Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Can it, John.”

  “Look,” Byron said. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d jump to conclusions, which is exactly what you are doing. All of you.”

  “Yeah. The same conclusions the public is going to come to. Billingslea has already been sniffing around. He’s called me twice, in fact, and he was at Rumsfeld’s briefing less than an hour ago.”

  Byron had no love for Davis Billingslea, the nosy police beat reporter from the Portland Herald. Too much water had passed beneath the flimsy bridge connecting Byron and the Woodward-and-Bernstein-wannabe.

  “You can add Billingslea to my list too,” Byron said, grabbing a tie off the hook, which was nothing more than a bent piece of a wire clothes hanger twisted through the vents of his locker door. “Listen, Marty, not finding the suspect’s gun isn’t the same thing as him not having one, and you know it. Two suspects fled this robbery. Tommy Plummer had an accomplice. An accomplice who may well have removed the gun from the scene.”

  “If there ever was a gun,” LeRoyer said, giving his hair a quick pass with his fingers, his telltale nervous tic. “Shit.”

  Byron considered telling LeRoyer about the cellphone MedCu had noticed, but decided against it for the time being. There were far too many people making premature judgments to suit him.

  “Unlike AC Rumpswab, I deal in facts, not spin,” Byron said.

  “I’m warning you, John. Watch yourself.”

  “No, you watch it! Listen to yourself, Marty. How long have we known Hags? Ten years? He’s a good beat cop. He’s smart, uses good judgment, and he’s good with people. Hell, if he wasn’t all of those things they never would’ve made him the SRO for Portland High,” Byron said.

  LeRoyer remained silent while he paced the locker room.

  “He deserves our support on this,” Byron continued. “The benefit of the doubt while we try and figure out what happened. If Sean says he was shot at, I believe him. And I’ll do due fucking diligence to follow up on every possible lead.”

  LeRoyer said nothing.

  “Would you do less if it were me?” Byron asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Is Haggerty still here?” Byron said, trying to bring the tension down a notch.

  “No. Sent him home twenty minutes ago.”

  “Don’t give in to their pressure, Marty. Let me do my job. Let my detectives do their jobs. If there’s something to find, we’ll find it.” Byron moved past him toward the locker room door.

  “And if you’re wrong?” LeRoyer asked from behind him.

  Byron pulled the heavy wooden door open, pausing a moment as he turned to face the lieutenant. “Then we’re all fucked.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday, 3:00 a.m.,

  January 16, 2017

  Acting Chief Rumsfeld blew warm air into his hands as he waited on the darkened stoop for Portland City Manager Clayton Perkins. As instructed, Rumsfeld had sent Perkins a text from the driveway so as not to wake Mrs. Perkins by ringing the bell. He was beginning to wonder whether his text had been received when the overhead light came on in the kitchen and a bathrobe-clad Perkins shuffled into view.

  Perkins crossed the kitchen and opened the door for Rumsfeld. “Come inside and close the door,” Perkins said gruffly. “Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great,” Rumsfeld said. “Thanks.”

  Rumsfeld pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down to wait. This dance between him and Perkins was still new, and the acting chief did not want to step on his boss’s toes. So, he remained silent while waiting to be led.

  “Tell me about the kid,” Perkins said as he shuffled around the kitchen.

  “He attends Portland High, or rather he did. Seventeen years old.”

  “Jesus,” Perkins said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Plummer. Thomas Plummer. Family lives on the east end of the peninsula.”

  Perkins opened the fridge and retrieved a carton of milk. “What’s your take on the shooting?” he asked as he placed the carton on the table.

  Rumsfeld knew he had to tread carefully as everything he said would be taken as gospel by his boss. Perkins had a reputation for shooting from the hip before getting all the facts. And Rumsfeld couldn’t afford to say anything that might later make Perkins look bad. Rumsfeld’s career aspirations might well drown under that wave.

  “I don’t know yet,” Rumsfeld said. “The owner of the laundromat said they displayed a gun.”

  Perkins arched a brow. “They?”

  “There were two of them.”

  “Where is the other one now?” Perkins asked.

  “We don’t know. He got away.”

  “So, we may have an armed assailant out roaming the streets, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I don’t think there is any threat to the general public here, Clayton.”

  “You mean other than the armed robbery and police shooting?”

  Rumsfeld, realizing he’d slipped already, did not respond.

  “What did the cop involved in the shooting say?” Perkins asked.

  “Sean Haggerty. Said the Plummer kid fired at him first.”

  “But we don’t have a gun.”

  “No, sir, we don’t,” Rumsfeld said.

  “Who’s working this?”

  “John Byron and his detectives are working the robbery and the events that led up to the shooting.”

  “And the shooting itself?”

  “Standard protocol, the state Attorney General’s Office has jurisdiction, but they will be working alongside of Byron’s team.”

  The Keurig sputtered its last. Perkins delivered two steaming ceramic mugs to the table and sat down.

  Rumsfeld picked up the mug and held it between his open palms. The heat felt good on his cold skin. He waited as the city manager regarded him silently.

  “You’re thinking like a cop right now, aren’t you?” Perkins asked.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re thinking about how you’re gonna spin this when you have to tell the press about the missing weapon.”

  “I wouldn’t say spin exactly. I’d say it’s likely the other suspect—”

  The manager held up his hand. “Let me stop you right there. I know you want to be more than just the acting chief.”

  Rumsfeld nodded but remained silent.

  “Dan, this is one of those moments where I’ll see what you’re made of. Being the chief of police means you are responsible for leading the officers, of course. But it also means you’re responsible to me, and to the citizens of this city. You follow?”

  Rumsfeld wasn’t sure what Perkins was getting at, but he wasn’t about to show uncertainty to this man. He nodded again.

  “This shooting investigation is likely to go very badly,” Perkins said. He inhaled deeply, then let out a long sigh. “Great leaders are forged by adversity. All eyes will be on you to see how you handle this.”

  As Rumsfeld listened to Perkins wax motivational, he couldn’t help but wonder what Vince Lombardi would’ve looked like in a bathrobe.

  Perkins continued. “You’ll be expected to walk a fine line on this and, if need be, come out in support of the community and not necessarily of your own department. Think you can do that?”

  Rumsfeld paused for only a moment, trying to project just the right amount of thoughtfulness before answering. “Yes, sir. I know I can.”

  It was three-thirty by the time all the investigators had assembled in the CID conference room. Standing room only. The space smelled of stale coffee and unwashed hair. Byron walked in and sat down in the only empty seat remaining at the long laminate wooden table, beside Phillips. He wondered if the chair had been left vacant because they’d been seen together or because nobody wanted to sit next to her.

  Melissa Stevens was adding names and details to the whiteboard as each of the detectives read them off. Every investigator wore the same sullen expression, as did the evide
nce technicians. They all knew exactly what was on the line.

  “That everything?” Stevens asked as she scanned the room.

  “All I’ve got,” Nugent said.

  Several other detectives confirmed it was all the information they possessed as well.

  “This represents everything to this point, Sarge,” Stevens said, addressing Byron.

  Byron studied the board trying to take it all in. Under the heading Witnesses were a dozen names, including two marked with the letter V, designating the laundromat manager and customer as victims.

  “Who processed the robbery scene?” Byron asked.

  “I did, Sarge,” Albert Junkins said.

  Junkins was the most senior member of the crime lab. On the heavy side of stout with wavy black hair and a bad case of dandruff, Junkins was second in ability only to Pelligrosso. His lesser skill set was the primary reason Byron hadn’t assigned Junkins to the shooting scene. Byron had learned long ago that on a major case you always wanted your best working the worst aspect, or at least the part with the most at stake.

  “Pepin told me the surveillance camera inside the laundromat was a dummy,” Byron said to Junkins. “Anything worthwhile from the robbery scene?”

  “I lifted a few partial prints from the area near the office safe,” Junkins said. “But, based solely on the victim’s statement, they most likely belong to the kid Haggerty shot. He’s the only one who approached the counter.”

  “What about the second suspect, the one acting as lookout?” Byron asked. “Did the victim see him touch anything?”

  Junkins shook his head, causing his meaty jowls to flap, reminding Byron of a dog. “Victim said he was wearing gloves. Stayed right by the door.”

  “Any other cameras nearby that might have picked up our suspects either coming or going from the robbery?” Byron asked.

  “I did a cursory sweep of the businesses along Washington Avenue,” Junkins said. “Figured I’d go back during daylight hours and check with each one individually.”

  “Dustin, you go with him,” Byron said, addressing Detective Tran, the police department’s computer virtuoso. “I want to make certain we don’t lose something to a system overwrite.”

  “You got it,” Tran said. Dustin usually went for a surfer dude persona; he was fond of calling Byron “Striped-One.” But not today.

  “In the meantime,” Byron said, still addressing Tran, “I want you to download and copy everything Dispatch has surrounding this. All radio traffic, including CID response traffic, MedCu traffic from fire side, the original 911 call from the laundromat customer, and any emergency phone calls regarding shots fired. Everything.”

  “Consider it done, boss.”

  Byron turned to Pelligrosso. “Gabe, can you give everyone a thumbnail of your scene?”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  Pelligrosso spent the next ten minutes providing a rundown of the scene in the alley. Using a printed aerial map of Kennedy Park, Pelligrosso drew a red line extending from the scene of Haggerty’s 10–50, the code for an accident involving a police vehicle, along the pursuit trail. The line twisted and turned through the housing project, ending at the scene of the shooting.

  “Did we recover any shell casings from the area where the suspects were standing when the shooting happened?” Lieutenant LeRoyer asked from the doorway.

  Pelligrosso shook his head. “No, but the laundromat manager described the handgun displayed by the robber as a revolver, so there may not have been.”

  Byron looked to Stevens. “Mel, wait until seven, then reach out to the Plummers again. Let’s set up a nine o’clock at their home. I want you to introduce me.”

  “Okay.”

  “We need to try and soft-sell a search of Tommy’s room and belongings for any evidence he may have had a gun.”

  “Not sure how cooperative they’ll be,” Stevens said.

  “We need this, Mel,” Byron said. “We need to emphasize the importance of what we’re trying to do here. If somebody did supply Tommy with a weapon, we want to find out who. Also, let’s make sure we revisit his friends with them. They must have some idea who he may have been with last night.”

  “You got it. I’ll let you know the time.”

  “You know who Tommy Plummer is, right?” Nugent asked Byron.

  “Should I?”

  “He’s the reason Portland High won the state basketball championship last season.”

  “And the reason they’ve been picked to repeat this season,” Junkins said.

  “I’ll be sure and congratulate his parents,” Byron said.

  Junkins’s face turned a deep shade of crimson.

  Byron slowly scanned the room. “I know this goes without saying, but I don’t want any details getting out.”

  LeRoyer chimed in from the doorway. “All requests for information are to go through me or the chief’s office. Everybody clear on that?”

  The room gave a collective nod.

  “How long before the press dam breaks?” Tran asked.

  “Acting Chief Rumsfeld is planning a conference for noon,” LeRoyer said.

  Several detectives groaned.

  “We’ve got a lot to do today, people,” Byron said, checking the wall clock. “It’s almost four. I suggest each of you use the next hour or so to take care of any personal business.”

  Byron knew, as they all did, that any plans they may have had, both professional and personal, were now indefinitely on hold. Uncovering the truth about what had transpired in the alley the previous evening was the only thing any of them would be focused on for the foreseeable future.

  “Any questions before we dig in?” Byron asked.

  Stevens spoke up. “What about the weather, Sarge?”

  “What about it?”

  “They’re predicting as much as a foot of snow starting sometime this evening,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Shit, that’s right,” Nugent said.

  Byron had completely forgotten about the forecasted storm. “Can you finish all of the outside processing before then?” he asked Pelligrosso.

  “We’ll have to.”

  “Contact the M.E.’s office and delay the autopsy if you need to,” Byron said. “We can always do it tomorrow.”

  Pelligrosso nodded. “Okay. I’ll see how it goes.”

  Byron addressed the rest of the room. “I want a door-to-door sweep through Kennedy Park looking for potential witnesses. Let’s make sure we don’t overlook anyone.”

  Detective Gardiner, the latest addition to Sergeant Peterson’s property crime unit, spoke up. “What if they say they didn’t see or hear anything, you still want a statement?”

  “Absolutely,” Byron said. “Lock them in. I don’t want anyone making up shit later just to get their fifteen minutes. No wiggle room.”

  “Consider it done, sir.”

  Byron studied Pelligrosso’s map again. “Also, let’s sweep the route Haggerty took chasing the suspects. We’re looking for anything that may have been dropped or tossed along the way. And we’re still missing Haggerty’s flashlight.”

  The group of detectives broke up and headed in opposite directions. They went home to shower and change, or to talk with their spouses, who would be manning the fort solo until further notice. Investigator Phillips headed to the Spring Street Holiday Inn with her go bag to check in before meeting Byron for breakfast.

  Byron slid his unmarked into a vacant space in front of Becky’s on Commercial Street. Portland’s landmark waterfront diner operated 362 1/2 days a year, opening at four o’clock in the morning to serve the predawn fishing crowd and the occasional police investigator. Byron had just stepped out of the Malibu’s warm interior when his cell rang. He answered mid-ring. “Byron.”

  “Hey, John,” Diane said. “How goes it so far?”

  “If I’d had to imagine a scenario, I’d have picked a different one,” he said.

  “Can you talk?” she asked.

  “Have you eaten?”

/>   Twenty minutes later, Byron was seated at a booth across from Sergeant Diane Joyner and AG Investigator Lucinda Phillips. Aware of the sensitive nature of their discussion, all three did their best to keep their voices lowered.

  “What did your boss have to say?” Byron asked Phillips.

  “I think the first word out of his mouth was shit.”

  “Gets right to the point, doesn’t he?” Byron said, sliding his mug toward the young waitress who’d stopped by for coffee refills.

  “What do you think, John?” Diane asked. “You don’t really think Haggerty shot an unarmed kid, do you?”

  Byron carefully sipped the steaming mug of black coffee before returning it to the table. “No, I don’t,” he said. “My guess? The other suspect made off with it. But, at this point, that’s all it would be. A guess.”

  “You’re hoping that’s what happened,” Phillips added.

  “Aren’t you?” Byron said, making no effort to hide his irritation.

  The waitress returned with their orders, balancing several plates on one arm. For the next few minutes they ate in silence, enveloped in the gray cloud of the day that lay ahead.

  Byron broke the silence. “What’s Rumpswab planning to tell the media?”

  Phillips was unsuccessful at hiding a grin.

  Diane washed a bite of her breakfast sandwich down with a swig of orange juice before answering. “As little as possible. He won’t mention the missing gun. He’s planning to give out the description of the second robbery suspect again. And to acknowledge the victim’s family and the loss of their son.”

  Byron bristled. “Victim? Don’t you mean suspect?”

  Diane frowned. “You know what I mean, John.”

  Chapter 5

  Monday, 7:00 a.m.,

  January 16, 2017

  Micky Cavallaro reached out blindly, attempting to silence the incessant ringing. His head was still buried in the pillow. In one smooth motion he rolled onto his back and held the receiver to his ear.

  “What?”

  “Good morning, Michael,” an all too familiar voice greeted. “I understand you had some excitement last night.”