by James Hayman
“Does she know we’re coming?”
“Yes. I called and said there were a few more odds and ends we needed to check with her. She was reluctant but finally agreed to meet us for coffee in the company cafeteria.”
The Intex Corporation’s headquarters building was a large, three-story low-rise covering at least an acre of land in a 1990s vintage industrial park off Route 22 in Westbrook. Maggie and McCabe parked in a visitor’s spot and went through the main entrance. The interior was totally utilitarian, lacking even a hint of corporate chic.
“Hi, Detective Margaret Savage and Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. We’re here to see Gina Knowles,” Maggie said to the smiling, round-faced receptionist. “She’s expecting us.”
The receptionist checked a directory for the right extension and called upstairs. When she hung up, she asked Maggie and McCabe to take seats in the reception area. “Mrs. Knowles will be down in a minute.”
GINA KNOWLES HELD her company keycard up to a small black sensor to the left of the door to gain access to the cafeteria. It was a large room with a capacity of at least three hundred. At ten forty-five in the morning, it was mostly empty. All three of them poured themselves coffee from a large stainless steel urn and took the cups to a table in the far corner of the room. Maggie took her digital recorder from her bag and placed it on the table between them. She flicked it on and recorded the preliminaries.
“I don’t have very long,” said Gina. “What do you want that we didn’t cover the other day?”
Maggie decided to play it low key. “No big deal. It’s just some routine stuff that we forgot to take care of when we spoke to you at your house. First off, we need you to provide us with a set of fingerprints and a cheek swab.”
Gina looked at Maggie suspiciously. “Why?”
“Nothing important. It’s standard operating procedure in all murder cases to get prints and DNA from all persons related to the victims. We can take care of it right here if you like. Or maybe there’s a small conference room if you’d like to be more private.”
“Standard operating procedure?”
“That’s right.”
“I think you’re lying. I can always tell when people are lying. Even cops.”
“Fine. I won’t debate the subject with you, Ms. Knowles. I simply need you to provide us with your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA.”
“And if I say no?”
“I have a warrant signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn requiring you to provide us with both. If you refuse, Sergeant McCabe and I will take you into custody on grounds of obstructing a murder investigation and get what we need at Portland police headquarters.”
“Fine,” said Gina, her tone more than a little petulant. “Come with me. There’s a small conference room down the hall. We should have some privacy there.”
They went in and closed the door. When Maggie finished taking prints and a cheek swab, Gina Knowles rose to leave. “Please sit down, Ms. Knowles. We still have a few questions we need you to answer.” Maggie turned the recorder on again.
Gina sat, but she didn’t look happy. “I hope this won’t take very long.”
“When we spoke to you at your house last Friday morning, you told us that you were certain your husband was having an affair but that you didn’t know who the affair was with. You said you thought it might be with one of the other teachers in the English Department. You were lying then, weren’t you?”
Gina swallowed hard. She avoided looking either Maggie or McCabe in the eye. “Yes,” she finally said, “I was lying.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because it occurred to me that if it ever came out that Byron was having an affair with one of his students, he’d lose his job and probably never find another one. At least not teaching. With the baby due any minute, the last thing we needed was for him to be unemployed and probably unemployable. Even after his suicide, I didn’t want people thinking that an affair with one of his students had ever happened or that it was his reason for killing himself.”
“Did you ever visit an apartment at 47 Hampshire Street in Portland? I would urge you not to lie about this, Ms. Knowles. The DNA swab you just provided will give us proof positive of whether or not you were ever there.”
Gina sat, her eyes down, her hands folded around the bulge in her tummy.
“Yes. I was there.”
“How did you get in?”
“I had a key. I made a copy of all of Byron’s keys when he was out fishing with his father one Saturday last month.”
“What did you do when you entered the apartment?”
“I just looked around. Especially at the art on the walls. Especially the self-portraits of the Whitby girl and I guess most especially the nude drawing of Byron. The fact that he’d allowed her to draw him that way with all his parts hanging out enraged me. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, but they obviously would have noticed.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I found all the old newspaper reports of the murder in 1904. Also Byron’s screenplay based on those reports. I e-mailed everything on the computer to myself. I also took all the paper stuff to FedEx Kinko’s on Monument Square and copied it all. Then I returned it to the apartment.”
“What did you do with the copies?”
“I gave them to my father.”
“Why?”
Gina looked from one detective to the other. She said nothing.
“Did you ask your father to murder your husband and Aimée Whitby to punish them for having an illicit affair?”
“I did not ask him to murder anybody. My father is not a murderer.”
Maggie wondered if Gina had any idea of what her father used to do for a living. “Did you suggest to your father that by copying the details of the 1904 murder, he would make everybody think that Byron killed Aimée in a rage and then took his own life just as Mark Garrison was supposed to have done a hundred years ago?”
“My father is not a murderer.”
“Oh really?” said Maggie. “According to my sources on the Boston Police Department, your father is Francis J. ‘Little Frannie’ Hogan. Former member of the D Street Gang in South Boston and known to the Boston police as a mob enforcer.”
“I’m not answering any more questions.”
“That’s your right. However, Gina Hogan Knowles, I am now placing you under arrest as an accessory to the murder of Veronica Aimée Whitby. This charge will be raised to actual murder if it turns out the killing took place with your knowledge and assent.” Maggie proceeded to read Gina her Miranda rights. She also patted her down to make sure she had no weapons. “If you promise to behave, I’ll allow you to walk out of here without being handcuffed, but you will have to wear cuffs in the police car that’s waiting for you outside.”
When Gina agreed, Maggie accompanied her to her desk, where Gina retrieved her bag and jacket. Maggie checked both for possible weapons. There were none, but she took possession of Gina’s cell phone.
They left the building. Maggie put the cuffs on Gina, then deposited her in the backseat of Diane Rizzo’s replacement cruiser. She told Diane to stick Gina in an interview room at 109 and not let her make any phone calls until her father was safely in custody.
Chapter 61
IT TOOK MAGGIE and McCabe fifteen minutes to drive to Mussey Street in South Portland. The Hogan house was a small white colonial with black shutters that looked like it had been built in the early fifties and not changed much since then. Since a two-year-old green Buick LaCrosse was pulled up on one side of the two-car driveway, and since Mrs. Hogan was at the Knowles house taking care of her granddaughter, they figured Little Frannie was likely at home. In case he was looking out the window, they drove past the house and parked at the end of the block. Far enough away so Hogan wouldn’t spot them even if he was looking.
“You have a phone number for the house?” asked McCabe.
“Yup. 207-555-7843. It’s a landline.”
McCabe blocked out
caller ID so his number would appear as Private Caller on Hogan’s phone.
The phone rang four times before a croaky male voice answered, “Who’s this?”
“Mr. Hogan?”
“That’s right. Who’re you?”
“My name is John Allen, and I’m with the Greater Portland Campaign to fight Muscular Dystrophy . . .”
There was a click on the other end. “Yup. He’s home.”
“No doubt accompanied by his Glock, his assault rifle and his RPG,” said Maggie. “Plus God knows whatever else he has in his arsenal.” She blew out a long breath. “Okay, McCabe, you’re the boss. How do we play this one without getting a lot of people killed? Possibly including us.”
McCabe thought about it for a minute. Then he called Detective Connie Davenport. He told her to head over to Cumberland Medical Center, where she should hang out and wait for him to call again. He next called South Portland detective Tommy Holmes.
“Hiya, McCabe, what’s up?”
“We’re about to take a man named Francis Hogan into custody for the murders of Byron Knowles and the Whitby girl. The guy’s armed to the teeth. Including an assault rifle and an RPG. He may come peacefully, but maybe not. If he decides to start a war, we’re going to need backup from a SWAT team. Since his house is in South Portland, seems to me the team ought to be yours. Is that possible?”
“Oh, yeah. I think our guys will be eager to take part in this one,” Holmes said. “What’s the address?”
McCabe told him.
“Let me check up the line and get back to you in five minutes,” said Holmes.
He hung up, and Maggie and McCabe both put on their body armor and waited. Ten minutes later, McCabe’s phone rang.
“Okay, McCabe. Everything’s cool,” Holmes said. “My folks are loving the idea of getting a piece of the action on this one.”
McCabe instructed Holmes to have his people approach the house quietly. No lights. No sirens. “I want you to have cruisers blocking off Mussey Street between Broadway and Third. Then I want your SWAT team to deploy quietly on foot on all four sides of Francis Hogan’s house and get as close as they can without being seen. That part’s important. They absolutely should not be seen. Hopefully Mr. Hogan’s watching TV or taking a nap and not looking out the windows. Cool?”
“Cool so far.”
“Okay. I’ll fill you in on the rest of it when your people are in position.”
Maggie and McCabe kept a close eye on 38 Mussey while they waited for the reinforcements to arrive. Another ten minutes passed, then Holmes approached their car and slipped into the backseat. “Okay, everybody’s in place and ready to go. How do we play it?”
“I want to get this guy alive,” said McCabe, “without starting World War III. He’s a professional killer, and adding a couple of cops to his body count won’t bother him in the least. So I’m going to try to get him out of his house without his heavy artillery.”
Maggie looked doubtful. “How do you propose doing that?”
McCabe didn’t answer. Just held up one finger, signaling a brief time out. Then he called Connie Davenport.
“You at the hospital?” he asked.
“I’m here. What do you need me to do?”
“Go up to the nursing station in the obstetrics unit, show them your badge and tell them you need to use one of their phones. Don’t take no for an answer. Let me know when you’re in place. Then you’re going to call a Mr. Francis Hogan at 555-7843.” McCabe waited while Connie wrote down the number. “Tell Mr. Hogan you’re a nurse at Cumberland Med. Give him the real nurse’s name and her extension in case he wants to call back and check. Tell him his daughter, Gina Knowles, who is eight and a half months pregnant, has been in an accident, that she might die and that you’re trying to save the baby. Tell him Gina needs him to come to the hospital right away. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. After you’ve done that, you’re going to call me back and let me know what he said.”
McCabe hung up and turned to Holmes. “When Hogan comes out of the house and heads for his car, I’m going to block his driveway with this car. I want your guys to move fast and get between Hogan and the front door so he can’t get back inside. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“With any luck, he won’t rush to the hospital wearing any guns. If he’s unarmed, we’ve got him. If not, we tell him to put his hands up. If he goes for a gun, we kill him.”
“What if he runs for it?”
“He’s got a wounded leg. I don’t think he’s going to be doing any running.”
“He may just hobble for it,” said Maggie. “But I don’t think he’ll get very far.”
THE SCENARIO PLAYED out exactly as McCabe described it. A very distraught Francis Hogan limped out the front door and headed for his car as soon as he got the message from the hospital. Maggie blocked the end of the driveway with the Crown Vic, and the SWAT guys moved in. Hogan instantly recognized the trap and put his hands in the air.
“Francis Hogan,” said McCabe, “you’re under arrest for the murders of Veronica Aimée Whitby and Lucy McCorkle.”
“Who’s Lucy McCorkle?” asked Hogan as Tommy Holmes pushed him spread-eagle against the Buick, frisked and cuffed him. He was unarmed.
“The old lady you blew away on the porch of my house when I was coming home,” said Maggie. “I’d say that was bad timing on your part.”
“Listen guys, have a heart. I’ve got to get to the hospital. My pregnant daughter’s been in an accident. They’re trying to save the baby, but she could die. I’ve got to see her before that happens. Can you take me there first?”
“Sorry to break it to you, Frannie,” said McCabe, “but your daughter and her child are both just fine. She’s being held in custody at Portland police headquarters.”
It took Hogan less than a second to realize he’d been set up.
“You fucks,” said Hogan. “You tricked me.”
“Yeah, we did,” said McCabe, with the biggest grin he’d enjoyed in what seemed like months. “Ain’t life sweet?”
Chapter 62
IT WAS THE first Saturday in October, and McCabe was jogging down to the running trail that went from East End Beach and then around Back Cove. The same trail Dean Scott and Ruthie had taken the June night they’d discovered Aimée Whitby lying near death on the Loring Trail.
October was always McCabe’s favorite month in Portland. The days beginning to cool but the sun still warm enough to get outside for a run wearing just a T-shirt and shorts. The trees were already well into their annual change from green to brilliant red and gold. The city itself alive with a new season of music and art and theater. Still another new hotel was opening on Fore Street, with a slick modern bar that carried a huge selection of good single malts, including The Macallan 12, which McCabe could just manage to afford, and The Macallan 18, which was truly spectacular but way above his pay grade. A new Asian fusion restaurant and a new upscale steakhouse had just opened their doors to great reviews. He hadn’t tried either yet.
A small indie film company was spending the month in town shooting exteriors for a thriller about the Russian mob’s involvement in human trafficking. The director loved the small cobblestoned streets and the urban feel of the Old Port and the atmospheric grittiness of the wharfs and the waterfront. Turned out the cinematographer was a guy McCabe knew from his student days at NYU Film School, so he’d spent a fair amount of time hanging around the set. A couple of times he’d even dated one of the actresses who was playing a key supporting role as the head of the FBI team investigating the traffickers. She was good company, and he had fun talking movies with somebody who knew as much about films as he did. Still, they both knew the relationship wasn’t going anywhere and that soon she’d be heading back to L.A.
Work had been fairly quiet all summer except for the fallout from the murders. On June 25, Assistant Attorney General Burt Lund recommended that charges against Gina Hogan Knowles be dropped,
since there was no hard evidence that she had either conspired with her father to murder Aimée Whitby or her husband, or had any knowledge or warning that he’d planned to do so. McCabe was sure she was guilty as sin, but Lund insisted there was no way short of a confession they could prove it. And neither Hogan nor Gina would admit to a thing. Three days after Lund’s decision not to prosecute, Gina gave birth to a healthy seven-pound, four-ounce baby boy. She named him George Gordon Byron Knowles in honor of her late husband, so maybe she really was innocent. She’d told Maggie, who’d driven over to South Portland to deliver a baby gift, that the boy would be called Byron.
Both McCabe and Maggie testified at the trial of Gina’s father, Francis J. “Little Frannie” Hogan. He was convicted on two counts of first-degree murder for the murders of Veronica Aimée Whitby and Lucy McCorkle. The conviction was based on both the DNA evidence and Maggie Savage’s eyewitness account of the McCorkle killing. Lund didn’t bother filing murder charges against Hogan for killing his son-in-law. He only had circumstantial evidence for the murder of Byron, and Little Frannie was going away for the rest of his life for the other two murders anyway.
As expected, Edward Whitby’s team of high-priced attorneys pleaded not guilty on account of irresistible impulse, and the trial was now going into its third month. Betting at 109 was that, in the end, Whitby would serve no time for killing his wife. Whitby’s surviving daughter, Julia, was now a freshman at Princeton, where, to avoid attracting attention, she listed her last name as McClure. When not at school, Julia was living with her uncle and aunt in Washington.
McCabe’s biggest problem was loneliness coupled with boredom. The Crimes Against People slate had calmed down to the usual assortment of DV and assault cases. Casey had spent most of the summer in France on a student exchange program and was now thoroughly ensconced at Brown and loving every minute of it. Kyra was still in San Francisco, and he hadn’t heard from her in a while. Of course she hadn’t heard from him either. Some photos on her Facebook page showed her hiking and at the beach with a guy who definitely looked like a new boyfriend and definitely didn’t look like a cop. McCabe was pretty sure the Kyra chapter of his life was over.
