Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Byron was pleased to see Diane still curled up and sleeping soundly as he snuck out of the condo. The fact that she had stayed through the night meant that he was out of the proverbial doghouse. They had officially made up.

  While at a standstill in southbound traffic near the Tobin Bridge, Byron dialed in and remotely accessed his voicemail. The feminine-sounding electronic keeper of the messages informed him that he had fourteen new ones. A handful of the calls were from news agencies looking for updates on the case; not surprisingly none of them were from Davis Billingslea, who after preempting Byron’s notification to the Fahertys, wasn’t getting any information from Diane or, for that matter, Chief Lynds. All Billingslea would be getting was the cold shoulder he deserved. One of the messages was from a psychic out of San Diego, California offering up her services. Byron deep-sixed that message without a second thought.

  It was nearly 10:00 by the time he reached Boston Police Headquarters.

  One Schroeder Plaza, the building where Murray worked, was named in honor of a pair of brothers, John and Walter Schroeder, both of whom had been killed in the line of duty in the 1970s. The structure was a long four-story concrete and glass affair with a recessed first-floor entryway. Industrial functional was the architectural description that popped into Byron’s head. The building had a depressing fortress quality about it, reminding him of the FBI headquarters in DC. After parking on Tremont, adjacent to the police parking lot at the corner of Prentiss Street, he grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat then hurried toward the main entrance.

  Byron was drenched by the time he reached the front doors. He stood in line dripping on the tiled lobby floor while waiting to speak to the officer manning the information desk. When it was finally his turn, Byron reached inside his overcoat and produced his credentials. “I’m here to see Sergeant Murray.”

  “He expecting you?” the desk officer said as he examined Byron’s badge and ID.

  “Yes,” Byron said.

  He returned Byron’s credentials. “Grab a seat over there, Sarge. I’ll have him come down and get you.”

  He hadn’t been seated for more than a couple of minutes before Murray shouted to him from the elevators at the far end of the lobby. “Johnny B!”

  Cringing slightly at the nickname, Byron did his best to hide his displeasure as he rose from the chair and walked over to meet him. “Hey, cuz.”

  Ignoring Byron’s outstretched hand, his cousin embraced him in an awkward hug. “Jeez, it’s great to see you, Johnny.” Murray stepped back and looked at him appraisingly. “Damn, it’s been too long.”

  “That it has,” Byron said, forcing a smile.

  “Come on up. Stow that wet gear, and I’ll fix you up with some coffee.”

  They got off the elevator on the second floor. Byron followed his cousin to the right along a carpeted common hallway. They passed numerous offices as they went. It being Saturday, most were empty. At the far end of the hall, they entered a room not much bigger than the CID conference room at 109. Occupying the space were five mismatched desks, each with its own computer monitor, two long wall-mounted whiteboards, and a small kitchenette, which was nothing more than a laminate counter with a built-in stainless-steel sink shoved into one corner. Rounding out the space, which appeared to have been recently thrown together, was an antiquated-looking black plastic coffee maker with a stained carafe. A flat-panel television had been mounted to one wall. The TV was set to a twenty-four-seven news broadcast and muted.

  “Welcome to the home of the Horseman Task Force,” his cousin said. “Or as we like to call it, how the fuck?”

  “How the fuck?”

  “Yeah, HTF. How the fuck we gonna catch him?” Murray chuckled. “Catchy, huh?”

  “Very,” Byron said as he removed his coat and hung it over the back of a chair. “You’ve already set up a task force. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. There’s only two of us assigned right now, Tommy and me. Most of this furniture was appropriated from other precincts. ‘Budget crisis looms at City Hall, news at eleven.’”

  Byron nodded his understanding. “In Maine we use the more common vernacular when absconding with needed equipment from another unit.”

  “And that is?”

  “Acquired.”

  Murray laughed. “Works for me. The good news is the powers that be are telling us we may acquire a couple of warm bodies from the drug unit very soon.”

  “Window dressing?”

  “You got it. But when it comes to dressing, my preference has always been blue cheese.”

  Hoping to avoid encouraging him, Byron ignored the bad joke.

  “Anyway, as I mentioned to you on the phone, both of our vics were pros. Evidently, sex workers aren’t afforded the same investigative resources as they might if they’d hailed from—say—Boston’s elite. Can you imagine how many dicks we’d have at our disposal if the lopped ones were from Beacon Hill?”

  Sad but true, Byron thought. He suspected that the same would probably hold true most anywhere.

  “You get the statement I took from that George Martin guy okay? The guy sharing the hotel room with Stavros.”

  “I did, thanks for doing that.”

  “No problemo. Guy comped me a meal while I was there, too.”

  Byron wasn’t sure he approved of that idea, but kept the thought to himself.

  “My partner should be back in a minute,” Murray said. “I’ll introduce the two of you, then we can get started. Grab an empty desk, cuz. I’ll go get you that coffee. You still take it black?”

  “Black’s good. Aren’t you using that one?” Byron said, pointing to the coffee maker on the counter.

  “Screw that. It’s Saturday.”

  “Meaning?”

  Murray grinned. “Meaning I scored me a key to one of the DC’s offices. That two-star prick has a Keurig.”

  Byron had removed the file from his portfolio and was studying the crime scene photos of the victims taped to one of the whiteboards when Murray returned with the other detective.

  “Hey, Johnny,” Murray said, breezing through the doorway with a mug of coffee in each hand. “Like you to meet my partner, Tommy Reggetti. Tommy, this is my cousin from another mother, John Byron. John’s a DS in Portland, Maine.”

  Reggetti, who held a file folder in one hand, stuck out the other in greeting. “Pleased to meet you, John. Pete tells me our boy may have paid you guys a visit.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

  The three men dragged chairs into a circle and sat down. Byron sipped the hot coffee from a white BPD Homicide mug bearing the reaper insignia. After a bit of small talk, they dug into the cases. Murray went first.

  “So, what do you know about your vic, John? Any luck making a prostitution link?”

  Byron shook his head. “No, and I don’t think one exists. We scoured her apartment. Even my Computer Crimes Unit couldn’t unearth anything.” Byron meant Tran of course, but thought Computer Crimes Unit might sound better to the away team. “Doesn’t fit with what we know about her anyway.”

  Reggetti spoke up. “And you’re one hundred percent on that? As I’m sure Pete told you, both of our vics were.”

  “He did, and I am.”

  “All right,” Murray said. “Well, if it is our perp of the equine persuasion, that’s a big departure from his known MO.”

  “What exactly is his modus operandi?” Byron asked.

  “We’ve been operating on the premise that he’s targeting them because they’re pros,” Reggetti said.

  Byron made a notation in his notebook.

  “But short of that, he doesn’t have a clear-cut MO.”

  Murray jumped in. “One of our vics was beaten and strangled, one was restrained with zip ties then shot up with a fatal dose of heroin. Both had a history of drug abuse. How about yours?”

  “No,” Byron said. “Medical examiner said she showed no signs of having been a user. Tox confirmed she was clean a
lso.”

  Reggetti turned to Murray. “Maybe he’s right about Faherty. You know how rare it is in Boston to find a pro who doesn’t use?”

  “Assuming we’re right about Faherty not being a prostitute and assuming we’re dealing with the same perp, you think it’s possible your guy just might be evolving?” Byron asked. “Maybe his hatred is spreading to all women.”

  The Boston detectives exchanged a knowing glance. Byron understood that they were holding something back. Reggetti nodded to his partner.

  “As far as MO goes, we’ve only been able to link these two local cases,” Murray said. “If he’s done others, we haven’t found them, at least not yet. We’ve been in contact with a profiler who says our target has most likely been at this awhile, and that taking heads might just be the latest trick. Maybe they weren’t getting enough attention just killing them. Who knows? But contrary to what you’ve read in the papers, our guy isn’t as discriminating as you’ve been led to believe.”

  Byron glanced back and forth between both men. “Your victims weren’t both women?”

  Murray shook his head. “Nope.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Both vics had female names but one of them was trans. Only a few of us know the truth. And now you.”

  “And the Horseman, of course,” Reggetti added.

  “Of course,” Byron said.

  They spent the better part of four and a half hours exchanging notes and details of each case; positioning, dumping grounds, time of death, known personal habits, everything. When they’d finished Murray and Reggetti offered to treat Byron to lunch, but he politely declined. He was anxious to get back to his own team and case.

  It was after 3:00 by the time Byron was back on the road and headed north. The rain had let up slightly, increasing visibility and allowing for intermittent wipers. As he drove back toward Maine, Byron mulled over what he had learned from the Boston cases. Aside from the Faherty murder having been committed in Maine, there were other distinct differences between Faherty’s murder and the two Boston murders, the lack of a connection to prostitution being the most glaring. Both bodies in the Boston cases had also been abandoned in unused industrial areas of the city, but, unlike the Portland case, neither of the sites chosen in the Boston murders was destined to be anything more than abandoned property for the foreseeable future. The former lumberyard in Portland was about to be developed into a high-end hotel and function center. Finding Faherty’s body there had put serious reservations into the heads of the folks financing the project and rumors were already circulating of a possible pull-out. Byron couldn’t imagine anything more negative than recovering the body of a decapitated young woman on the grounds. Had the dump site been chosen specifically for that purpose? And if so, who would stand to benefit if the investors withdrew their money for the project?

  Byron’s cell rang as he crossed the Tobin Bridge, pulling him from his thoughts. He answered without checking the caller ID. “Byron.”

  “Sergeant Byron, it’s Trooper Kent again.”

  “Hey, Jeff. Any luck locating Elmer Faherty?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. After we spoke last, I left a message with one of his neighbors on Ambajejus. I didn’t want to tip Faherty off, so I told the neighbor that I thought he might be headed up to camp and that I needed to speak with him, to pass along some information. They promised to call me if he showed up. Well, they called. Said they saw a car in the driveway about ten-thirty this morning. When they got back from the store about an hour later it was gone.”

  “They get a look at what he was driving? Was it the rust-colored Ford we put out in the ATL?”

  “No, actually, it wasn’t. Not according to the neighbor anyway. Said they didn’t get a good look, but they did say it was a dark-colored sedan. Full-sized. Maybe blue. If they’re right, and it was Faherty, he may have switched vehicles.”

  Faherty could have leased another car to try and throw them off his trail, Byron thought. A bad sign. It meant Faherty knew they were looking for him, and that he was up to no good. Byron would need to see if Denise Faherty could check with the credit card company to find out which rental company he’d used.

  “Thought you’d want to know,” Kent said.

  “Thanks for the help, Jeff.”

  Byron ended the call and dialed Detective Stevens.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Mel said. “You headed back?”

  “I am. Any word from Nuge?”

  “Dee Dee’s still in labor.”

  Byron hoped there wouldn’t be any complications.

  “What’s up?” Stevens asked.

  “I think we may have caught a break. I need you to check something.”

  It took Byron until 5:30 before he arrived back at 109. When he finally caught up with Melissa Stevens in the CID conference room her excitement was obvious.

  “Welcome back,” Stevens greeted him.

  “Thanks,” he said as he removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. He took a seat across from her. “I assume you found out something?”

  She nodded and handed him a file folder. “I had Denise Faherty phone the credit card company. You were right. He went to a different rental company.”

  Byron opened the folder and began to read. The rental agency had sent a copy of the agreement Elmer had signed as well as a description of a dark blue Taurus.

  “Did we update the ATL on Faherty?” Byron asked.

  “Already done,” Stevens said.

  “What about the Fusion he rented from Avis?”

  “We still haven’t found it and he hasn’t turned it in yet.”

  “Then he could be driving either one.”

  “Yup. What do you want to do about Morgan Bates?”

  Byron sat back and thought for a moment. They still had every reason to think that Faherty would target Bates. And if Byron had been able to locate the property that Bates was flipping, Faherty might, too.

  Byron called LeRoyer at home. “I want two plainclothes details set up to watch Danica Faherty’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “Oh sure, John. Money being so plentiful and all. Anything else, Your Highness?”

  “Christ, Marty, it’s only July. The fiscal year just started. Don’t tell me you’re out of CID money already. Let me guess, you’re trying to impress Chief Lynds with your budgetary skills.”

  “Don’t be a dick, John,” LeRoyer snapped back. “Why do we need a detail to watch Bates? You think he’s our guy?”

  “I don’t know if he is or isn’t, but if we don’t intervene, he may well be our next victim.”

  Byron proceeded to fill LeRoyer in on the latest developments regarding Elmer Faherty. He also gave him a brief overview of his visit to Boston.

  “So, we still don’t know if this case is connected to the Horseman murders?” LeRoyer said.

  Byron knew to tread carefully with LeRoyer when it came to sharing information gleaned from Murray. The lieutenant would undoubtedly be tempted to share what he’d learned with Chief Lynds.

  “Impossible to say at this point,” Byron said. “There are some major differences in the cases, though. Are you gonna approve the overtime detail on Bates or not?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  It was after eight o’clock by the time Byron departed from 109. He was tired and hungry. On the way home, he stopped by the Eastern Thai Restaurant at the top of Munjoy Hill on Congress Street and picked up an order of spicy pad thai to go. It was still warm by the time he arrived at his condo. He grabbed a pomegranate Polar seltzer from the fridge, the surrogate beverage to replace his alcohol addiction, and sat down to eat.

  He’d just lifted the first forkful to his mouth when his cell rang. He got up and retrieved it from the counter. It was Diane.

  “Lady Di.”

  “Whatcha doing?” she said.

  “I just got home, actually. Grabbed some Thai.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “Call me predictable.”

  “
How did it go in Boston?”

  Byron proceeded to fill her in on his visit with Murray.

  “They have a Horseman task force?” she asked.

  “It’s not quite as glamorous as it sounds. At the moment there are only two detectives working it.”

  “Do you think Dani Faherty is connected?”

  “I really don’t know what to think. There are as many differences in the cases as there are similarities. Any update on Dee Dee?” Byron asked before shoveling another mouthful of noodles into his mouth.

  “Nothing yet. I swung by the hospital today. She’s had so many false alarms they just decided it would be easier to keep her there. Nuge is driving everyone crazy.”

  “He wouldn’t be Nuge if he wasn’t.” Byron took a swig of the seltzer, then changed the subject. “Have you made a decision yet? Monday’s the deadline, right?”

  “Nine o’clock, Monday morning. I’ve typed up my letter of intent, but I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Guess I’m just worried.”

  “About?”

  “About what happens to us if I get the job?”

  It was the first time Diane had verbalized what he himself had been thinking. Was she asking him what he thought? Or was she simply thinking out loud? He didn’t know and he didn’t dare hazard a guess.

  “Cat got your tongue, John?” she asked after a moment.

  “I guess I am just trying to be mindful of what I say. I didn’t handle the news too well the last time, remember?”

  “You’re too cute.”

  Chapter 18

  Sunday, 8:00 a.m.,

  July 16, 2017

  Byron was filled with foreboding. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was beginning to lose control of the case. It was bad enough that media had already concluded Faherty was killed by the Horseman; now it appeared that her father was hell-bent on revenge against her ex-boyfriend, who may have had nothing to do with her murder.

  The previous evening LeRoyer had obtained limited approval for two plainclothes surveillance officers. Limited in the sense that the overtime details would only run from 6:00 to 11:00 p.m. for the next several evenings. One officer would sit on Bates’s apartment while the other kept watch over the flip house on Longwood. It wasn’t ideal, certainly not what Byron had hoped for, but it was better than nothing. Byron figured if Elmer Faherty was going to make a move on Bates, it would likely be at one of those two locations.