Pepin shook his head. “It’s Sunday night. We’re short. All my people are tied up on this. We’ve kept three officers available to cover the rest of the city. Priorities only. Dispatch is holding or teleserving everything else.”
Byron turned back to Nugent. “Wake up Dustin. Get him in here to help you. And call Sergeant Peterson. Tell him we’ll need to use some of his detectives. Canvass the neighborhood. Talk to as many people as you can. Let’s get as much intel as possible—what people saw, what they heard, whatever. We can do formal statements later. If you find anyone who witnessed this thing firsthand, take them to 109 and record it.”
“You got it, boss,” Nugent said. “I’ll start with this crowd.”
“And let me know if you come up with anything solid. I want to get as many people’s stories locked down as we can before the attorney general’s investigators get here.”
“Will do,” Nugent said.
Byron went looking for Sergeant Fitzgerald. Passing the crowd, he saw the woman he’d heard crying. She was wearing a light-colored wool coat and knit hat. Stevens had an arm around the woman trying to calm her. A tall slender man with a mustache stood beside them. The man briefly made eye contact with Byron, then looked away. The pain in the man’s eyes was unmistakable. Plummer’s parents, Byron thought.
Byron knew of nothing on this earth more heartbreaking than watching a parent grieve for a fallen child. Homicide, justifiable or not, multiplied the grief exponentially. Although Byron had no children of his own, he had witnessed the suffering firsthand, time and again. No words ever console, no prayer can give comfort. Even the thoughts of revenge some people cling to eventually ring hollow. The loss of a child crosses all boundaries. The pain is extreme and unending.
Byron knew that finding and bringing to justice those responsible was all he could ever offer in these cases, but it came with no guarantees. Justice, even when served, never soothed the ache, never brought back a son or daughter. And in this case, Byron couldn’t even offer the false hope of justice, for the killer had been one of his own. Another cop. Was it a righteous shoot? Who knew? Only time would tell. If Hags wasn’t in the right, there would be hell to pay. He scanned the restless crowd as he passed. In the right or not, there might be hell to pay anyway, he thought.
Byron located the acting shift commander standing inside the taped-off alleyway, talking on his cell. He recognized the short and stocky sergeant by the rolls of skin at the back of his nonexistent neck. Fitzgerald ended his call just as Byron reached him.
“John,” Fitzgerald said. “Glad to see you.”
“Tom. How’s Hags?”
“Pretty shaken up.”
“Does he know the kid’s dead yet?”
“I don’t think they’ve told him officially, but I’m pretty sure he knows.”
“You assign someone to stay with him? I don’t want him sitting alone at 109.”
“He’s with the union rep. They’re calling in a MAP attorney for him,” Fitzgerald said.
The Maine Association of Police kept a handful of attorneys on retainer for exactly this type of situation. Byron hoped they were sending a good one.
Byron surveyed the scene up ahead. Evidence Technician Gabriel Pelligrosso was working with another tech, setting up artificial lighting. Byron looked back at Fitzgerald, and pulled out a fresh notebook. “Take me through what happened.”
“Sure thing. Dispatcher got a call from the dry cleaner on Washington Avenue.”
“I thought the Bubble Up was a laundromat?”
“It’s both. Anyway, the manager said he was robbed at gunpoint. Described the suspects as two males wearing hoodies and ski masks.”
“What time was that?” Byron asked.
Fitzgerald referred to his own notes. “About forty-five minutes ago. Call came in just after nine-thirty for an armed 10–90. Haggerty, Connolly, and Pepin were assigned. I headed in from Deering as soon as I heard. Before Haggerty got to the scene, he radioed that he had two subjects fitting the description of the suspects running on Washington Avenue. One wearing a red hoodie and the other a black hoodie. When they saw him, they took off down Madison Street into Kennedy Park. Haggerty chased after them in his cruiser until he cleaned out a snowbank. Pursued them on foot after that.”
“Pepin said you assigned someone to take a statement from the laundromat manager?” Byron said.
“Yeah. The manager and a customer who walked in during the robbery. I put one of our better officers on it. Amy Connolly. She’ll be thorough.”
She would need to be. The statements would be vitally important in confirming not only the details of the robbery but the identity of the suspects.
“What happened next?” Byron asked, pausing to look up from his notes as Pelligrosso approached.
“Sarge,” Pelligrosso greeted.
“Gabe,” Byron said, trying to read his stoic evidence technician’s expression, but as usual Pelligrosso gave nothing away. “How’s it look so far?”
“Preliminary work is done. I’ve got Murph helping me.”
Murph was Officer Kent Murphy. Brand-new to the lab, Murphy still had much to learn. But he already had a solid reputation for evidence collection, due to his six months of work as a patrol technician. But this was the big leagues.
“Need more help?” Byron asked.
“Wouldn’t turn it down,” Pelligrosso said. “I’ve got multiple scenes. They all need working. The cruiser accident, the robbery, and this. Plus, I still have to get up to 109, take some pictures, seize and bag Hags’s clothing.”
“Okay, I’ll get you some,” Byron said. “What about this scene?”
“I think we’re okay for now. Cramped quarters in there. I don’t want anyone else trampling through it. I’m waiting on the M.E. before I do anything more with the body. We’ve done the best we can to block access, but people are still trying to get a peek.”
Byron turned to Fitzgerald. “Can you help with that?”
“John, the captain just lost his shit about the overtime budget last week.”
“And?” Byron maintained eye contact while he waited for the seriousness of their situation to sink in. “Tom, Hags just killed a kid.”
“Fuck it,” Fitzgerald said. “I am the shift commander, right? I’ll have Dispatch call in more officers.” Fitzgerald lifted his cell and stepped away.
Byron readdressed his E.T. “Thanks, Gabe. I’ll make sure the other scenes are taken care of. Let me know if you need anything else here.”
Pelligrosso stepped in close to Byron and lowered his voice. “There is one more thing you should know.”
Byron felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “What?”
“We haven’t been able to locate the suspect’s gun.”
Chapter 3
Sunday, 10:25 p.m.,
January 15, 2017
Byron trailed Pelligrosso as far as the scene’s perimeter, close enough to get a feel for how it looked, but not so close he might contaminate it further. Plummer’s body had been reduced to nothing more than a lump beneath a neon yellow plastic tarp. And despite the ridiculously loud color, covering the body with plastic was simply another attempt at keeping the curious at bay.
“Normally, I wouldn’t have used a tarp, Sarge,” Pelligrosso said. “But I didn’t know what else to do.”
“If you hadn’t, some asshole would’ve posted this on social media.”
“My very thought.”
“Where was Hags shooting from?” Byron asked as he surveyed the scene.
“We walked past it,” Pelligrosso said, pointing. “Over there, closer to the street, about thirty feet from the body.”
“How many rounds did he fire?”
“Five were missing from the magazine in his Glock. Looks like he struck the suspect at least four times. Once in the head.”
Byron’s heart sank. He could only imagine how badly a head shot would be perceived.
Officer Kent Murphy approached them, walking on a well-
worn trail through the snow. Byron knew the evidence techs had been using the path to keep from trampling any evidence. First rule of crime scene management: pick a route and use it. The young E.T. in training nodded silently. Byron returned the gesture.
Byron spent several moments silently scanning the now brightly lit scene. “Did we get some natural light shots of this yet?”
“First thing,” Pelligrosso said. “It was pretty dark, as you already saw, but the ambient light reflecting off the snow showed some detail.”
“According to Pepin, Hags said he returned fire. What about shell casings from the suspect?”
Pelligrosso shook his head. “Haven’t located anything yet.”
“Who else knows about the missing gun?” Byron asked, frowning.
“Besides you and me? Murph, Hags, Connolly, and Sergeant Pepin.”
Byron knew how volatile the situation was. A half dozen people in the know was six too many. Soon, someone would begin talking out of school, and word would get out. It always did.
“Let’s make sure we keep a lid on the missing weapon for now,” Byron said. “Okay? The last thing we need is a riot down here.” Byron looked directly at Murphy as he said it, emphasizing his point.
Murphy nodded again. “Got it, Sarge.”
“Roger that,” Pelligrosso said.
“Have we checked under the body?” Byron asked, recalling several other officer-involved shootings where a weapon wasn’t immediately located. In each case, following the ensuing panic by the command staff, the suspect’s weapon was eventually found, but not until after the body had been removed.
“Not yet,” Pelligrosso said. “We’ll be able to once Dr. Ellis arrives.”
“Okay, let me know as soon as you do.” Byron took another look at the surrounding area. “Do we have any idea how the other suspect got away?” he asked after a moment.
Pelligrosso turned and pointed. “Behind the car, there’s a gap under the fence. The snow has been disturbed. Looks like the other robber may have crawled under. I’ve put a bucket over one really clear sneaker impression in the snow. It doesn’t match the tread pattern on Plummer’s sneakers. As soon as we move the body, I’ll cast it. The kid under the tarp was carrying a backpack, but that’s gone too.”
Byron looked around, shaking his head in disgust. “All this over a laundromat robbery? How much money could they have possibly grabbed?”
“This might be about more than cash,” Pelligrosso said.
“Oh?”
“We found several small Ziplocs in the snow. Might have fallen out of the missing backpack.”
“Drugs?”
Pelligrosso nodded. “A couple of them contain white powder. One has about fifty orange pills inside. Looks like Xanax.”
“Anything else I need to know?” Byron asked as he made another entry in the notebook.
“Yeah, actually. There is one more thing.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not gonna like this?”
“There’s an iPhone lying beside the body.”
“Plummer’s?”
“Too soon to say. It’s powered off.”
“That a problem?” Byron asked, not understanding the issue.
“According to one of the MedCu attendants, it was still on when they arrived.”
“So, who shut it down?”
“I think it shut itself down due to the cold. The phone is designed that way to protect the battery. But that’s not the problem.”
“Okay, what is the problem?”
“According to MedCu, the flashlight was activated when they got here.”
Byron made the calls, waking the remaining evidence technicians, then returned to the street where he had left his car. Despite the bitter cold the crowd had grown. He counted as many as thirty people. As Byron passed by the gathering, a male suffering from a severe lack of originality yelled out, “Pigs!” Someone else laughed. Only the beginning, he thought.
He caught sight of his boss, Lieutenant Martin LeRoyer, commander of the Criminal Investigation Division, speaking with Acting Chief Danny Rumsfeld and Lucinda Phillips, a retired state police detective sergeant turned AG investigator. The group stood huddled together near Byron’s car. Walking toward them was Sergeant Diane Joyner.
A former New York City homicide investigator, Diane was the PPD’s new press liaison. She had previously been one of Byron’s detectives; six months ago, she would have been partnered with him on this case. But now, after accepting the chevrons, she was caught in the unenviable position of playing spin doctor for Rumsfeld. Byron wondered how successful Rumsfeld’s campaign for a permanent appointment was likely to go following this investigation.
Following Byron’s divorce, he and Diane became romantically involved. He missed their daily interactions, both on and occasionally off the job. They made brief but knowing eye contact before she continued on.
Byron heard the muffled ring of his cell beneath his raid jacket. “Byron.”
“Sarge, it’s Pepin.”
“Hey, Andy. What’s up?”
“Amy Connolly just texted me a picture of the robbery victim’s statement. It’s good. The victim said he was closing up for the night when two males entered the laundromat. Both were wearing skull ski masks. One had on a red hoodie and the other wore a dark one. According to the manager, the male in the dark hoodie stuck a gun in his face while the other one stayed by the door, acting as a lookout.”
“What about the customer’s statement? The one who walked in on the robbery?”
“She’s still working on that one.”
“Any video?” Byron asked.
“There is a camera, but it isn’t hooked up. Only for show.”
Byron wondered how many people already knew: full-blown security systems meant expensive monthly premiums. Often, local businesses chose to gamble rather than be bled financially by ADT.
“Did either one of the suspects touch anything inside?” Byron asked.
“Manager wasn’t sure,” Pepin said. “He’s pretty upset.”
“Have Connolly stay with him until the E.T. gets there.”
“Will do.”
Byron pinned the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then pulled out his notebook. He scribbled with the pen on the back of the notepad attempting to get the cold ink flowing, then made some notes. “Could the victim describe the gun?”
“Yup. Said it looked like a stainless revolver with black grips.”
A revolver would certainly explain the lack of any visible shell casings, Byron thought. One point in Haggerty’s favor.
“Thanks, Andy,” Byron said. “Do me a favor. Make sure you have every one of your people write up a supplement before they go home. No matter how small their involvement.”
“What about mine?” Pepin asked. “You know, what Haggerty told me.”
“Write it up, Andy. Just the way it happened.”
“Okay, boss.”
Byron pocketed the phone. He took a deep breath, then walked over to LeRoyer.
“Jesus, John,” LeRoyer said. “This is a friggin’ shit show.”
You don’t know the half of it, Byron thought.
“John, you know Lucinda Phillips,” LeRoyer said, making the introductions. “She’s the new investigator for the AG’s office.”
“Luce,” Byron said, shaking her hand. “Sorry I missed your retirement party.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Wasn’t much of a retirement. One weekend to be exact.”
Byron and Phillips had enjoyed a good working relationship while she had been with the state police, but now she was working for the Maine Attorney General’s Office, the very agency responsible for filing criminal charges against Haggerty should this turn out to be a bad shoot.
“The chief and I were just discussing having the two of you kinda work this together,” LeRoyer said. “We thought it might be a good idea.”
Byron couldn’t imagine a worse idea. Both of their bosses were political animals.
It went with the territory. He knew Rumsfeld was desperately seeking a permanent appointment to chief of police. As for Phillips’s boss, the attorney general, Byron had no idea what brass ring he might be reaching for.
“No offense, Luce, but isn’t that a bit of a conflict of interest, Marty?” Byron said.
Phillips grinned.
“Why?” LeRoyer said. “Aren’t we all after the truth here?”
“Police brutality!” someone yelled from within the crowd.
All three investigators turned to look.
Byron turned back to LeRoyer. “Whose version?”
Byron filled in the lieutenant on most of what he knew, mercifully avoiding the acting chief in the process. Byron was not a fan of the man many referred to as Rumpswab. He then drove to police headquarters at 109 Middle Street accompanied by Phillips. Byron wanted to check on Haggerty. While they were en route, Nugent phoned to say he’d located a possible witness to the shooting and would be heading to 109 as well.
Byron pulled off his gloves and cranked the heat, holding one hand at a time directly in front of the dashboard vents as he drove. He opened and closed his fingers, trying to get them working again, and wondered how Haggerty had ever managed to pull the trigger.
“You know I’m still the same person I was when I worked for the state police,” Phillips said from the passenger seat.
He glanced at her without saying anything.
“The same detective sergeant you worked well with, remember?” she continued. “We don’t have to be on opposing sides here, John.”
“No?” Byron asked.
“No, we don’t. I have a job to do, just like you. I’m only here to find out what happened.”
“What happened is one of our police officers just shot and killed a teenager.”
“A teen who had just robbed a business at gunpoint,” Phillips countered.
“Yeah? Well, allow me to let you in on a little secret. So far we haven’t been able to locate the kid’s gun.”
Beyond the Truth Page 2
