Dedication
For those who wear the badge.
Epigraph
Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.
—André Malraux
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bruce Robert Coffin
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Sunday, 9:35 p.m.,
January 15, 2017
Veteran Portland police officer Sean Haggerty trudged across the deserted parking lot beneath the bright sodium arc lights of the 7-Eleven. His breath condensed into small white clouds before drifting away on the frigid night air. The thin layer of ice and snow covering the pavement crunched under his highly polished jump boots as he approached the idling black-and-white. Only two more hours until the end of his overtime. After four months in his new assignment as school resource officer for Portland High School, it felt good to be back in a patrol car, even if it was only one shift. Balancing a large Styrofoam coffee cup atop his clipboard, he was reaching for the cruiser keys on his belt when static crackled from his radio mic.
“Any unit in the area of Washington Avenue near the Bubble Up Laundromat, please respond,” the dispatcher said.
The Bubble Up was in Haggerty’s assigned area, less than a half mile up the street, but Dispatch still listed him as busy taking a shoplifting report. Someone had snatched a twelve-pack of beer.
Haggerty unlocked the door to the cruiser, then keyed the mic.
“402, I’m clear the 10–92 at 27 Washington. I can cover that.”
“Ten-four, 402,” the dispatcher said. “Standby. 401.”
“401, go.”
“And 421.”
“Go ahead.”
Haggerty knew whatever this was, it was a priority. Dispatch did not send two line units and a supervisor for just any call.
“402, 401, and 421, all three units respond to the Bubble Up Laundromat at 214 Washington Avenue for an armed 10–90 that just occurred.”
As Haggerty scrambled into the cruiser, the Styrofoam cup tumbled to the pavement, spilling its contents. The coffee froze almost instantly.
“Dammit,” Haggerty said.
He tossed his clipboard onto the passenger seat, then climbed in. Allowing for the possibility of a quick exit, he ignored the seat belt requirement and threw the shift lever into Drive. He powered down his portable radio and reached for the microphone clipped to the dashboard. “402 en route.”
“421 and 401 responding from the West End,” the sergeant said, acknowledging the call for both backup units.
Haggerty pulled out of the lot onto Washington Avenue, and headed outbound toward Tukey’s Bridge. He drove without lights or siren, in hopes of catching the suspects by surprise.
“402,” Haggerty said, his eyes scanning the dark sidewalks and alleys. “Any description or direction of travel?”
“Ten-four, 402. We have the victim on the phone. Suspects are described as two masked males. Suspect number one was wearing a black hoodie and blue jeans, carrying a dark-colored backpack. Suspect two was dressed in dark pants and a red hoodie, with some kind of emblem on it. Unknown direction of travel.”
“Is the victim injured?” Haggerty asked, trying to decide whether to go directly to the scene, securing the laundromat, or take a quick spin around the area first to try and locate the suspects.
“Negative, 402,” the dispatcher said. “Just shaken up.”
“What was the weapon used?”
“Standby, 402.”
Haggerty caught a flash of red up ahead in the beam of the cruiser’s headlights as two figures darted from his right across Washington Avenue down Madison Street. He accelerated, flicked on the emergency lights and siren, and keyed the dash mic again.
“402. I have a visual on the two suspects near Washington and Madison. They just rabbited into Kennedy Park.”
“Ten-four. 401 and 421, copy?” the dispatcher said.
“Copy.”
Braking hard, Haggerty spun the steering wheel left, making the turn onto Madison. He knew if he didn’t stay right on them that he would lose them among the project’s many apartments and row houses. The hooded figures sprinting down the hill were already several hundred feet ahead. He punched the gas and the cruiser shot after them. He was beginning to close the gap when they cut left in front of an oncoming car onto Greenleaf Street.
“Greenleaf toward East Oxford,” he shouted into the mic, trying to be heard above the wail of his cruiser’s siren as he raced through the built-up residential neighborhood.
The Ford skidded wide as he turned onto Greenleaf. Haggerty fought the urge to oversteer, waiting until the cruiser’s front tires found purchase on a bare patch of pavement and it straightened out.
The two figures were clearer now, about fifty feet ahead. He was nearly on top of them when they turned again, west, running between rows of apartment buildings.
“They just cut over toward Monroe Court,” Haggerty said.
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher said. “421 and 401, copy?”
“Copy,” 421 acknowledged.
Haggerty accelerated past the alley the suspects had taken, hoping to cut them off by circling the block and coming out ahead of them on East Oxford Street. He turned right onto Oxford just in time to see them run across the road and duck between yet another set of row houses.
He rode the brake, and the pulse of the antilock mechanism pushed back against his foot. The black-and-white felt as if it were speeding up. Ice. Shit. The rear end started to swing to the right toward a line of parked cars. He eased off the brake and the Ford straightened out but was now headed directly toward a snowbank in front of the alley—an ice bank, really. Still traveling about five miles per hour, the black-and-white smashed into it with a crunch. Haggerty jumped from the car and gave chase, the door still open, the siren still blaring. He would have to answer for a mangled squad car later, but there was no time to think of that now. The snow piled against the apartment building walls seemed to dance in the flickering blue light of his cruiser’s strobes, making the alley look like a disco.
Haggerty could just make out the two hooded figures in the bobbing beam of his mini-Maglite as he ran.
“Police! Stop!” he yelled. They didn’t.
He was gaining on them when his boot struck something buried beneath the snow, and he sprawled headfirst to the ground. Scrambling to regain his feet, he stood and quickly scanned the area for his flashlight, but it was gone. He turned and hurried down the dark alley, keying his shoulder mic as he went.
“402, 10–50,” he said, referring to his cruiser accident. “I’m now in foot pursuit of the 10–90 suspects. Toward Cumbe
rland from East Oxford.”
“Ten-four, 402,” the female dispatcher acknowledged. “1 and 21, copy.”
Haggerty heard the distorted transmissions as both units responded simultaneously, causing the radio to squeal in protest. He rounded the rear corner of a three-story unit just in time to see the suspect wearing the red hoodie stuck near the top of a six-foot chain-link fence. The other figure had already made it over and stopped to assist.
“Freeze,” Haggerty yelled as he drew his weapon.
Neither suspect heeded his warning. Haggerty was at full stride, gun at the low ready position, about fifteen feet from the fence, when the first suspect finally pulled the second one loose. Up and over they went, leaving Haggerty on the wrong side of the barrier.
Damn! Haggerty holstered his Glock, then backed far enough away from the fence to give himself a running start. He hit the fence, left foot out in front, reaching for the top with his gloved hands, and then vaulted up and over it with ease. The suspect in the dark-colored hoodie turned and looked back, giving Haggerty a glimpse of what seemed to be a ski mask made to look like a skull. Thirty feet now. He was closing the distance again.
If they don’t split up I’ll have a chance, he thought. He heard a dog barking frantically nearby, and the distant wail of approaching sirens. The combination of the cold air into his lungs and the adrenaline surge were beginning to take their toll, sapping his strength. His arms and legs were slowing, despite his efforts.
“What’s your 20, 402?” the dispatcher asked. His location.
“Fuck if I know,” he said out loud and breathless. He keyed the mic on his shoulder. “Backyards. Headed west. Toward Anderson.”
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher said. “Units, copy?”
“1 copies.”
“21. I copy,” the sergeant said. “The call came in as an armed 10–90. What was the weapon?”
“Standby, 21.”
Haggerty lost them again as they rounded another building. He slowed to a jog and drew his sidearm again. The alley was pitch-black and he didn’t want to risk running into an ambush.
“Units be advised, the original caller was a customer who walked in on the robbery. I have the victim on the phone now. He says the male in the dark-colored hoodie displayed a silver colored 10–32 handgun.”
“21, give us a signal,” the sergeant said.
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher said. The familiar high-pitched tone sounded twice over the radio before the dispatcher spoke again. “All units, a signal 1000 is now in effect. Hold all air traffic or switch to channel two. 401, 402, and 421 have priority.”
Haggerty stepped forward carefully, not wanting to trip again. His lungs were burning. He attempted to slow his breathing while waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He froze in place as he heard a banging sound, as if someone were striking a solid object with a bat. The sound was followed by shouting, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
Peeking quickly around the corner of the building, he saw the figure in the red hoodie kicking at the stuck gate of a wooden stockade fence, while the other had scrambled onto the roof of a junk car and was attempting to climb over the barrier.
“Freeze,” Haggerty yelled, aiming his Glock at the dark hooded figure standing atop the car. Red hoodie stopped kicking, but didn’t turn back toward Haggerty. The suspect on the car, also facing away from him, didn’t move. Haggerty approached the fence cautiously, making sure of his footing as he planted one foot in front of the other. His eyes shifted between the two figures, but he kept his gun trained on the suspect who was reportedly armed. “Let me see your hands. Both of you.”
Red hoodie raised his hands high above his head.
The dark figure on top of the car began to turn. His hands were hidden from sight.
“I said freeze.” Haggerty sidestepped to his left looking to regain some cover. “Goddammit, freeze!”
The dark figure spun toward him, bringing his right arm up in a pointing gesture.
Haggerty saw a familiar flash of light an instant before he pulled the trigger on his Glock.
Chapter 2
Sunday, 10:15 p.m.,
January 15, 2017
Detective Sergeant John Byron stepped out of his unmarked into the chaos. Blue strobes flashing, police radios squawking, and a small crowd had gathered. The brisk night air was like a stinging slap in the face. He’d been asleep for all of twenty minutes when his cellphone had begun to dance across the nightstand. A “police-involved shooting,” the dispatch operator had said.
“A cop was shot?” Byron had asked, his brain still fuzzy.
“No,” the operator said. “One of ours shot someone.”
“Who was the shooter?”
“Officer Sean Haggerty.”
Hags, Byron thought. Damn.
The 911 operator had provided the address, informing him that it was an outdoor scene. Of course it is, he’d thought. Recalling that the weather forecast had predicted single digits for the overnight, Byron had dressed in layers. Now as he stood in the street, feeling the chill creep down his collar and seeing the vapor from his own breath, he was glad for the heavy wool sweater. He reached back inside the car and grabbed his black insulated raid jacket off the seat. He tore apart the Velcro seal and pulled out the reflective back flap that read POLICE, then slid the jacket on.
He paused for a moment outside of the fray to take it all in. Someone in the crowd shouted while someone else wailed in agony. Byron knew the sound of loss. A person so aggrieved by the death of a loved one no words could ever comfort them. Homicide investigations were always intense, but never more so than when the victim is taken down by a cop’s bullet. He took a mental inventory of everything he saw. Crime scene tape was up. The evidence van was idling at the curb. Uniforms were holding people back, guarding the scene. Time to slow it down.
Byron heard the rapid acceleration of an approaching vehicle. He hoped it was his people and not the clown parade that was likely to follow. An unmarked Malibu with dash-mounted blue lights skidded to a stop directly behind his car, and Detectives Mike Nugent and Melissa Stevens jumped out.
“Sarge,” they said in unison.
“Sorry it took us so long to get here,” Stevens said, nodding in Nugent’s direction. “Car wouldn’t start. Somebody left the interior lights on. Again.”
“What’s the word?” Nugent asked, ignoring his longtime partner’s comment and pulling a watch cap down over his clean-shaven dome.
“Don’t know,” Byron said. “Just got here.”
“Hey, John,” a somber voice said from the darkness.
Byron turned to see Sergeant Pepin walking toward them. “Andy,” he greeted. “Give me a thumbnail. How bad is it?”
Pepin shook his head. “Bad as it gets. Hags shot a kid.”
“Shit,” Stevens said, echoing Byron’s own thoughts on the subject.
“We got an ID on him?” Byron asked.
“Thomas Plummer, seventeen. From Portland.”
“Where is the body?” Byron asked.
“Still here. MedCu responded to the scene and called it.”
In death investigations having the body still positioned where it was found was usually a positive. “What about next of kin?” Byron asked.
“Already here. Found out through the grapevine, I guess.”
“Great,” Nugent growled.
“Anyone think to call the victim advocate?” Byron asked as he scrolled through a mental checklist. The victim advocate was a civilian employed by the PD to provide guidance and emotional support to victims and family members during the immediate aftermath of violent crimes and even beyond, throughout the daunting legal proceedings.
“Shit,” Pepin said. “Hadn’t got that far.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Stevens said as she pulled out her cell and strolled away.
“What do we know?” Byron asked, his attention returning to Pepin.
“Hags was chasing two suspects from
an armed robbery at the laundromat around the corner. The Bubble Up. Crashed his black-and-white couple of blocks from here on East Oxford. Chased them on foot after that.” Pepin looked back over his shoulder. “Said he cornered them at the end of this alley. One of the suspects took a shot at him. Hags returned fire. Shooting happened before Amy or I could get here.”
“Amy?”
“Officer Connolly. We were in the West End just clearing a false burglar alarm when the call came in.”
“Where’s Connolly now?” Byron asked.
“I sent her up to the laundromat. She’s taking statements from the 10–90 victim and another witness.”
“And the other suspect?”
“Got away.”
“Did we put out an ATL?” he asked.
“Already done.”
“And a track?”
“All of our K-9 guys are away at a training.”
“That’s fucking great,” Nugent said, stamping his feet to try and keep warm.
“How about a neighboring department?” Byron asked.
“We tried a half dozen but they’re all at the same training. The scene is pretty well contaminated now anyway,” Pepin said.
“Where is Hags?” Byron asked.
“We transported him to 109.”
“And his gun?”
“Gave it directly to the E.T.,” Pepin said, referring to Evidence Technician Gabriel Pelligrosso.
“Good. Where’s the shift commander?”
“The lieutenant’s off. Sergeant Fitzgerald is acting.”
“He’s earning his extra pay tonight,” Nugent said.
“That’s his SUV,” Pepin said, pointing toward the empty black-and-white Ford Interceptor with the emergency flashers parked down the street.
“Advocate is en route,” Stevens said, returning to the group and pocketing her phone.
“Thanks, Mel,” Byron said. “See if you can get the family away from here. Somewhere quiet. Maybe the Munjoy Hill Community Policing Office. Anywhere but 109. I don’t want the Plummers running into Haggerty.”
“I’m on it.”
Byron turned to Nugent. “Grab a couple of uniforms and start a canvass of the crowd and then the surrounding neighborhood. Knock on some doors.” He looked back at Pepin. “You have any spare officers available to accompany my detectives?”
Beyond the Truth Page 1
