this earlier.
"You'd be better off using your love for family, rather than for that boy—after you loved his mother and were thrown away."
"I didn't..."
"Who doesn't love their pet? Not a few of them sacrifice much for their pets."
Domenico's lips parted, about to retort his father's comment with a slightly higher tone, but he was cut off by the ringing of his phone.
He put down the newspaper roughly, Domenico immediately checked the call which was from Joey. There was no reason for him to delay answering a call from his "pet." Without excuse, he left immediately.
"Dom!" Joey's voice on the other end sounded panicked.
"Joey," Domenico responded, sharpening his hearing; the voice on the other end sounded quiet.
"Dom, there's something I need to tell you."
"Tell me, Joey! What's wrong?"
"I—tut... tut..."
The call cut off. Domenico stared sharply at the phone screen, which had returned to the main menu.
What happened?
---
A soft click signaled the opening of a brown-painted apartment door—after a man successfully pressed the correct four-digit code on the old keypad attached to the wall. The small sound from the outdated electronic lock mechanism was almost drowned out by the winter wind whistling through gaps in the corridor windows. A pair of dark brown eyes scanned warily left and right down the quiet hallway. No sound of footsteps, no doors opening, just the faint hum from the building's old central heating pipes.
Deeming it safe, he slipped inside and closed the door slowly, soundlessly. His hand skillfully re-locked it from the inside. Not worried about the exit—the number combination was etched in his memory. The man was very skilled at infiltrating places like this.
The apartment lights were not turned on. The pale light from the large window in the living room was enough to guide him through the neatly arranged interior. His footsteps were almost silent on the polished parquet floor. Only his breathing could be heard—slow and controlled.
The bedroom was the first target. He opened the door without hesitation. The apartment owner's distinctive scent—a blend of citrus soap and the soft smell of expensive perfume—still lingered in the air. The man paused for a moment, looking around the room as if searching for invisible traces.
Silent, only the second hand of a clock in the room was audible, followed by the soft creak of a drawer opening. There were several sheets of notes, small books, and a torn-out newspaper photo of a handsome adult man.
The man was about to move to check the closet's contents, but just a few moments later, his ears heard the sound of the front door opening. His alertness heightened, he immediately hid behind a sofa located in the corner of the room. His eyes squinted as footsteps drew nearer. It was the young apartment occupant, Joey Carter.
"I'll be fine," he said to someone. He took off his coat and tossed it onto a corner of the bed.
The man squinted, searching for the person Joey was speaking to. His limited view was somewhat difficult.
"You've been worrying about me since day one," Joey continued, and it turned out the young man was alone, talking on the phone with someone.
"Alright, I'll call you tomorrow, see you." Joey sat down on the bed, his eyes focused on his phone screen, reading incoming messages. Meanwhile, the stranger who had successfully infiltrated his apartment was reaching for something from the black fur jacket he wore. Joey's figure never left his sight, even as his fingertips touched the grip of a firearm tucked inside his clothing.
Joey stood up from his sitting position, silent, hand gripping his phone. His gaze fixed on the door, and his expression turned serious.
Had the young man sensed something?
The infiltrating stranger was also assessing—should he shoot the actor right now? There was no order from his boss to kill Joey Carter, but if the situation became desperate, the stranger had no other choice.
A minute later, Joey finally walked towards the door, leaving the room while gripping his phone, unaware that a stranger was watching. He continued walking to the front door, his finger pressing a number stored only in his memory.
The man peeked from the bedroom, his eyes darting swiftly, looking for a hiding spot. He found one behind a chest-high bookshelf. Even if the young man discovered his presence, the bullet in the man's revolver would immediately pierce his head, just as the man had pierced Jacob Doyle's head.
Joey was about to call that number, but at that very second, his apartment buzzer rang. He postponed his intention and opened the door.
It was an elderly woman in her sixties, standing at Joey's door holding a plastic jar of gingerbread men.
"I made too many, so I'm sharing some with you. Perfect with hot tea on a cold day like this," the old woman said, wrinkles adorning her once-beautiful face.
"Thank you, Mrs. Laurent." Joey accepted happily; he had actually been craving gingerbread men on his way home. Mrs. Laurent had indeed been a good neighbor since Joey lived here. Not a luxury apartment, but the facilities were decent.
"Take care of your health, don't work too hard," Mrs. Laurent advised. She didn't actually know Joey's job—even though the young man often appeared on TV, Mrs. Laurent's slightly poor eyesight prevented her from recognizing Joey Carter in real life.
Joey nodded. The jar of gingerbread men was in his right hand, his phone still gripped in the other. He pressed the call button, and soon someone on the other end answered.
"Dom, there's something I need to tell you," Joey said to Domenico, his voice sounding hesitant.
"Tell me, Joey! What's wrong?"
"I—"
Joey didn't see it coming. He only managed to hear one sharp breath—too late. His body was slammed from the side, hard enough to make him lose his balance and...
CRASH!
The phone and the plastic jar of gingerbread men fell to the floor. Joey followed suit as his knees hit the floor when his body was pushed forcefully by someone he only now realized had emerged from his apartment with a revolver in hand.
[.]