by Gerry Boyle
That one would go viral, him with his gun drawn. He was being crucified in the court of social media, a gun-pulling nut-job cop. Never mind that somebody had taken shots at him twice in a period of hours. The mayor, the chief—they’d have to throw him to the crowd, give them at least that bone. Even if the shooting was justified, they’d fire him for the body cam, then let the civil stuff run its course.
“Shit,” Brandon said. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The garage was deserted, the VW where he’d left it. Brandon got in, put his gun on the passenger seat, then spiraled down and out onto Congress. A couple of people were picking through trash cans, a woman jogging before work, her headlamp bobbing. He went left, passed an oncoming cruiser but turned his head and didn’t see the cops. He drove out to the bridge, looked out on the lights of the harbor. Would Estusa have someone posted there, too? That son of a bitch.
Brandon thought of the marina shooter, the trajectory. Tuna tower? Too high. The bridge of the Silverton? Maybe. He was at Mill Creek Park, four people on road bikes, strobe lights blipping, a woman walking a big white dog and a small dark one. Life going on as usual. Surreal.
Brandon passed the park, the church, took a left and drove down to the water. The Coast Guard Station was lit up, lights on in the kitchens of the houses. But the marina was dark, the light over the yard sputtering. He slowed as he approached, looked left into the parking lot.
Three cars and two pickups. Nobody showing. He turned around at the restaurant and drove back, pulled into the lot and made a slow loop. He recognized four of the vehicles as belonging to boat owners; the fifth, a new Nissan with New York plates, looked like a rental. Brandon backed into the far corner of the lot, facing out. He shut the car off and sat in the gloom and watched. Waited. A truck passed on the street, headed into town. Then a car, and another, people going to work.
He watched the marina yard, but nothing moved. After 10 minutes the sky to the east was turning a pale gray and he made sure the dome light was switched off, then got out. He paused and scanned the lot. Walked five steps then sprinted for the gate, punched in the code and slipped through.
As he crossed the yard he heard a young woman’s voice behind him: “Hey, Brandon. Brandon, it’s me, Cindy.”
He didn’t know a Cindy. He did know that he’d just slipped past one of Estusa’s cell phone sentries. “Fuck off,” he mouthed.
And then he was trotting down the ramp, onto the float. At his slip, he untied the dinghy, stepped in, and dropped the oars into place. He turned the boat toward the harbor, his back to the woman with the phone, and started rowing. He could hear her talking, reporting in, presumably. He was past the floats, slipping silently through the moored boats.
He veered to port, wound past a couple of sailboats, approached the Parker. Drifting toward it, he looked at the tuna tower, then back at Bay Witch. If the shooter had been on the tower, he would have been too high. The bridge? Maybe.
Beyond the Parker was the Silverton with the sedan bridge. A big superstructure, plenty of cover. Brandon looked back, thought the trajectory would have been about right if the shooter had been prone on the foredeck. He spun the dinghy around and started rowing for his boat.
Bay Witch looked undisturbed, except for the wad of yellow crime-scene tape on the transom. Brandon slipped alongside, tied the dinghy off and stepped aboard. He hurried below, took the key from its place at the top of the map cabinet. Moved quickly up to the helm and hit the blower. Looked back at the marina once, and saw nothing moving, Cindy gone after missing her chance for viral stardom. He started the motor and it coughed and sputtered, then settled into an easy gurgling rumble.
Brandon slipped down and onto the sidedeck on the harbor side, moved forward and uncleated the mooring line and tossed it over. He hurried back to the helm, slipped the boat into gear and swung out, bow toward the gray of the harbor opening. He wanted to be out of sight of the marina as fast as possible, and he slipped along the South Portland shoreline, running lights still off.
He passed the Sunset Grille, the Saltwater marina alongside it, a lighter barge on the pier at the oil tanks. Then, still running without lights, he swung out and started across the harbor. As he approached the channel, he hit the lights and the bow was illuminated in red and green. It was a straight shot across to Custom House Wharf and the doctor’s empty berth. He motored slowly, six knots, an outgoing island ferry passing to starboard. When he slipped between the wharves, the bait shack was lit up, a lobster boat idling as the crew loaded barrels aboard. No one paid him any mind as he eased the cruiser in, jumped onto the float and tied the boat off, stern first, then the bow. There was a big sailboat, Castaway, from Marblehead, on the harbor side of Bay Witch, a Grady White cuddy cabin tucked just ahead. He glanced up at the condos above him, saw a guy on the third floor leaning on the rail of his veranda and smoking.
From above, the name Bay Witch wasn’t visible. From above, Brandon was just another guy on a boat.
He jumped back aboard and went below, sat at the table with his phone. He flicked through his Twitter feed until he hit Estusa’s morning news: the press conference.
big news in the #brandonblakeshooting case. Livestream 9am. Conspiracy to obstruct justice? #kidslivesmatter #justicenow
Stay tuned. Parents of executed teen thatcher rawlings speak out...
And then a new tweet:
Crazed cop pulls gun on reporter. Assault charges filed against brandonblake, will cops act? #brandonblakeshooting, video @ more realportland.com
“Reporter?” Brandon said. “It was a set up. The son of a bitch was bait, for god’s sake.”
He went to Estusa’s website, saw the giant photo on the home page. He had his gun at his side, was caught in mid-snarl, the beard making him look like somebody who’d just been flushed from a cave. He clicked on the arrow, heard that asshole’s voice. “Random meeting with the famous Brandon Blake, Portland, Maine, In this case, Officer Blake did not pull the trigger. Thanks, Officer Blake. This is Trad Jones, for realportland.com
Brandon saw himself sliding the gun into his jeans, getting into the car, the car pulling away. The video ended. Under the window was text:
Renegade Portland cop Brandon Blake was loose on the streets early Sunday morning, pulling a gun on realportland.com reporter Trad Jones as Jones approached him on a residential street near the USM campus. Blake pointed the gun at Jones as he reached for his ID and his phone.
“Somebody took a shot at me, for god’s sake,” Brandon said. “Twice.”
The Portland cop, under investigation in the shooting death of 16-year-old Thatcher Rawlings, grabbed Jones and bent his arm back, injuring the reporter. He then shoved Jones, causing him to twist his knee and ankle. A complaint has been filed with Portland PD.
All of this begs the question: Blake is on administrative leave for the duration of the Rawlings fatality probe. Why is this out-of-control and heavily armed rogue cop still roaming Portland’s streets? A spokesperson for the police department declined comment. More to come as this story unfolds.
In six minutes, the story had been shared 49 times. Make that 51. There already were 43 comments. Brandon clicked and started to read, got as far as, The Bible says eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth. Then why is killer cop Blake alive and well, while Thatcher Rawlings is dead? Blake should be—
Brandon clicked the screen off. “You’re being used,” he said. “You’re click bait.”
It was time to bite back.
He got up from the table, walked to the stern and looked out. Traffic was moving on Commercial Street. The lobster boat put out from the bait-shack wharf and idled out toward the harbor. The sternman, a young guy with shorn hair and a beard, looked back at Brandon and stared. The video? Brandon went back inside, went forward and peeled off his clothes. He went to the head and brushed his teeth. Took the electric shaver off the shelf and started on the beard. He was half done when the shaver ran out of juice so he finished with a razor and cold water. W
iping his face, he went to the bureau under the berth, pulled out a gray plaid flannel shirt and jeans. He put them on, then hiking boots and a black hat that said Yanmar Diesels. Back down to the salon, he got sunglasses out of the writing desk, Oakley wraparounds. And his gun.
Brandon zigzagged his way through the Old Port. The streets were quiet, the restaurants closed, trucks unloading in the alleys. On the sidewalks people were hurrying to work, heads down, worrying about being late. Brandon kept his head down, too, the hat pulled low.
On Free Street, he went into the parking garage, crossed to the stairs, and started up. A young woman—pumps, suit, blonde—was coming down and she looked away, not because he was Brandon Blake, but because he was a guy. He was alone when he pushed through the door to the third floor, walked a few cars up, moved to the railing and looked out.
The crowd was gathering, maybe a hundred people standing in clumps, most of them clutching coffee cups. There were uniform cops across the street by the library, presumably plainclothes well to the rear of the crowd. TV crews were standing by tripods, the cameras aimed at a clutch of people huddled by a concrete bench. Brandon slipped the binoculars out and peered down. Tiff and Crawford Rawlings were standing with Kelly, his white mane of hair showing. Estusa was with them, too, the four of them talking intently. Going over the action plan. Standing in a semi-circle around them where five teen-age guys in jeans, black T-shirts with Rawlings’ image on the front, and black armbands.
The Rawlingses were dressed in black, too—jacket and Thatcher T-shirt for him, jacket and Thatcher T-shirt for her, Thatcher’s face peeking out. When the conversation paused they both looked at their phones. Checking the Facebook numbers? Retweets? Reading texts of support?
There was a small PA system: a box speaker and a handheld microphone. Trad Jones, now on crutches, was fiddling with the knobs on the speaker. He said, “Test, one, two.” The crowd moved closer.
And Brandon’s phone buzzed.
A call, not a text. He fished the phone out, didn’t recognize the number. It went to voice mail. Brandon put the phone back in his pocket, looked out at the rally. The phone rang again. He scowled, took it out. Hesitated and tapped. Said, “Yeah?”
“Is this Brandon Blake? Brandon Blake the police officer?”
A guy’s voice. Young.
“What?” Brandon said.
“Hey, Brandon. Listen, dude. We need to talk.”
“Who’s this?”
“Just somebody. Somebody who’s got something you need.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a thirty-two gig memory card. Last will and testament, man. The kid you shot.”
Twenty-Five
Brandon stepped back from the rail, pressed the phone to his ear.
“The GoPro?” he said.
“You got it. The dude, Rawlings. Living color. Well, he was then.”
“The robbery?”
“Yeah, but the real juicy shit is before that.”
“Like what?” Brandon said, tense, trying to sound calm.
“Like some pretty weird shit,” the guy said. “This dude’s parents were messed up. Kid needed a freakin’ shrink.”
Brandon swallowed.
“How can I see this?” he said.
There was rattling in the background, the distant beeping of a truck backing up.
“Well, here’s the thing, Brandon,” the guy said. “I, like, try to do the right thing in my life, you know? Be chill, not screw people over.”
He paused, like he expected a reply.
“Right,” Brandon said.
“So that’s why I’m not on the phone to those people and their lawyer. I mean, they would pay serious dinero for this thing. I’m like, call the cop. Don’t get greedy.”
“Okay.”
“So this is mega, just so you know.”
“Where did you get it?” Brandon said.
“Let’s just say it fell in my lap. I mean, not literally in my lap. Just landed in my life.”
“I see.”
“Really, it landed in the back of my truck. There it is. I’m like, what’s this shit? Stick it in the laptop, thinking it’s somebody’s porn video or something. Instead, it’s the kid, spilling his guts.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yeah. Turns the camera on and starts talking. Really messed-up. I mean, the situation. Not the kid as much.”
“Right.”
“So,” the guy said. “I been watching this thing of yours a little bit. Seen the shit on YouTube. They got you by the short hairs or what, dude?”
Brandon didn’t answer.
“I’m telling you, you gotta see this. You are gonna freak.”
“I’m sure,” Brandon said.
More rattling. The truck beeping again.
“Like I said, I’m not out to screw anybody over.”
“Right.”
“And I could sell this to the parents, their lawyer. I could freakin’ retire.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I want to do the right thing.”
“How much?” Brandon said.
“Five grand. That’s like dirt cheap. Just something for my trouble.”
“I see.”
“You got that kinda cash, Brandon?”
“Not carrying it around,” Brandon said.
“But can you get it? Go to the bank? Borrow it from somebody?”
“Yeah.”
“Sweet,” the guy said. “Then we have a deal?”
“Sure. When and where?” Brandon said.
“Text me when you got the money. We’ll go from there.”
The beeping stopped. There was a hiss, air brakes on a truck. The guy said, away from the phone, “Jesus, dude. Why don’t you get a little closer.”
A door clicked closed and then it was quieter, faint voices in the background.
“So how long?” the guy said. “Just so I know.”
“I don’t know. A half hour,” Brandon said. “Maybe less.”
“Perfect. Pleasure doing business, Officer Blake.”
And then there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
A clank.
Three digital notes.
A whooshing sound.
For an instant, Brandon was back in the alley, Rawlings somewhere in the dark. It was the same sound. The dishwasher starting in the bar. The sports bar. Strike Two.
Brandon trotted to the stairwell, slammed the door open and started down, two stairs at a time. On the ground floor, he made for the Spring Street side, passed two women carrying signs that said, “Say NO To Violence.”
On the street, he went west, walking fast. He thought of calling Kat for back-up, shrugged it off. He cut through a parking lot, hurried down Cross Street. Slowed as he approached the bar, Strike Two. Stayed on the far side of the street, head down. Cut over and down a driveway, through the lot of an electrical supply place, and doubled back.
The same alley, the night rushing back. Rawlings coming out of the darkness. Them talking. Brandon shooting. Rawlings blood. Rawlings dead.
Brandon swallowed hard, forced the images back down like bile. He was behind the bar, saw two cars parked. A box truck with a cartoon fish on the side. And a pickup.
It was an old Nissan, black with a white driver’s door, tailgate rusted. He watched the restaurant door, slipped to the front of the box truck. Leaned against the cab and took out his phone. Texted:
got the money.
Waited.
that was f’in fast.
i was downtown. banks across the street. savings acct now empty.
Brandon peered at the phone. Didn’t want to spook him but didn’t want to lose him, either.
good deal for u.
right. where can we meet?
the oaks in 20. by the basketball court. what you driving?
chevy pickup. blue.
i’ll find u.
Brandon moved to the Nissan, tried the passenger door. It was unlocked, the inside of the cab st
rewn with food wrappers, Red Bull cans. He moved back and leaned against the box truck and waited.
For four minutes. And then the back door of the bar rattled open, a guy came striding out. He was tall, lanky, a wispy beard and a blue bandanna, worn pirate style. He was whistling as he came around the end of the truck and got in. He reached to the console and rummaged and was lighting a joint when Brandon moved to the passenger door, yanked it open and got in, wrappers crunching underneath him.
The butt of his gun showed at the top of his jeans.
The guy looked over at him, said, “You don’t have the money, do you?”
Brandon shook his head.
“You want to go get it?” the guy said.
Brandon shook his head again.
“Drive,” he said.
“Fuckin’ A, man. I thought you were one of the good guys.”
The guy pulled out of the alley, drove up the hill, a left on Congress. He had the driver’s window open, was blowing the marijuana smoke out.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he said, nodding toward the joint.
Brandon shook his head.
“I don’t have the card,” the guy said. “I left it with a friend. For safekeeping.”
Holding his breath, he held the joint out to Brandon.
“No thanks,” Brandon said.
The guy exhaled.
“Figured you ain’t working. So what are you gonna do? Search me?”
“Not necessary,” Brandon said. “You’re gonna give it to me.”
“Dude, we had a deal. A man’s word, you know?”
“Attempted extortion,” Brandon said. “First offense, you might get a year, the rest suspended. But then you get out, every job you apply for. Ever been convicted of a felony? You’ll be washing dishes the rest of your life.”
The guy turned. Indignant.
“I was trying to help you out, man. I didn’t have to do any of this.”
