by Gerry Boyle
* * *
TWO DEAD, WHO PAYS?
OFFICER BLAKE IS NOT ABOVE THE LAW
THATCHER & AMANDA, RIP
U BET YR ASS #KIDSLIVESMATTER
* * *
Then more people, some just walking, some with arms linked, some with signs.
* * *
MAINE IS NOT
A POLICE STATE
NO WITNESS
NO JUSTICE
* * *
By 2 p.m. it was three hundred people, maybe more. Some had brought little kids. Some had brought their dogs. Somebody had made a sort of stage with a piece of plywood laid across milk crates. There was a microphone and an amplifier, like a busker would plug into.
A bearded guy with glasses, asking for a moment of silence for “Thatcher and Amanda, martyrs who will not be forgotten.” The crowd was hushed and then people stepped up onto the plywood. High school kids, some crying as they described Thatch and Amanda as “incredibly awesome people.” A guy with blonde dreadlocks calling for an end to oppression. A white-haired woman demanding disarming of Portland police, “just like in England.” A kid waving a petition urging the police chief to fire Officer Brandon Blake. A woman chanting, “Brandon Blake, lock him up.” The crowd joined in.
And then Tiff Rawlings stepped up to the microphone. The crowd quieted, people shifting to get a better look at her.
She was wearing a black T-shirt with a face on it. She pointed at it, jabbing with her finger.
“This is my son Thatcher. He was my best friend. He was sweet. He was kind. He had great friends, including Amanda, who is with him now.”
Tiff Rawlings voice broke and she started to sink to her knees. Her husband, wearing the same T-shirt, jumped up and grabbed her, pulled her back to her feet. A man and woman followed him, took Tiff Rawlings by the shoulders and helped her down from the platform.
Crawford Rawlings stayed at the microphone.
“I’m here to tell you that there was no reason for my son to die,” he said. “He was a funny, creative kid. He wanted to be a filmmaker. He made these crazy wonderful videos, which is what he was doing the night he died.”
Someone shouted, “He didn’t die. He was murdered.” A few people clapped.
Rawlings held up his hand.
“So I don’t believe the story the police are telling, that my son threatened Brandon Blake. I believe my son ran because he was scared. He was sixteen, for god’s sake. He ran and then he was cornered there in the dark. And Blake panicked. Did he tell Thatcher to drop the paintball gun? We don’t know. Did he just start shooting? Why didn’t he use pepper spray, if he felt so threatened by this skinny kid with a toy gun? Why didn’t he reach for his Taser? We don’t know that, either, because, conveniently Blake didn’t turn on his camera. Conveniently, there is no evidence. It’s Blake’s word against all common sense. I mean, why would a kid point a toy gun at a cop who was holding a real one?”
There was more shouting. The other guy hopped up and leaned into the microphone and said, “I’m told that Brandon Blake is here with us? We can just ask him.”
Brandon looked, saw Estusa working his way through the crowd, people falling in behind him. He pointed to Brandon’s truck and the crowd turned, started moving. Estusa was through the barriers and into the parking lot. He had his phone up, shooting video. A woman behind him shouted, “Get him. Get the killer cop.”
Police were breaking for the parking lot, running across the street. Brandon started the motor, put the truck in gear, and lurched out of the space. Estusa sprinted alongside, filming. People were smacking the truck with their signs. In the mirror Brandon saw commotion at the back of the truck—cops stepping in, angry shouting, scuffles breaking out, signs flying. A siren as a police SUV appeared, Sergeant Perry on the P.A.: “Everybody out of the parking lot. Stop where you are.”
Brandon hit the gas, left Estusa behind, sped for the exit, the gate down. He swerved right, jumped the concrete barrier, bounced the truck into the street. He went left down Pearl, screeched onto Commercial. A woman in a crosswalk jumped backwards and he rolled past her, hit the gas and was gone.
Down Commercial.
Up and onto the bridge.
His phone buzzed. Texts were pinging in. A ding that said he had voicemail.
“Shit,” Brandon said.
He crossed the bridge, hit a green light on the South Portland side, then a late yellow, another green. And then he was cutting down to the marina, slamming the truck to a stop in the lot. There were a few cars there, the marina quiet in the rain. Brandon grabbed his phone and his gun, slid out of the truck and stuffed the gun into his waistband holster and covered it with his shirt. He strode to the gate, slammed through. The MacMasters from Ghost Dancer were coming up the ramp and they moved aside to let him pass.
“Hey guys,” he said. “Not a great day.”
“More than the shower they were talking about,” Len MacMaster said.
And then Brandon was by them, hurrying down the float, jumping up onto Bay Witch, fishing in his pocket for his keys. He reached for the padlock.
It was gone.
Thirteen
The hasp had been ripped from the doorframe.
Brandon reached his gun out, eased the door open. He listened, bent down and stepped inside. Everything from the stern lockers—cleaners, brushes, lines, tools—pulled out and tossed. There were cushions on the deck, books and magazines strewn underfoot, charts torn and crumpled, teak polish poured out over the whole mess.
The galley cupboards were emptied, the refrigerator, too. Food flung across the boat, cereal boxes opened and emptied. Across the salon, jackets, hats, shoes and boots had been pulled from the cabinets. Ketchup and milk poured this time, a pink smelly mess.
Brandon kept moving toward the bow, stepped down into the cabin. Someone had used silver spray paint to write U SUCK KILLER COP on one side of the hull, BLAKE/MURDERER on the other. Bedding, clothes, books, all of it flung to the center of the deck. The bow locker was open, extra life jackets pulled out, coils of line. The life jackets smelled of urine.
“Damn,” Brandon said.
He holstered his gun, eased his way back toward the stern. In the salon, he pulled up trapdoors to the engine compartments. Nothing had been touched. He opened the doors to the electrical panels. All good.
If someone had wanted to really damage the boat, that would have been the way.
He moved back to the stern deck, climbed the four ladder steps to the helm. The canvas was unsnapped. He pushed through and scanned the space. A couple of charts had been pulled from the slot under the controls, tossed on the deck. But the controls looked untouched, same for the electronics, the VHF radio off, mic still on its hook; depth finder and radar off.
Nothing had been trashed, the helm apparently too visible to the rest of the marina. Brandon pivoted for a quick inspection, started for the ladder. Stopped.
He moved to the helm seat, lifted the cushion. The diary was there. He turned and, standing at the top of the ladder, called the police.
It was Otongo and Robichaud again, standing at hatch door and peering in at the mess. Otongo slipped her phone out and took a few photos, Brandon stepping to one side. CSI guy arrived 10 minutes later, quick response for a fellow cop. The CSI guy—heavy set, grimacing as he crouched to dust the cabinet doors, the tabletops, plastic chart sleeves.
“Goddamn knees aren’t what they used to be,” he said.
“How much longer?” Brandon said.
“Until retirement? Seven months, two weeks, three days.”
“No, until I can clean the place up.”
“Ten minutes. I’m not getting anything. For someone who wanted to make a big mess, they sure wiped stuff clean.”
“Wasn’t high school kids then,” Otongo said.
“High school kids with prints in the database?” Brandon said.
“Look at the footprints. Just big smudges, like they wore booties.”
“Got surveillanc
e cameras?” Robichaud said.
“Ancient ones by the gate. Haven’t worked in years,” Brandon said.
“Might want to invest,” the CSI guy said.
“A little late,” Brandon said.
He was wiping oil off the deck with a bath towel when Kat and O’Farrell appeared at the hatch.
“I think you’re out of your jurisdiction, Detective Sergeant,” Brandon said.
“You’re our jurisdiction,” Kat said.
“I heard no prints,” O’Farrell said.
“Yup. A big mess, wiped clean.”
“They do the whole boat?”
“Yeah. Pretty thorough.”
“A lot of foresight for a kid,” Kat said.
“But not for a parent,” Brandon said.
“More to lose,” O’Farrell said.
“Still,” Brandon said. “Weird combo. Trash the place but be cool enough to cover your tracks.”
“Maybe they weren’t just trashing the place,” Kat said. “Maybe they were looking for something. The card from his GoPro?”
“There wasn’t one,” Brandon said.
“Which you’ve said,” O’Farrell said. “Looks to me like somebody doesn’t believe you.”
Brandon dumped the oil-soiled towel into a trash bag. Reached for a clean rag.
“Rawlingses were at the demonstration,” Kat said.
“So was Estusa,” Brandon said.
“Could have hired somebody,” O’Farrell said.
“Video would be huge for his website,” Kat said. “A police shooting? These days, it would go totally viral.”
“Talk to him?” Brandon said.
“You can’t,” O’Farrell said.
“Stay away from him,” Kat said.
“I’ve been trying,” Brandon said.
He bent to the deck, kept wiping. Picked up a magazine, a box of mac and cheese, stuffed them in the trash bag. And heard a woman shouting. Then another.
Kat and O’Farrell ducked low and crossed the stern deck, leapt out of the boat. They were trotting up the float when Brandon emerged and followed. He could see a circle of people outside the gate, women shouting from somewhere within the scrum. Closer, he could see a kid with a phone out, then another and another. People on the ground.
Kat turned to him, barked, “We’ll handle it.”
The cops banged through the gate, waded in. Brandon saw the high school kids fall back, phones still out. Video.
And then a bare foot kicking on the pavement. A sandal that looked familiar.
He was closer. The sandal said Colby College. Mia.
“Shit,” Brandon said.
Kat and O’Farrell were flinging kids aside, Kat slapping a phone out of a girl’s hand. There was grunting and a muffled shout, and then Brandon was through the gate and into the crowd, kids saying, “It’s Blake,” and the phones stuck in his face. He pushed through, saw Estusa with his phone out, too. Mia on the ground, Tiff Rawlings straddling her and Kat yanking her up and off.
“You little bitch,” Rawlings was hissing, teeth clenched. “Gonna go screw your killer boyfriend? Are you?”
Her nose was bloody, her mouth and chin, too. O’Farrell was lifting Mia off the ground. She writhed in his grip, shouted over his shoulder, “He had no choice. Your son gave him no choice.”
“You slut.”
“Why was your son so messed up?” Mia yelled. “Whose fault is that?”
A high school kid started to run toward Mia and O’Farrell and Brandon grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and shoved him back. “He’s assaulting him,” a girl shouted. “Police brutality.”
Ten feet back, Estusa was shooting video, a half-smile on his face. He moved to Brandon, phone still up. “Officer Blake. What do you think of your girlfriend becoming part of the collateral damage for this shooting?”
Brandon slapped the phone away, said, “Fuck off.”
And then a cruiser slid up close, siren whooping, and the crowd backpedaled. It was Otongo and Robichaud again, and they moved in, arms wide and corralled everyone toward the fence. Brandon went to Mia, O’Farrell holding her by the shoulders. Her cheekbone was scraped on one side, and her knuckles were bleeding.
“She came at me,” Mia was saying. “She’s crazy. She was saying horrible things about Brandon and she was right in my face and I pushed her back and she grabbed on to me and started slapping and punching.”
She started to sob, fought it back, and then saw Brandon and said, “Don’t they understand? This wasn’t your fault. This is awful for you. It’s awful…awful for us.”
O’Farrell led her to the space between the Portland cruisers, Kat’s black and white and his brown Impala. He said to Brandon, “Give us a minute,” and Brandon turned, saw Kat and Robichaud with Tiff Rawlings. Her back was to the same fence she’d clung to a day before.
“He murdered my son,” she was saying.
“Ma’am,” Robichaud said. “That doesn’t give you the right...”
“What rights did Thatcher have? Shot down like a dog for making a movie. What rights are those, huh? What goddamn rights are those?” She saw Brandon and screamed, “Look at him. Blake, you’re gonna rot in prison. Walk around now, Blake. Walk around while you can, you murderer. Blake, how dare you...”
They turned her away from Brandon. He stood for a moment, unsure where to go. The high school kids were watching him, and a girl said, “You should be so ashamed, asshole.” And then they all started to chant. “Shame, shame, shame. Asshole, asshole, asshole.”
Otongo moved to Brandon and said, “Might be better if you go back inside.”
“Mia,” Brandon said. “My girlfriend.”
“We’ll bring her down when we’re done.”
Brandon sat on the transom, flipped through his phone. Kids had posted video of the scuffle, like Mia and Tiff Rawlings were fighting on the playground. The post was circulating on Facebook. “Mother of police-shooting victim fights back.” One kid had live streamed it. 1,903 likes on Twitter and 56 shares. Make that 1,907 and 65. #kidslivesmatter #stopkillercops. Estusa had posted it on RealPortland’s Instagram. 675 likes and climbing.
Brandon looked up, stood. Mia fell into his arms and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he said.
“She’s just out of control. I mean, I understand why but—”
“You have nothing to do with this,” Brandon said. “She can take it out on me.”
“But yes,” Mia said, “I do have something to do with this.”
They stepped apart and Kat moved closer. The South Portland cops had cleared the lot, sent everybody on their way. A few people watched from their boats, standing with sponges and ropes, pretending to do chores. Gulls circled and swooped low, in case the aftermath to a police fracas involved food.
“Mia doesn’t want to press charges,” Kat said.
“No,” Mia said. “I mean, I’m fine.”
“Best thing, considering,” Kat said. “Just be gasoline on the fire.”
“And I don’t think it was me she was after.”
They looked to her.
“When I got out of the car I could see these people at the gate. They were yelling and a couple of them shook the fence. She was standing kind of back from them with her arms folded like she was in charge or something and then Estusa came up and they were talking. He saw me and tapped her on the shoulder and said something, and she turned and looked at me and then they talked for a second and she kind of shrugged and then she just came at me.”
“Shrugged?” Brandon said.
“Like, ‘if you say so.’ But by the time she got to me she was crazy, ready to tear my head off.”
“Like in the car last time she was here. She turns it on and off,” Brandon said.
“This family,” Kat said. “Something doesn’t add up.”
“Yeah, well,” Brandon said. “Right now, they’re untouchable. Take them on, they win.”
Kat looked at him. “Only if
they know you’re there,” she said, and she turned and walked down the float, across the yard, and through the gate.
Mia looked in at the remnants of mess, and then they climbed to the helm and sat, shielded by the canvas and plastic.
“Leave the boat and come stay with me,” she said.
“I’d be trapped there,” Brandon said.
“Like you’re not trapped here?”
“Boats can move.”
“You can’t just take off,” Mia said. “Don’t you have to go through more, I don’t know, police stuff?”
“Internal investigation. Get cleared by the shrink.”
“How can you just go back to work?”
Brandon thought about it, said, “I don’t know. It’ll fade over time, I guess.”
They sat for a moment, looked out at the harbor. Keeping Bay Witch on the South Portland side had been his sanctuary. Now the harbor seemed small, Portland just a narrow stretch of water away.
“I can find another slip, a mooring,” Brandon said.
“The name. They’ll see Bay Witch.”
“I can cover it.”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said.
But he did.
Cushing Island was three miles southeast of the harbor mouth. Dusk was approaching as he cut south of the channel markers, running slow in 13 feet of water. The drizzle had turned to rain but the wind was still 5-7 knots out of the south, a two-foot chop. There were fishing boats headed into Portland from the east, a tanker anchored south of Little Diamond Island, and a big sailboat running up the channel under power. It was a Hinckley ketch and as it passed Brandon on his port side, he waved to the guy at the helm. The skipper was gray-haired in a red slicker—tanned, rich, indifferent—and gave the old wooden Chris Craft a dismissive flick of his wrist. Brandon turned to, saw Poseidon II and Marblehead, Mass. on the stern.
