by Gerry Boyle
The door to the conference room swung open. Hernandez stepped in, another guy behind her. He was shortish, wiry, salt-and-pepper hair in a cop haircut. Brandon got up as the guy moved toward him.
He introduced himself, “Jim Beam, like the whiskey. AG’s office.” Brandon knew the name.
Beam shook Brandon’s hand, made eye contact and held it. His expression was neutral.
The three of them sat. Hernandez had her yellow legal pad ready. Beam put his pad on the table, too. It was smaller, light green paper, in a leather folder. He slipped a recorder from his pocket, asked Brandon if he minded. Brandon shook his head. Beam hit the button and the recorder’s orange light glowed.
“This is a voluntary statement,” Beam said. “You have the right to decline to answer.”
Just got Mirandized, Brandon thought, a ripple of unease moving through him. He pushed it back.
“No, I’ll tell you everything I know,” he said.
Beam smiled, hit the recorder again and the orange light began to flash.
“Good. Here we go, then. We’re here as part of the criminal investigation of the legality of the use of lethal force, September 15, 2016, Portland, Maine. Please state your name for the record.”
Brandon did, added that he was a patrolman for the Portland Police Department.
Beam nodded. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.
They waited, pens poised. Brandon started at the beginning, went straight through to the end. Diving right, the kid going down, his blood gushing. The kid dying right there and then, staring up at him. Gone.
He paused, the sound of scribbling filling the room. And then Beam said he had questions. Brandon waited, concentrating, watching Beam’s eyes like they’d give him a clue of what was coming.
How far away was the subject of the lethal force when Brandon saw him with the gun? What did Rawlings say? What did Brandon say to him? How long was it from the time of their encounter to the time to when the shooting took place, just an estimate? Was it clear it was a gun? How dark was it?
Brandon answered and then Beam paused. He looked at Brandon, held his gaze and said, “Why did you shoot?”
They waited, Beam and Hernandez, intent and alert. “I thought he was going to shoot me in the face,” he said.
“You felt that your life was in danger?”
“Yes. I thought he was about to pull the trigger. I thought he was going to kill me.”
Beam reached for the recorder and hit the orange-lighted button. It went black.
Forty-five minutes later Brandon relived it again, this time at the scene. The alley was smaller with the spotlights shining on it. The ground where the two of them had stood was flagged with evidence tags: the three shells ejected by Brandon’s Glock, the place where the fake gun had come to rest, the black sodden ground where Rawlings had bled out.
Brandon retraced his steps, showed where he’d stepped into the alcove, then backed out. He stood by the truck and bent and looked under it again. He turned and looked back, froze at the spot where he’d seen the kid, the gun aimed at his feet. He raised his hand, forefinger pointed like his gun.
He repeated the words. “Just put it down. Just drop it and we can go home.” And then he recited the kid’s last words on this planet. “Bang, bang, you’re dead. And so am—”
Brandon moved right, shot with his finger, saying, “Bam, bam, bam.” Went to the spot where he’d knelt by the kid, pulled the mask off, saw the blood spurt. Brandon knelt and looked down, smelled the blood in the ground, the kid’s blood. He stumbled to his feet, made it to the wall before he vomited.
Brandon stood with his hands on his knees, slowly raised himself up. He turned. They were waiting for him, Beam, Hernandez, a couple of crime scene investigators.
“I think we’re good,” Beam said.
“Nothing good about it,” Brandon said, his certainty left on the ground with the blood and vomit. “It’s a freakin’ nightmare.”
Which he relived yet one more time, with the critical incident debriefing team. They were in the same conference room: Sergeant Perry, Lieutenant Searles, Detective Sergeant O’Farrell, Chief Garcia, a police counselor named Townsend who’d come to Maine from NYPD. Townsend asked how Brandon was feeling. He said he felt stunned, like he couldn’t take it all in.
Townsend said that was natural. Brandon opened up, said it was different from the last time, when he was overwhelmed by relief that Mia was alive, and glad that Fuller was dead. This time he felt like he’d lost someone from his own family, even if it was this kid he didn’t know. They listened, Townsend nodding like it all made sense. Like hell. She said it would take time, that this was something akin to the grieving process. Wrapping up, there was the same advice:
Don’t block people out. Keep talking.
Find a way to stay busy.
Don’t read the news reports, and most definitely don’t read the comments online.
Drink a lot of water.
Stay away from alcohol.
“Yup,” Brandon nodded and they all got up, the cops patting him on the shoulder on the way by. “Hang in there, Blake,” O’Farrell said. “You’re not alone.”
They left the room, headed down the hallway single file like soldiers in a trench. Brandon was at the head of the stairs when O’Farrell said, “Blake, wait.”
He turned. O’Farrell came alongside him, leaned close. Brandon expected some more advice, a pep talk. Instead O’Farrell said, “You need a replacement weapon. Stop downstairs before you go.”
And then he trotted downstairs. Brandon stood there for a minute, the hallway silent except for distance sound of voices, the hum of dispatch when the door opened. Another gun. To do what with? Shoot somebody else? But he had to carry one, it was his job. Armed law enforcement officer. Protect people from bad guys with guns. Protect himself.
He swallowed hard, said, “Oh my god.”
Brandon went slowly down the stairs, went left and right and made his way to the equipment room. Vests. Weapons. SWAT gear.
Sylvia, the equipment manager, swung the door open from the inside. She turned away without him saying a word, came back with a Glock 22, an older one. She slid the gun across the counter, then two magazines, then a form for Brandon to sign. He did. She took the form back and finally looked Brandon in the eye. “Hang in there, Brandon,” she said. “You’re not alone.”
“Sure,” he said.
And then Brandon walked back down the corridor, out the door to the parking lot. He walked to his truck, put his stuff and the new gun on the seat. He put the key in the ignition and fell back. Not alone? Who you kidding?
Four
It was a few minutes before five, the marina lot glistening in the morning mist off the harbor. Brandon swung the pickup in, parked by Mia’s Volvo. Had she heard? A text from Kat? Would he have to wake her, break the news? What do you say? “Hi, baby. How was your night? Me, I killed an unarmed kid. Any of that sushi left?”
Brandon unlocked the gate, pulled it shut behind him. He walked across the yard, bag in hand, his holster against his hip. He’d never fired this gun. Should he go to the range? Or would that make him look like some cold-hearted bastard. If he went, could he pull the trigger. The sound. The feel of the Glock nudging him. One, two, three.
Three shots, three hits, the kid taking one step backward and then going over, his arms flung up over his head. It played in his head, a continuous loop. Brandon closed his eyes. Opened them. Walked across the yard, started down the ramp to the floats, the place smelling like mud and salt, gasoline and diesel. Along the ramp, lights showed against the Portland skyline, glistening across the harbor. A few live-aboards showing, lights on in the cabin of Bay Witch.
Mia was up. She was waiting. She knew.
He approached the stern, stepped up the steps and over the transom. He looked up, saw Mia sitting in the helm seat. She was dressed, jeans and a fleece and her L.L. Bean slippers, holding a mug of tea in both hands. She put the mug down
, slipped down off the chair, hurried to him. Putting her arms around him, she hugged him hard and long. When she moved it was to put her mouth to his ear and say, “It’s going to be okay.”
Still in her embrace, Brandon shrugged. Took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“I’m with you,” Mia whispered.
“Thanks,” Brandon said.
“What do you need right now?”
“I don’t know.”
He took a breath, felt everything begin to well up, and began to cry. Sobs racked him as Mia held him tightly, patting his back, saying, “It’s okay.” His tears ran down her cheek, and finally the sobs subsided. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, “He was only a kid. A stupid idiot kid.”
“You didn’t know that,” Mia said.
“I could have—”
“You couldn’t have done anything differently.”
“I killed him, Mia,” Brandon whispered. “I took his life.”
“He killed himself,” she said.
“All he had to do was drop it. I said to him, ‘Just drop the weapon.’”
“I know you did. He had every chance.”
Mia leaned back and looked at him. Her cheek was wet but she didn’t wipe it.
“You can’t blame yourself, Brandon,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Actions have consequences,” she said. “That’s the way life works.”
Again, no answer.
“He set the whole thing in motion. You were just caught in the middle of it.”
Brandon sighed.
“I didn’t turn on my body cam. That’s gonna be a huge problem.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“But he was wearing a goddamn GoPro,” he said. “On his head.”
“I know. Kat called me.”
“There should be a video. Of the whole thing.”
“That’s good,” Mia said. “It’ll show you didn’t do anything wrong, that you had no choice.”
“His parents,” Brandon said. “They’ll be able to hear their son, his last—”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I mean, can you imagine? Your kid and there’s a video of me as I—”
“Stop it, Brandon,” Mia said. “Just stop.”
He closed his eyes. Sighed again. Mia pressed herself against him, held on tight. “You need to sleep,” she said.
“First I need a drink,” Brandon said.
“I don’t think that you should—”
He moved past her through the hatch door to the galley, went to the locker where the liquor was kept. He took out a dusty bottle of Irish whiskey, Jameson Black. Poured an inch into a tumbler, drank it down in two swallows. The whiskey burned and he waited for the numbness that would let him step away from it all. It didn’t come so he poured another and swallowed it in a gulp.
He turned and saw Mia watching him, her eyes narrowing with concern. “Kat said no alcohol,” she said. “It’ll make it worse.”
“Easy for her to say,” Brandon said. “She’s never killed anyone.”
She didn’t answer because it was true, he thought. He sipped the third whiskey, then thought, screw it, and downed the rest. What do you do after you kill somebody? Check your email? Read a book? Listen to music? What the hell do you do?
They went forward, to the berth in the bow. Brandon took off his equipment belt, the remainder of his uniform, his boots. In his boxers, he crawled into the berth, the port side where he always slept. Mia, in her clothes, slipped in beside him. She reached over and took his hand and kissed it once and then held it.
They lay there, staring up at the wooden bulkhead. The boat rocked gently from a passing wake, the fenders squeaking against the float. A gull cried, sailing over as dawn brightened. Neither of them spoke. Mia held his hand tightly, like she didn’t want him to slip away, to fall into the depths.
But he already had, the shoot replaying yet again in his mind, the unending loop. Bending to look under the car. Turning to see the kid right there, the gun trained. Brandon’s order to drop it, the kid’s reaction, his last words. “Bang, bang, you’re dead. And so am—”
Even with the mask, Brandon had seen him smile.
Had the kid been joking? Oh, my god. God almighty.
There was a moment, just as he woke up and his brain was still loading, when it had never happened. The boat rocked as a big wake—a tugboat heading for the oil terminal, Brandon thought—jostled the floats. Public radio babbled from another boat in the marina, the woman host talking in a silky voice about a sonata in D minor. Gulls called back and forth. The sky, showing through the portholes, was battleship gray. Rain pattered on the deck above him.
Brandon felt for Mia beside him but the berth was empty. And at that moment it all came flooding back.
The kid, the shots, the blood—it enveloped him, pressed down on his chest, filled his head. Sitting in the car, the cops filing past like mourners at a wake. Kat’s pep talk, the repeated advice. Don’t drink. Don’t read the news.
He closed his eyes. Sighed..
It was a little after ten. Brandon slid out of the berth, went to the shelf and picked up his phone, flicked his way to the Portland News Review, the local news blog. And there he was, sitting in the SUV, his hands partly over his face. He looked grief-stricken, like he’d done something terribly wrong. It was the only photo on the home page.
The caption:
Portland Police Officer Brandon Blake sits in a supervisor’s vehicle after fatally shooting a 16-year-old boy who police said was brandishing what appeared to be a gun in Portland’s Old Port. The gun was reportedly a toy used in a video that the youth, Thatcher Rawlings of Moresby, was filming. Blake was placed on paid administrative leave pending an attorney general’s investigation.
“A toy?” Brandon said. “It wasn’t a goddamn squirt gun.”
The story was number one on the list of most read and most shared. Brandon skimmed.
The boy shot and killed. Police called after the kid went into Fianna, an Irish pub, wearing a mask and carrying what appeared to be a gun.
A foot chase ensued, a police spokesman said. According to police, Blake claimed the boy, when confronted, refused to drop his weapon and trained it on the officer. There were no witnesses and the boy was pronounced dead at the scene.
A Fianna employee, who asked that her name not be used, said the boy burst into the bar and said it was a hold-up. “It was weird,” she said. “He had a GoPro on his head so we figured it was just some goofy thing for YouTube or something. We kind of went along with it until one of the girls said, ‘You know the cops are coming.’ That’s when he ran out.”
And then the kicker. The sidebar story:
Second Fatal Shooting for Portland P.D.’s Blake
By Matthew Estusa
And there it was, Brandon’s inescapable past. The three-year-old story retold, the botched bizarre extortion attempt by Joel Fuller, a scheming local criminal just out of prison.
Fuller was aware of acquaintances of Blake’s who were later found to be involved in trafficking of young women from Eastern Europe to Maine. Blake, who lives on a cabin cruiser at a South Portland marina, knew the traffickers through the Portland boating community, authorities said. Fuller planned to rob the traffickers, police said, but the plan went awry. In desperation he and an accomplice abducted Blake’s girlfriend, Mia Erickson, and held her at an Old Port hotel.
The plot ended when Blake, then a criminology student at the University of Southern Maine, shot and killed Fuller in the corridor of a downtown hotel. Blake claimed that during a confrontation Fuller had aimed his own handgun at Erickson, who was trapped in a suitcase. Like Rawlings, Fuller died of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. A witness to the shooting, Kelvin Crosby, Fuller’s partner in the robbery plan, was uninjured and received a reduced sentence for his reported “cooperation.”
There were no other witnesses to the fatal shooting.
Sources sai
d that while Blake’s violent history and criminal acquaintances were seen by some as a red flag at the time of his hiring by the Portland Police Department, some said he was given the job as a reward for killing Fuller, who was wanted for questioning in the 2008 shooting death of Moresby County Deputy Sergeant Kyle Griffin. “You take out a cop killer, you’re golden,” one officer said, requesting anonymity.
While the two shootings are not believed to be related, sources within the Portland Police Department say some officers have raised concerns about Blake’s propensity for use of deadly force. “Some guys are just shooters,” the source said. “It’s their first choice, instead of being the last.”
“That’s total bullshit,” Brandon said. “That son of a bitch.”
“Brandon,” Mia called, from the hatch. “Don’t read it. He’s just making stuff up, you know that.”
“Deever, that piece of crap. What goes around, comes around, goddamn chicken shit—”
“Brandon,” she said. “Stop.”
He did, looked to Mia and saw the gray shadows under her eyes, the haunted expression that had stayed with her so long. It was back, like an illness that had been lurking, a virus dormant in her body and now revived. The terror of being abducted, being stuffed alive into a suitcase. Hearing the shots but waiting interminable moments before knowing it had been Fuller, not Brandon, who had died in the hotel hallway. The nightmares that kept her into counseling, forced her to sleep for weeks with lights and music on because she couldn’t be alone or in the dark.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Brandon said.
“No, it’s okay,” Mia said, turning away. “I just can’t—we can’t—do this all over again.”
“No.”
“But you can talk to me. You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Brandon said, but he didn’t. In fact, he now knew that when he tried to unburden himself, he put the weight directly on Mia. He moved to her and, standing on the steps to the hatch, hugged her and said, “It’s going to be okay.”
