Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Sarge, you in the building?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “In about thirty seconds.”

  “Can you swing by the lab? I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Be right there, Gabe.”

  Pelligrosso led Byron to one of the back rooms inside the regional crime lab. The space housed the cyanoacrylate fuming chamber, a large glass and metal enclosure which might have resembled a fish tank had it not been attached to a direct ventilation system. Byron could see that his evidence tech had constructed a makeshift metal rack, over which a dozen or so pieces of dark-colored high-density polyethylene of various sizes had been stretched.

  “What are those?” Byron asked.

  “Scraps of the trash bag we recovered on the hill near the Casco Bay Bridge. The bag that contained Faherty’s head.”

  “You’re fuming all of them?”

  “I wasn’t planning to, as I figured the only prints I was likely to find would belong to your buddy Winn.”

  “But?”

  “But I was wrong.”

  “You mean you didn’t find Winn’s fingerprints?”

  “No, I recovered plenty of evidence left behind by Winn’s greasy paws, but I’ve also recovered a couple of prints that aren’t his.”

  “Were you able to match them to anyone?”

  Pelligrosso shook his head. “I ran them through AFIS but got no matches.”

  “Not even Alex Stavros?”

  “First comparison I did. They aren’t Alex’s.”

  Byron considered this latest find and what it might mean to the case against Alex. If Forsyth and his client were playing the alternate suspect game, an unidentified set of prints lifted from the garbage bag that had been used to discard Faherty’s head and clothing would go a long way toward swaying a jury. It was time to regroup.

  “You available to meet with the rest of the team?” Byron checked the time. “Say, twenty minutes, CID conference room?”

  “I’ll be there, Sarge.”

  At one o’clock every investigator assigned to the Faherty case had gathered around the long table in the CID conference room listening as Byron relayed the new information.

  “You believe him, Sarge?” Nugent asked, referencing Alex’s claim of being framed.

  “I haven’t decided yet. But if he is telling the truth about the condom, it puts a big wrinkle in our case against him. It also means we need to take a harder look at anyone who had access to Lina’s old house.”

  “Like?” Robbins asked.

  “Like Lina, Deborah, Petri, Uncle Dennis, and anyone else we can think of.”

  Stevens stood up and circled the names as Byron listed them.

  Byron turned to Pelligrosso. “Gabe, did we find any evidence that someone may have used a condom at Lina’s house? Maybe a discarded wrapper?”

  “We weren’t specifically looking, but I don’t recall seeing anything like that.”

  “Anyone else?” Byron asked as he glanced around the room.

  No one else had either.

  “Did Alex tell you how he disposed of the rubber?” E.T. Murphy asked.

  “Says he discarded it in a wicker bedroom wastebasket,” Byron said. “There should have been a liner.”

  “There wasn’t,” Robbins said. “Not when we searched.”

  “Did he provide you with specifics about what he used, Sarge?” Stevens asked. “Brand, where he purchased them, anything like that?”

  “Actually, he did,” Byron said as he handed photostatic copies of the relevant information from his notes to the other investigators. “According to Alex, Danica purchased the condoms for him and kept some in her purse. We need to check her apartment again to see if she stashed any there.”

  “I can take care of that,” Stevens said.

  “Thanks, Mel,” Byron said. “Where are we at processing the recovered evidence?”

  Pelligrosso spoke up. “Murph and I are still working on the items retrieved from both the house on Bowdoin and the Commercial Street recoveries.”

  At Byron’s urging Pelligrosso brought them up to speed on the fuming for prints.

  “Why?” Nugent asked. “Wouldn’t all the prints belong to that Glantz guy? Alex would’ve at least been smart enough to wear gloves.”

  “That’s what I figured, but in the interest of being thorough I fumed a few pieces of the bag anyway.”

  “And?” Nugent said. “Tell us already. Jeez, you’re as bad as Dustin.”

  “Hey,” Tran said.

  Stevens leaned over and punched Nugent in the bicep. “Don’t be a dick.”

  Byron hid a grin.

  “And, I lifted a couple of prints that don’t belong to Winn,” Pelligrosso continued.

  “Whose are they?” Stevens asked.

  “I don’t know. They aren’t in AFIS.”

  “Fuuuck,” Nugent said.

  Byron knew he needed to consult with Ferguson again.

  “Sergeant Byron,” a voice said, causing every head to turn toward the doorway where Shirley Grant was standing.

  “What is it, Shirley?”

  “The front desk just called up. You have a visitor in the lobby.”

  “They say who?”

  “An Erwin Glantz.”

  Byron and Glantz stood outside in the bright sunshine of 109’s plaza, next to the large concrete planter that bordered the rear garage. Given Glantz’s propensity to avoid regular personal hygiene, like showering, an out-of-doors meeting seemed the prudent course. The rectangular weed-filled planter, built into the garage and the steps leading up to it, had become PPD’s unofficial smoking area. Winn sat down on the edge of the planter, availing himself of that particular bad habit, while Byron patiently waited for him to delve into the specifics of his unannounced visit.

  “Been thinking a lot about that night in the dumpster,” Winn said.

  Byron wondered if there were any other professions, besides law enforcement, where a conversation might begin with those words. It seemed unlikely. He remained silent, allowing Winn to lead the conversation.

  “Dreaming about it really,” Winn continued. “I seen some really bad shit in Iraq, Sarge. Believe it.”

  Looking into Winn’s haunted eyes, Byron couldn’t help but believe it.

  “But I never imagined I’d come home to that.” Winn paused long enough to finger a bent Marlboro out of the nearly empty pack in his pocket. His weathered hands trembled as he lit the new cigarette using the stub of the last. He inhaled deeply before continuing.

  “I remembered something that I hadn’t when I spoke to you before.”

  “What was that?” Byron asked.

  “About the truck. Remember I told you it had like a loud rumbling exhaust?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, there was something else about it that stood out. The engine. Had kind of a hitch in it.”

  “A hitch?” Byron asked.

  “Yeah. The way it idled. Wasn’t smooth. You know? Like an old carburetor in need of a screw adjustment to set the idle fuel mixture.”

  Byron studied his veteran friend. Winn may have carried more than his share of demons, some souvenirs from the Middle East, some of his own creation, but he wasn’t stupid. Much like a seasoned cop, Winn saw and heard things to which others paid little or no attention. Being homeless meant people went out of their way to avoid him. It is simply human nature to avoid anything unpleasant. Dressed in filthy secondhand clothing and sporting poor personal hygiene, Winn was definitely unpleasant. He could stand or sit anywhere in Portland, listening to other people’s conversations and, as long as he wasn’t invading anyone’s personal space, they would hardly take any notice. He was literally a surveillance expert without a target. Byron was confident that if Winn believed the vehicle they were looking for was an older truck with a loud exhaust, and a hitch in its engine, then that’s exactly what it was.

  “You eaten today?” Byron asked.

  Winn looked up at him through rheumy eyes. “Not yet.” />
  Byron removed the wallet from his pants pocket and slid out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here,” he said handing it to Winn.

  “What’s this for?” Winn asked. “I didn’t tell you all that stuff about the truck for money.”

  “And that isn’t why I’m giving it to you,” Byron said. “It’s not for the information.”

  “Then what?”

  Byron smiled. “For food. Man’s gotta eat, right?”

  Winn closed a grubby hand around the bill. “Gracias, Sarge.”

  “De nada, my friend.”

  Byron retreated to the now deserted conference room and studied the whiteboard.

  He made a notation about the hitch in the truck engine, then added a new column to the board titling it Unknown. Under the heading he wrote, condom, truck, and fingerprint. He stopped to survey the changes to the board and realized that he could have just as easily written Forsyth in the new column’s heading. Byron was unwillingly constructing a defense for Alex. He thought back to Ferguson’s theories. It was beyond ironic. But as in any investigation, every learned fact brought them closer to the truth, much like an optometrist dialing in a lens until everything was in perfect focus. Is it clearer now, or now? Was Alex responsible for the death of Danica Faherty? Possibly. There was more evidence to support his guilt than not, but that was only a preponderance of evidence. “More likely than not” would’ve been great if Alex Stavros had run a red light, but this was murder and anything less than beyond a reasonable doubt would see him walk. And if Alex was responsible, then this was nothing more than a misdirection campaign, likely thought up by Attorney Forsyth. A way of forcing Byron and his team to chase their tails. All Byron could do was keep checking every fact and detail until a clearer picture began to emerge.

  He was placing the black marker in the tray at the base of the whiteboard when his cell rang, startling him. He answered it.

  “Byron.”

  “Jim Ferguson here. You rang?”

  After bringing Ferguson up to speed, Byron met up with Melissa Stevens. If Alex and his attorney were right about the planted evidence, then someone was trying to set up Alex for the crime. But to figure out who that might be they’d need to know the motive behind it. Byron and Stevens pulled up in front of Danica Faherty’s former Brackett Street residence and parked.

  The landlord had allowed them to maintain possession of a key to Faherty’s apartment. While Earl Wescott couldn’t afford the loss of rental income indefinitely, he agreed to wait for a few weeks if it would help the case. Byron unlocked the door to the apartment and the two detectives stepped inside.

  “Where do you want to start?” Stevens asked.

  “Let’s take it room by room,” Byron said. “We’re looking for the birth control described by Alex, obviously. But let’s search as if we have no idea what we’re looking for. There may well be something else we’ve missed.”

  They spent the next hour tearing Faherty’s apartment apart. Taking care not to destroy anything, they pulled out drawers and checked the undersides, removed wall hangings, and looked under the mattress. They searched anything and everything until they were confident that nothing had been overlooked.

  Byron was just finishing up in the bathroom when Stevens appeared in the doorway holding a slip of paper.

  “What’s that?” Byron asked.

  “Found it crammed in behind her desk drawer. It’s a CVS Pharmacy receipt from May 3rd. Guess what’s listed among her purchases?”

  “Trojan brand condoms.”

  “Yup. Pleasure pack. Box of forty. Guess Dani thought she and Alex had a future.”

  “Any luck finding the box?”

  “Nope. Maybe they used them already.”

  Byron felt his face redden.

  “So, Alex was telling the truth about the condom,” LeRoyer said, making a nervous pass through his hair with the fingers of his right hand.

  “Possibly,” Byron said. “But we still haven’t located any condoms. All the receipt proves is that Dani purchased some birth control during the time she was seeing Alex Stavros.”

  “She may well have been seeing other people, too,” Stevens said.

  “Still, he did correctly identify the brand,” LeRoyer said. “Let’s assume for a moment that Alex is telling the truth, and someone planted his semen to point the finger at him. What’s the next step?”

  “We need to work the lists,” Byron said.

  “What lists?” LeRoyer said.

  Stevens spoke up again. “Access and motive.”

  Byron and Stevens had compiled two lists. The first was comprised of anyone who had direct access to Lina’s West End mansion. The second was anyone who might have wanted Danica dead. The entire list of suspects amounted to Angelina Stavros, Deborah Stavros, Alex Stavros, Petri Stavros, Dennis Stavros, and Dani’s former roommate Destiny Collins. Everyone agreed that their best use of resources was to focus on the crossover names.

  Shirley Grant appeared in the conference room doorway.

  “Hey, Shirl,” LeRoyer said. “You need me?”

  “No, but Chief Lynds is looking for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Sergeant Byron, your cousin Peter Murray is on hold. Where do you want to take the call?”

  “Switch it to my office.”

  Byron was sitting at his desk talking to Murray when Detectives Nugent and Stevens appeared in the doorway. He waved both in as he continued his conversation.

  “That’s great news, cuz,” Byron said. “Is he talking?”

  “Not yet, and it’s way too soon to get excited about it,” Murray said. “We’ve still got a long way to go with our case. This is very preliminary. Just wanted you to know that we made an arrest.”

  “All right, I’ll wait until I hear back from you. Congrats.”

  Byron hung up and looked at the two detectives seated in his office.

  “Who was that?” Nugent asked.

  “My cousin in Boston,” Byron said.

  “They made an arrest?” Stevens asked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Holy fuck,” Nugent said. “That’s great. How’d they catch him?”

  “Pole cam video. Apparently, DEA was up on a drug case connected to a warehouse near where the last body was recovered. They finally coughed up some footage of the van they think may have been used to dump the body. The guy’s got all sorts of cutting equipment. Looks like he’s some sort of metal rat. Ripping off these empty businesses and selling the scrap on the black market.”

  “Makes sense, right?” Stevens said.

  “He’s talking then?” Nugent asked.

  “Not yet,” Byron said. “And Murray said it’s crazy down there right now. Do me a favor, okay? I need both of you to keep that little nugget to yourselves. I don’t want our leak fucking up their cases.”

  Nugent and Stevens exchanged a glance that Byron couldn’t interpret. “What?”

  “Go on, Mel,” Nugent prodded. “Tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” Byron said.

  “I know who the leak is,” Stevens said.

  Chapter 32

  Monday, 3:05 p.m.,

  July 24, 2017

  Byron burst into the CID locker room. The heavy wooden door banged against a row of lockers.

  “Jesus Christ, Sarge,” Robbins said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’ll ask just once,” Byron said. “Why?”

  “W-why what?”

  Byron took two steps forward, as Robbins stood up from the bench.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Robbins said louder than necessary.

  Byron stepped on the toe of one of Robbins’s dress shoes then grabbed a handful of his tie just below the collar, twisting it and pushing the detective backward until his head and shoulders were tight against the lockers. “I know you’re the leak, Bernie.”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I didn’t leak anything to the press. I swear.”

  Byron l
eaned in close enough that he could smell Robbins’s bad breath. “Who said anything about the press?”

  “Then, what are you talking about?”

  “Why have you been giving case updates to your buddy Kenny Crosby?”

  Even his current state Robbins couldn’t suppress a nervous chuckle.

  “This funny to you, Bernie? Fucking up our case. Having Dani’s parents find out about their daughter being mutilated on the front page of a newspaper?”

  “I don’t know how the paper got that, Sarge. Honest.”

  “But you were giving regular updates to Kenny, weren’t you?”

  “J-just a couple of texts. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “H-he asked me to. Look, I don’t want to get in the middle of this. I—”

  “Too late,” Byron said as he pulled on the tie jerking Robbins’s body forward away from the lockers then shoved hard, slamming him into them again. “Why were you texting him?”

  “K-Kenny thought if you got jammed up on this investigation, if you screwed it up, Lynds would boot you out, and there would be two CID sergeant vacancies to fill. He wasn’t sure he’d get the first one, but he knew Lynds would have to take him if there were two.”

  “And you volunteered to help him, huh? Good ol’ Bernie. No matter who got hurt in the process.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Sarge. Really. I didn’t think anyone w—”

  “What exactly have you told him?”

  “Not much.”

  Byron saw the bead of sweat rolling down Robbins’s ruddy forehead. “Just a couple of texts, huh?”

  “Yeah. That’s all.”

  “Give me your cellphone,” Byron said.

  Byron located Crosby right where he knew he’d be in the PPD gym on the second floor. The drug sergeant was covered in a sheen of sweat and putting a hurt on the heavy bag when Byron walked in. The two men had the entire gym to themselves.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the world’s most fucked-up detective sergeant,” Crosby said as he stepped away from the bag. “Tell me, how many people are you going to lock up for that Faherty murder before you get to the right one?”