Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “I want you to know that I am not one of those administrators who micromanage. I believe that you should have the autonomy to conduct your investigations without interference from the Chief’s Office.”

  Byron wondered if Lynds was being sincere or if she was simply quoting scripture from some eight hundred page police command training manual.

  “That said, it is important you understand that I will not tolerate any grandstanding or operating outside the rule of law.” She paused a beat to let her words sink in. “Not even for the good of a case. I don’t believe the end justifies the means. Be honest with me, Sergeant, play by the rules, and you will find in me an ally. Do we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly,” Byron said.

  Lynds maintained eye contact while Byron waited in uncomfortable silence for her to make the next move.

  “I understand we have something else in common,” Lynds said at last.

  Byron cocked his head slightly.

  “I, too, am a friend of Bill W.”

  He was surprised by her candor regarding her alcoholism. Was this a peace offering? Was she giving him a glimpse of her vulnerable side to establish trust, or was this simply an attempt to cozy up to him? He couldn’t be sure.

  “How long?” It was all he could think of to ask.

  “Five years. You?”

  “Little over five months.”

  She nodded. “They say it gets easier.”

  “Does it?” Byron asked.

  She smiled, then moved on without answering his question. “My former police department in Hartford may be larger than Portland’s, but I find that police work is still police work. It’s pretty much the same wherever you go. I’ve only been here a short time so I’m still evaluating, but I believe that a team is only as strong as its weakest link.”

  “I agree,” Byron said, wondering if Lynds was in any danger of running out of cliches.

  “Excellent.” Lynds stood, signaling the end of their meeting. “I look forward to working with you.” She extended her hand again.

  Byron rose from his chair, gave a quick shake, then headed for the door.

  “By the way, Sergeant, I understand your victim was found decapitated.”

  Byron opened the door then turned back toward her. The urge to frown was overwhelming, but he successfully fought it, maintaining a flat expression. It was obvious that Lieutenant LeRoyer had yet to master the art of compartmentalizing information. “Yes. Of course, we’re hoping to keep that in-house as long as we can.”

  “Of course. I understand completely. Any reason to believe this case might be connected to the recent murders in Massachusetts?” Lynds asked, referring to the two recent unsolved cases in and around the Boston area where female victims had been found decapitated. “The Horseman cases?”

  Byron had wondered how long it would be before someone higher up asked about the similarities.

  “Too soon to say, Chief. Something we’ll be looking at, though.”

  The meeting with Lynds had gone somewhat differently than Byron had envisioned. He liked her no-nonsense attitude and hoped it wasn’t only for his benefit, but experience had taught him that most first-time police chiefs, especially those from larger outside agencies, were simply punching a ticket. They usually stayed a few years to gain some experience at a smaller department like Portland, then it was off to something bigger, better, and far more lucrative. Only time would tell if she would stick around long enough to steer the department in a better direction or just a different one. After nearly a year under the highly political and highly ineffectual leadership of Acting Chief Danny Rumpswab, Lynds might just be a breath of fresh air.

  Byron walked through CID toward his office, catching curious glances from several detectives. Evidently his meeting with Chief Lynds hadn’t been a secret either.

  The inside of Portland Herald newspaper reporter Davis Billingslea’s Honda Accord was sweltering. He was parked on the waterfront side of Commercial Street, across from the abandoned lumberyard. The air-conditioning, like most everything else in his aging and rusted jalopy, was busted. He’d lowered all four windows, attempting to mitigate the heat from the direct sunlight, but it wasn’t helping. Neither was the shrieking gull standing beside his door awaiting a handout.

  Billingslea had tried the direct approach, walking up to the young cop standing guard outside the fence and asking what they had, but that hadn’t worked. Officer E. Gallant told him he’d have to speak with Lieutenant LeRoyer if he wanted information. In other words, Sergeant Byron had issued a gag order. Billingslea had seen it before. There was no love lost between them. Billingslea didn’t know which thing was causing him the most pain, the blind zit growing at the tip of his nose or Detective Sergeant John Byron. At the moment it was a toss-up. The acne would pass, but he didn’t imagine Byron was likely to depart anytime soon.

  Billingslea had been monitoring the various goings-on between Byron and his investigators for more than an hour by radio. He’d heard them request a funeral home transport, but most everything else had been kept off the air. He figured they were using cellphones to communicate with the dispatcher. Now, apart from Gallant, Detective Mike Nugent, Evidence Technician Gabriel Pelligrosso, and one of the property crime detectives named Robbins, all the other investigators, including Sergeant Byron and Detective Stevens, had departed for parts unknown.

  He watched as Pelligrosso and Nugent accompanied a private security guard on foot around the perimeter of the vacant property. They appeared to be checking the gates, possibly even changing the locks, but Billingslea couldn’t be sure from his vantage point. Robbins, also on foot, appeared to be recording the registration numbers of every car parked nearby. The death they were investigating might have been nothing more than a vagrant, one of several hundred living in Portland. Maybe another one had died from a drug overdose, or perhaps drank themselves to death, he thought. But then again, it seemed as though Byron and the others were putting a lot of effort into keeping it quiet. No, something bigger was happening here, he was sure of it.

  Billingslea waited until after Pelligrosso departed and Nugent and Robbins disappeared inside the Marriott before making his move. He fired up the Accord as the security guard climbed into the marked green-and-white Security Incorporated patrol car. The guard drove down Maple then turned south onto Commercial Street. Billingslea followed.

  Detective Bernie Robbins had barely climbed inside the car before Nugent slid the transmission into Drive and punched the accelerator. Partnering with the CID troublemaker had already put Nugent in a foul mood, but being forced to wait while Robbins stood outside the car conducting what was most likely personal business on his cellphone really pissed him off.

  “Jeez, what’s the rush?” Robbins asked. “Mind if I close the door first?”

  “You do know we’re supposed to be working a case here, right?” Nugent said.

  “Relax, partner. I am working. It’s not my fault the piece of shit they assigned me won’t start.”

  “You copy all the registrations like the sarge asked?”

  “Yup. I’ll get someone to run them when we get back to 109.”

  “Or you could run them yourself. Did you canvass all the York Street businesses?”

  “Yeah, ma, I did. They’re all closed Sunday night. No witnesses. Thanks for checking on me, though.”

  Nugent gave Robbins the stink eye. It was a toss-up which of the veteran detective’s traits he hated most, the condescension or the laziness. Both set a bad example for the younger detectives to follow, and Nugent knew from experience that some of them undoubtedly would.

  “So, who do you think’s gonna get Peterson’s seat in CID?” Robbins asked.

  “Don’t know,” Nugent said. “Hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.”

  “Well, I have. Word is Crosby is right for this one. Kenny’s five-year stint with the Drug Unit is about up, so they’ll be pulling him back to the PD anyway. I think he’d be great upstairs.”


  Nugent didn’t, but kept it to himself. In addition to being tight with Crosby, Robbins had a reputation for getting people to talk out of school about someone then running out and telling that person what was said. Nugent tried to conjure up the word that described someone like Robbins but couldn’t. He guessed he’d have to settle for asshole. He looked at Robbins and shook his head. Yeah, he thought, asshole would do.

  “What?” Robbins asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Byron and Stevens were cruising north on I-295 toward Augusta. They both knew Ellis would wait until they arrived before proceeding with the autopsy, but Byron was still annoyed at having been delayed. Chief Lynds could just as easily have given him her “toe the line” speech some other time. Like perhaps when he wasn’t up against a ticking clock. The way Byron figured it, if Ellis was right about the time of death, the killer had at least two days on them already, maybe three.

  They were passing the Augusta toll when Stevens’s cell rang with a call from Mike Nugent.

  “Hey, Nuge,” Stevens said, placing her phone into the dash holder and punching the speaker button, allowing Byron to be a part of their conversation. “You’re on speaker. How’s your new partner?”

  “That’s cute,” Nugent said. “Couple things. First, Bernie and I finished canvassing the area. We got the registrations for everything parked nearby, and I got the Marriott to give me a list of guests back to Sunday night and their contact info. I spoke to a few already. There’s a shitload of people we’ll need to contact here, Sarge.”

  “Drop Bernie off at 109 and have him start on it,” Byron said. “He can work with Dustin if he needs anything checked.”

  “Already done,” Nugent said.

  Stevens grinned at Byron. Nugent wasn’t stupid. They both knew he’d find a way to distance himself from Robbins as soon as possible.

  “You said you had a couple of things,” Byron said. “What’s the other?”

  “I might have a lead on our Jane Doe,” Nugent said.

  “Go with it,” Stevens said as she flipped open her notebook and uncapped her pen.

  “Dispatch just received a call from a woman named Destiny Collins,” Nugent said. “She hasn’t heard from her former roommate, woman by the name of Danica Faherty, and she’s worried.”

  “What makes you think our Jane could be Faherty, Nuge?” Byron asked, aware that Nugent wasn’t prone to jumping to conclusions.

  “Faherty works at a restaurant as a maître d’. Fits the general physical description of our Jane. Collins hasn’t had any contact with her since this past weekend. Said they had a lunch date scheduled for Monday, but Faherty never showed. Not like her, at least according to Collins.”

  “Did she provide an address or cellphone?” Byron asked.

  “For Faherty? Yeah, she did. Said she’s been leaving messages and texting but Faherty’s voicemail is now full. According to the reporting officer, they used to share an apartment on Brackett Street. Collins went by to check, but the place is locked up and nobody answers. I’m headed to Collins’s place now. I’ve got Faherty’s cell number and the landlord’s information.”

  “Okay,” Byron said. “Let me know if you get anything further, and I’ll have Gabe check Jane Doe’s prints against Faherty’s. Any word from the security company?”

  “About the locks? No. I haven’t had time to contact them yet. But I had the security guard check the other gates as Gabe was installing our locks. The Maple Street gate was the only one his key wouldn’t open.”

  “Tell me you seized the lock,” Stevens said.

  “Tagged it in myself.”

  “Anything else?” Byron asked.

  “Yeah. Davis Billingslea came sniffing around right after you left.”

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, 10:15 a.m.,

  July 12, 2017

  It took Byron and Stevens another twenty minutes after exiting the highway at the Augusta exit to reach the medical examiner’s office due to a three-car accident at the rotary where Routes 202, 201, and 11 converged, the first of two roundabouts through which they had to pass and the one closest to the copper-domed state capital building. Using the delay to his advantage, Byron telephoned Detective Dustin Tran in the PPD’s computer lab.

  “Morning, D.S. Byron,” Tran said.

  “D.S.?” Byron said.

  “Yeah, you know. Like how they say detective sergeant on all those British mystery shows on Amazon Prime.”

  Byron and Stevens exchanged a glance.

  “I don’t have cable, Dustin,” Byron said.

  “You don’t need it. Just internet. You gotta get it, Sarge. It’s totally cool.”

  Stevens rolled her eyes.

  Byron continued. “Dustin, I need you to drop whatever you’re doing and find everything you can on a Destiny Collins and a Danica Faherty.”

  Stevens spelled out the names phonetically and provided Tran with the information Nugent had given them.

  “Is this connected to our Jane Doe?” Tran asked excitedly.

  “Maybe,” Byron said. “Call me back as soon as you have something.”

  “I’m on it, Inspector.”

  Byron’s next call was to the Boston Police Department’s Homicide Unit. He removed the phone from its dash cradle, switched it off speaker mode, and held it up to his ear.

  The telephone at the other end rang so many times Byron was expecting the call to go to voicemail when at last someone picked up.

  “Homicide, Sergeant Murray speaking.”

  “Pete. John Byron.”

  “John? Holy shit! How’s it hanging?”

  “Same as always,” Byron said, casting a glance in Stevens’s direction to see if she’d picked up on his cousin’s inappropriate sense of humor. Judging by the smirk on her face, she had.

  Murray continued. “Hey, I heard you were down here for Molly’s funeral service. Sorry we never caught up. And I’m sorry for your loss, cuz.”

  Byron’s mother, Molly Donnelly, had passed away in January following a long battle with Alzheimer’s. They hadn’t been close.

  “I wasn’t in Boston long,” Byron said. “You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, guess I do. So, what can I do for you, Johnny?”

  Byron despised the schoolboy nickname but, not wanting to encourage his cousin further, he let it pass. “I’m calling about a body we just recovered.”

  Murray laughed out loud. “News flash, we’ve got all the bodies we can handle down here already.”

  “This one might interest you, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s missing its head.”

  “No shit?”

  Byron spent the next several minutes bringing Murray up to speed. Amid the “uh-huhs” and “no shits” Byron heard the scribble of pen on paper as his cousin recorded the details. Finally, traffic began to move. Byron and Murray agreed to connect again after Byron had uncovered more information.

  Billingslea had been following the Security Incorporated patrol vehicle for the better part of twenty minutes. He was trying to figure out how he would approach the guard and what he would say when his cell buzzed with an incoming call. The ID displayed on the screen was Flatfoot. It was the contact name he had created to hide the identity of Portland Police Detective Sergeant Kenny Crosby should the phone ever fall into the wrong hands. Crosby, on loan to the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency, was one of Billingslea’s go-to sources for the inside scoop at 109.

  “Got something I think you’ll be interested in,” Crosby said.

  “Have anything to do with the body on Commercial?” Billingslea asked.

  “Not over the phone, dickhead. Where are you?”

  “Scarborough. Route 1 bypass.”

  “Meet me in the lot of the Egg and I. Fifteen minutes.”

  Billingslea stared at the phone. Crosby had already disconnected. He hated how small Crosby made him feel. Like Crosby was tossing a bone to a stray dog. Only Kenn
y Crosby wouldn’t toss the bone, he’d hurl it as hard as he could, hoping to injure the animal. But when information was hard to come by, as it always was with Byron, Crosby usually came through. The only question was, at what price?

  Mike Nugent sat on the edge of the couch in Destiny Collins’s living room, watching as she paced back and forth in front of him. He was sure that at any moment she would work her way through the oriental carpet to the hardwood floor beneath. Across the room, a uniformed patrol officer stood, waiting patiently, clipboard in hand, trying to piece together enough information to complete a missing-persons report.

  Nugent cleared his throat. “Ms. Collins, tell us again when the last time was that you spoke with Danica.”

  “Dani,” Collins said absently as she searched her memory. “I think the last time was Saturday morning. I’d just gotten home from work at the hospital. Worked a double shift at Maine Med. Dani called just as I was walking in the door. We chatted for a few minutes, then I went to bed.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around ten, I guess.”

  “Do you remember what you talked about?”

  “Not really. I was dead on my feet.”

  “Did you talk again after you slept?”

  “No. By the time I got up Saturday afternoon Dani had already left for work.”

  “And you said she works at Alessandro’s, correct?”

  “Yeah, down in the Old Port.”

  “And you were supposed to meet up for lunch?”

  “On Monday, my day off. We had agreed to meet for lunch at Noble. It’s that barbecue place, out near Riverton School, but Dani never showed.”

  “Did she call to cancel?”

  “No. Nothing. And it’s not like her.”

  “Does Dani have a boyfriend?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “Well, she had been going out with this guy named Morgan Bates. But they kinda broke it off about six months ago.”

  “Kinda?”

  “Well, actually Dani broke it off. I don’t think Morgan was ready for it to end.”