Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Just as I suspected,” Ellis said. “If you look closely, we have two very clear points of penetration into the brain tissue.”

  Pelligrosso snapped several close-up shots of the injury while Ellis retrieved a long pair of surgical tweezers from the stainless-steel tray. He waited until the evidence tech was finished before probing into one of the wounds. After several moments Ellis withdrew the instrument and held it up for all to see.

  “What is that?” Byron asked.

  “A piece of Faherty’s skull. The force of the blow broke off a tiny piece and forced it several inches into the brain.”

  “What kind of hammer should we be looking for, Doc?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “The most common type has a pair of rounded claws, for pulling out relatively short or small gauge nails. But these wounds look like they were made with claws that were nearly straight.”

  “Framing hammer?” Byron asked, thinking again about Morgan Bates.

  “Precisely,” Ellis said. “But the depth of the wounds isn’t the same.”

  “Meaning?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “Meaning one of the claws was likely broken, leaving it shorter than the other, about an inch shorter.”

  Byron made a notation in his notebook.

  “These wounds were inflicted by the hammer being swung downward, striking the victim from behind and slightly right of center.” Ellis pantomimed the action as he described it.

  “So, the person we’re looking for was taller than Faherty?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “Not necessarily, my boy. Framing hammers tend to have a longer handle than a regular hammer. Those extra inches could give the appearance of a taller person, but it might only be due to the extended handle length.”

  “How quickly would she have been incapacitated?” Byron asked after making a note about the suspect most likely being right-handed.

  “Instantly. She would have dropped like a stone. Her brain may have kept firing electrical impulses to the body for several minutes after the blow, but given the depth of penetration and the damage to the cerebellum it’s unlikely that any of those signals would have been received. Danica Faherty would have simply laid there helpless until the life ran out of her.”

  “And just the single blow?” Byron said.

  Ellis turned back to the skull. “Just the one. But a devastating blow.”

  Chapter 16

  Friday, 6:40 p.m.,

  July 14, 2017

  Seeing is everything, yet Byron knew no two people ever see or interpret what they are seeing in exactly the same way. The gruesome discovery of Danica Faherty’s decapitated corpse had been viewed quite differently by everyone involved in the case. LeRoyer saw a body without its head, and the stress that always accompanies a high-profile homicide. Dr. Ellis saw an unusual and fascinating case. Chief Lynds and Davis Billingslea saw opportunity. Byron, however, saw something entirely different. He saw tragedy, and another mystery to be solved.

  But even more concerning to Byron was the presence of a taunting and arrogant killer roaming the streets of Portland. A killer so twisted and cruel that their mere existence was a personal affront to him. A murderer who had posed the body where it would be found, before tossing the severed head into a dumpster.

  As he drove southbound on the Maine Turnpike, back toward Portland, the hum of the unmarked’s tires on the pavement provided a soundtrack to the threads of the case swirling about inside his head. Alone again, his mind was free to wander. Seemingly detached and barely formed thoughts came together then drifted apart, thoughts that thirsted for information. The missing bits and pieces which, once known, would complete the puzzle. Too many suspects. Too many possibilities. As with every murder case, suspects appeared then, once alibied, disappeared from the radar. Then it was on to the next possibility. Morgan Bates, Alex Stavros, Lina, Winn, the Horseman, or by random bad luck, some nameless person who Faherty had the misfortune to cross paths with. The possibilities were endless. Murder cases with too many tentacles are the ones that drive investigators crazy, and, as Byron was aware, often become the cold cases that detectives take with them to their graves.

  Byron’s cell vibrated inside his suit coat, pulling him from his thoughts, back to the road before him. He slipped the phone from his pocket and checked the ID, expecting it to be Stevens. The number wasn’t one he recognized. He answered, “Byron.”

  “Sergeant Byron, Jeff Kent calling. Lucinda Phillips gave me your number, asked me to give you a call. I’m the trooper assigned to the Millinocket area.”

  Lucinda had forwarded Byron’s request directly to the area trooper without calling him back. Byron couldn’t help but wonder if she was still embarrassed about coming on to him during the Haggerty investigation. It was one of the last times they had spoken with each other.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Trooper,” Byron said. “Did she happen to pass along the information on Elmer Faherty?”

  “She did. I’m standing on the front porch of the Fahertys’ camp now.”

  “Any sign that he’s been there?”

  “Hard to tell. There’s no one here now and the place is locked up tight. I can ask around at a couple of nearby camps if you’d like.”

  Byron wasn’t sure of his next move. If Faherty hadn’t yet made it up to the camp, assuming he even intended to, finding Trooper Kent camped out on his doorstep might scare him off. Or at the very least tip him that the police were onto him. He hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Faherty about neighbors.

  “Happy to do it, unless you’re worried about spooking him,” the trooper said, echoing Byron’s own thoughts.

  “Let’s hold off for now,” Byron said. “I’m assuming you got the ATL we put out on his vehicle?”

  “I did. And I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Byron ended the call. He was about to pocket the phone again when it rang with another incoming call. This time it was Stevens.

  “How’d the autopsy go?” she asked.

  “It’s still gonna take a few days to match Faherty’s dental records, but it looks like we know the cause of death.”

  “Do tell.”

  “One blow to the back of the head with a framing hammer.” As he spoke the words it was hard not to focus on the ex-boyfriend. Carpentry tools had been used both during the murder and afterwards. Morgan Bates was looking better by the minute. “Anything new on your end?”

  “Found out some more stuff on Bates.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Bates and his alibi are more than just friends. According to Destiny Collins, Bates and Stephen Holcolm are partners in a house-flipping business right here in Portland.”

  Stevens had provided the address for the house purchased by Bates and Holcolm. It was located on Longwood Drive in North Deering, Portland’s version of the suburbs. Mel had asked if he wanted her to join him, but Byron had declined. He wasn’t exactly sure what would even come of his visit to the home, or for that matter what he was hoping to find.

  He drove past the address intentionally, wanting to get a glimpse of the property without being seen in case someone was there. The house was a dark green clapboard-sided ’70s ranch with an attached two-car. Several of the front windows had been replaced but the surrounding trim had not. There were no signs of life nor cars in the drive, but of course that meant nothing. The garage doors were closed, meaning Bates or his partner could have parked inside. After looping around the neighborhood twice, Byron parked in front of a home with a For Sale sign on its lawn that just happened to be next door to the Bates supreme home makeover.

  Byron walked up the drive, pretending to examine everything as he went. He wanted to give the appearance of a prospective buyer should anyone challenge him.

  Apart from its brown shingled siding, and the absence of a garage, the ranch was the dimensional twin of the Bates house. Most likely built by the same contractor, he wagered. Maintaining his pretense, Byron made a show of checking the well-maintained lawn, the flower
beds, even the painted trim around the front door. Experience had taught him that the best way to look like you belong somewhere is to act like it. He finished with the front then walked around the left side of the house, toward the back.

  The rear yards were divided by a five-foot-tall decorative white fence, the kind made from PVC sold at every big box store, most likely erected to hide the eyesore of the work in progress next door. The fence partially blocked both his view and access to the adjoining lot. He climbed several steps up onto the deck, pretending to inspect the railings for rot. The height of the structure provided a perfect vantage point for looking over the fencing directly into the rear yard of the Bates place.

  Morgan Bates’s rear yard was overgrown with weeds. What little grass there was had gone to seed and was dotted by saplings. Leaning up against the back of the garage were several pieces of rusted metal staging. The Bates house also had a deck, or at least half of one. Byron could see that much of the decking had been removed but had not yet been replaced. The work had a shoddy half-assed look about it. According to Stevens the house had been purchased by Bates and Holcolm four months earlier. Byron didn’t know much about the house-flipping business, but he was pretty sure that the faster the work was done, the sooner one might get out from under the lender who was slowly chipping away at the profits. He scanned the area and seeing no one he stepped off the deck. It was time to have a closer look at the Bates place.

  The fence didn’t completely surround the yard of the listed home but acted as more of a visual divider, extending to the rear edge of the lawn where it abruptly ended. Byron walked along the fence, periodically stopping and turning to take pretend photos of the house for sale with his cellphone. When he reached the end of the barrier, he took another quick look around then skirted the property line into the Bates backyard.

  The first thing he checked was the garage. He wanted to be sure there weren’t any vehicles parked inside. There weren’t. In fact, there wasn’t room for a vehicle. Shielding his eyes as he peered through a dusty window, Byron could just make out the contents of the space. It appeared they were using the garage as a makeshift workshop. A table, constructed from sawhorses and plywood, stood in the center of the left-hand bay. Littered atop the table were an assortment of what appeared to be hand and power tools, but it was too dark to identify specifically what he was seeing. Finished with the garage, Byron moved to the home itself.

  He climbed up onto the partial deck and peered through a window into the kitchen. The inside of the house was in total disarray. The kitchen countertop had been torn out along with most of the cabinetry. The remaining cabinets were missing doors. A sheet of plywood capped the island. It was littered with pizza boxes and Budweiser cans, suggesting that more than just home improvement was taking place here.

  He was moving to the next window when he was startled by the ringing of his cell. He quickly switched the ringer off then checked the caller ID. It was Diane. After taking a moment to get his heartbeat under control, while wondering if she was still pissed at him, he answered it.

  “Hello,” he said. “You’ve reached the world’s biggest asshole.”

  “That your new greeting?” Diane asked.

  “Could be,” he said.

  “I like it. Suits you.”

  Was she letting him off the hook? “I only use it during special occasions,” he said.

  “Like after being one?”

  “Can’t think of a more prudent time, can you?”

  Byron waited a long moment for her to respond with something witty. When she didn’t, he continued. “Look, about the other night, I owe you an apology. I guess I didn’t handle the news very well.”

  “Figured that out, huh?” Diane said.

  “Waking up alone was sort of a tip-off. I’m sorry, Di.”

  “Where are you now?” she said.

  “At the moment? I’m actually sneaking around in a murder suspect’s backyard.”

  “And to think, I could’ve had a normal boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend. “You’d have hated it.”

  “Want to meet for dinner?”

  She was already seated at a table as Byron entered the restaurant. The dining room on the upper floor of RíRá Irish Pub was one of the places that they loved to meet because it tended to be quiet enough to allow for conversation and afforded a view of the channel between Maine Wharf and the State Pier, where the bright yellow-and-white Casco Bay Line ferries were lined up like parked cars on a city street. Byron recalled the first time they’d dined there; Diane had spotted a harbor seal while they were seated at that very table. She considered it a good omen. Byron wasn’t sure he bought into the whole good omen bad omen thing, but he hoped that the fact that she was sitting there now was a good sign.

  The waiter appeared even before Byron had removed his suit coat and sat down.

  “May I bring you something to drink, sir?” the broad-shouldered young man asked with just the faintest Irish lilt.

  “Diet.”

  “Pepsi okay?”

  “Pepsi’s fine, thanks.”

  The waiter departed, leaving them alone.

  Byron glanced around at the nearby tables. Only one was unoccupied.

  “What are you looking for?” Diane asked.

  “Witnesses,” he said. “In case you try and off me.”

  She laughed. It was an easy laugh, not forced. It was good to hear.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “You might consider changing your voicemail greeting to Portland’s biggest asshole.”

  “You think world’s biggest is too pretentious?”

  “Perhaps a bit. It does have a nice ring to it, though.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “Truce?” he said.

  She held his gaze for a moment. “Truce.”

  The waiter returned with Byron’s soda and took their orders. While awaiting their meals they made casual conversation while intentionally avoiding the subject of the CID opening.

  “I heard about your visit from Denise Faherty,” Diane said. “You think her husband will really go after Dani’s ex-boyfriend?”

  “Who knows. I can only imagine how Elmer’s feeling right now. Fucking Billingslea hasn’t helped matters.” Byron caught a glance from a nearby table and realized he’d spoken somewhat louder than he’d intended. Raising a hand in contrition, he lowered his voice and continued. “Elmer has every right to be upset.”

  “True, but he doesn’t have the right to take matters into his own hands, John.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Byron said. Though, if Bates really was responsible, Byron could almost cheer the aggrieved father on.

  “So, what’s next?” she asked.

  “I’m heading to Boston first thing in the morning. My cousin, Murray, is the lead on the Horseman case. He’s agreed to show me their files. I want to compare notes on what we have.”

  “You really think Dani Faherty was killed by the same guy they’re looking for?”

  Byron shrugged. “Who knows. Seems like that’s what some people are hoping.”

  Byron, who hadn’t realized how hungry he was, made quick work of his shepherd’s pie. After finishing, he slid the empty bowl away and sat back in his chair. It was time to tackle the ten-ton elephant in the room, the CID opening.

  “I really am sorry for reacting the way I did the other night,” he said.

  She nodded but said nothing, pushing her own plate away and dabbing at her mouth with the napkin. Byron noticed the faint trace of lipstick she left behind.

  “I guess the news took me by surprise,” he continued. “But that’s no excuse for my not having been supportive.”

  She reached across the table and slid a hand over his. “Thank you, John. But in all honesty, I’m still trying the idea on.”

  “You don’t want the job?” Byron asked, confused by her response. “But I thought—”

  “Of course I want it. I’m just not sure that now is the right time.”
/>   “I don’t get it. What’s holding you back?”

  She pulled her hand away and picked up her wineglass. “Truthfully? I’m not sure how well my promotion back to CID would be received. Let’s face it, this public relations sergeant’s job is BS. Window dressing so they could promote the city’s first black sergeant.”

  “First black female sergeant,” Byron teased.

  “That, too,” Diane said with a grin.

  “Whatever their ulterior motives may have been, you are a sergeant and would make a damned good detective sergeant, Di.”

  “Is that your considered opinion, Detective Sergeant Byron?”

  “That’s the considered opinion of one stubborn SID.”

  “SID?”

  “Yeah. Second-generation Irish-American dick.”

  She grinned. “Surely you mean SSIAHD.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said.

  “Stubborn second-generation Irish-American homicide dick,” she said.

  “That’s quite a mouthful.”

  “You can say that again.”

  The waiter appeared as they clinked glasses. “May I interest either of you in something from our dessert menu?” he said.

  “I was thinking we might have our dessert at home,” Diane said, giving Byron a seductive look over the top of her glass.

  “You heard the lady,” Byron said, addressing the red-faced waiter.

  “I’ll bring your check, sir.”

  Chapter 17

  Saturday, 9:10 a.m.,

  July 15, 2017

  Byron departed his condo before 6:00 a.m., hoping to make it to Boston PD by 9:00, but his plan was thwarted by the rain-soaked snarl of traffic on Route 1 in Chelsea, Massachusetts. His original thought had been to partner up with Melissa Stevens, but Nugent’s most recent late-night trip to the hospital maternity ward had changed that, forcing Mel to stay behind. There was still too much to do in Portland on the Faherty case.