Diane looked on as members of the press shouted and raised their arms attempting to get Rumsfeld’s attention like some crazed mob of adoring fans. The acting chief quickly scanned the room before pointing to a middle-aged male reporter sporting a bad complexion and an equally bad toupee.
“Chief, will you be releasing the name of the officer involved in the shooting?” the reporter asked.
“We released that earlier this morning,” Rumsfeld said. “His name is Officer Sean Haggerty.”
“Is this the first time Officer Haggerty has used excessive force?” the same reporter asked.
Rumsfeld glanced over at Diane. His exasperation was obvious.
“Who said anything about excessive force?” Rumsfeld asked the reporter.
“Mayor Gilcrest mentioned that she felt this was another example of overzealous policing.”
Rumsfeld ignored the comment and pointed to Davis Billingslea, police beat reporter for the Portland Herald.
“What can you tell us about Officer Haggerty’s history with the Portland Police Department?”
“Officer Haggerty is a ten-year veteran of this department. He is an excellent police officer. He has been very involved in our Police Athletic League working with area youth. Currently, he is assigned to Portland High as the school resource officer.”
“So, it’s possible he knew Tommy Plummer, the boy Haggerty shot?” Billingslea asked.
“We haven’t released the victim’s name,” Rumsfeld said. “I don’t know where you’re—”
“Mayor Gilcrest announced his name at her press conference. Can you tell us if Haggerty knew Plummer?”
“Next question,” Rumsfeld said, pointing out a different reporter.
“Chief, is there a number witnesses should call?” a short dark-haired female television reporter asked.
“Yes. We are asking anyone who may have witnessed this incident to call the Criminal Investigation Division.” Rumsfeld provided the crowd with the main number to CID, then repeated it.
“So, you want them to contact the police department and not Mayor Gilcrest, is that right?” the female reporter asked.
Rumsfeld shot another glance at Diane before turning back to face the crowd. “They should contact the police department, as always.”
A young male reporter Diane did not recognize appeared at the front of the crowd.
“Chief, you stated that Officer Haggerty was pursuing two armed robbery suspects. Can you tell us about the weapon used during the robbery?”
“Yes,” Rumsfeld said. “According to the robbery victim, one of the suspects displayed a handgun during the commission of the crime.”
“Has the handgun been recovered?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. As I said, this is an ongoing investigation.”
The unknown reporter continued, shouting to be heard above the fray. “Chief Rumsfeld, I have received information that the Plummer boy shot by Haggerty was unarmed. Can you confirm that?”
“I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I have no comment on that,” Rumsfeld said.
The reporter persisted. “So, you won’t confirm that he didn’t have a gun?”
Rumsfeld glared at the reporter before recomposing himself and addressing the rest of the room. “Thank you, that’s all I have to say at this time.”
“Chief, Chief,” a half dozen reporters shouted as Diane and Rumsfeld pushed through the crowd on their way to the exit.
“Where the fuck did he get the information about the gun?” Rumsfeld said as they reached the hallway. “What the hell is Gilcrest thinking?”
“Honestly? I’d say she just declared her candidacy,” Diane said.
Chapter 9
Monday, 12:30 p.m.,
January 16, 2017
Byron and Detective Gardiner arrived back at Kennedy Park looking for an update from E.T.s Pelligrosso and Murphy as well as the detectives still working on the canvass. As Byron and Gardiner stepped from the car, they were approached by Investigator Lucinda Phillips.
“The press knows about the missing gun,” Phillips said.
“Shit,” Gardiner said, echoing Byron’s very thought.
“How the hell did that get out already?” Byron asked.
“I don’t know,” Phillips said. “But somebody leaked it. One of the reporters put Rumsfeld on the spot with it at the press conference.”
“Gilcrest?”
“She never mentioned it during her press conference.”
“Did Rumsfeld confirm it?” Byron asked.
“He gave them a no-comment.”
Byron knew the leak could have come from a dozen different places. Like every small city, Portland could be a sieve when something juicy happened. Gilcrest had already shown her willingness to grandstand; maybe she had put word out quietly. Or Rumsfeld himself might have leaked the information, trying to get out in front of it. The longer the acting chief waited, the more of a jam he would be in when the story finally broke. But regardless of where the leak originated, it meant the detectives had just run out of time. Byron knew there would be protests, confrontations with police, and likely worse. Every crazy son of a bitch within driving distance would likely crawl from the woodwork, hoping to score their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. CID’s ability to investigate unfettered from outside influence had just evaporated before their very eyes.
“Shit,” Gardiner said again, staring at the screen on his phone.
Both Byron and Phillips looked at him.
“What?” Byron asked.
“Have you seen the Herald’s Twitter page?” Gardiner asked.
“I’m not on social media,” Byron said. “What is it?”
“Here,” Gardiner said, handing him the phone.
Byron looked at the photograph and the accompanying tweet. “Dammit.”
“What?” Phillips asked.
Byron handed her the phone. “The Portland Herald just tipped our missing robber to get rid of his sneakers.”
Depicted under the photograph taken by Billingslea were the words: Police collect footwear impressions at scene of shooting.
“Well, that’s helpful,” Phillips said as she handed the phone back to Gardiner.
The three investigators trudged in silence across the yard to the outside edge of the crime scene tape where Pelligrosso appeared to be packing up his equipment.
Pelligrosso acknowledged Byron with a nod. “How did the press conference go?”
“Which one?” Byron said.
The evidence technician looked perplexed.
“Where are we at?” Byron asked.
“I’m finished. We’ve scoured the entire area. Can’t find so much as a bullet hole or shell casing anywhere. Well, except for Haggerty’s casings.”
“And we checked all of the buildings behind Haggerty for holes?” Byron asked.
Pelligrosso nodded. “The buildings, the plastic play set, even a couple of metal sheds. There’s nothing here to find, Sarge.”
Byron exchanged a wordless glance with Phillips.
Could Hags have been wrong? Byron wondered. Did he only imagine a flash in the heat of the moment? Was there some other explanation? The flashlight on Plummer’s cellphone?
Haggerty wasn’t prone to overreaction. Haggerty’s size and easygoing demeanor had served him well. He was very good at getting people to comply with minimal force. It wouldn’t have been like Hags to read a situation so badly as to shoot an unarmed man. Or kid. So, what did happen?
“How did you leave it with the M.E.?” Byron asked Pelligrosso.
“Dr. Ellis is going to post later this afternoon. Said he was thinking three-thirty-ish.”
“All right,” Byron said as he surveyed the area one last time. “I’ll meet you there.”
As Byron headed back to 109 to drop off his temporary partner, his cell rang. It was Stevens.
“Hey, Mel,” Byron said. “How are we making out with the canvass?”
“All the d
etectives are back at 109. Looks like we’ve contacted at least ninety percent of the units along the route that Haggerty chased the suspects. Still waiting on callbacks from the others.”
“Did we put a call into Portland Housing for an active list?”
“Got it in my hot little hands, double-checking as we speak.”
“I’ve got another assignment I need you to take care of.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m heading to Augusta for the post, but before I go I’m dropping Gardiner off at 109 with a list of the boys’ varsity basketball players. They have an afternoon practice today. I want you to head over to the high school and interview all the players. Find out if any of them knew what young Tommy was up to and where they were last night.”
“And if any of them tell me to pound sand? They are juveniles after all.”
“Then we’ll focus harder on the ones who do. Find the coach and charm the pants off the guy so he’ll let you talk with them.” Byron stole a glance over at his solemn-faced passenger. “Take Gardiner with you. Show him the ropes.”
A smile appeared on Gardiner’s face.
“Want Nuge to accompany us?” Stevens asked.
“You ever known Nuge to be charming?”
“Good point. Just Gardiner, it is.”
Twenty minutes after the telephone call from Uncle Derrick, Terry Alfonsi pulled the candy-apple Mitsubishi Eclipse into the garage bay, killed the engine, and closed the overhead door. It had taken him five minutes to jump-start the car that had once belonged to his best friend, before the heroin overdose that took Arnold’s life two years earlier. Tricked out with a loud exhaust, tinted windows, a state of the art stereo, with a trunk-mounted subwoofer that took up most of the car’s small trunk, the Eclipse was what Arnie had called “bitchin’.” It would be a shame to burn it.
He spent the next hour prepping the car for the little errand Vanos expected him to do. He scraped off the inspection sticker, removed the front registration plate, and changed out the rear, exchanging it with one from a stack of old plates hidden in a wooden box under the workbench. He checked the tire pressure, changed the oil and topped off fluids, replaced the battery, and made sure that the lightbulbs all worked. It wouldn’t do to be pulled over on the way back from the job.
The engine appeared to be running all right, but he’d have Vinnie tune it up tomorrow. The car would need a coat of primer. Flat black would blend in better than the car’s current shade. Vanos wanted the hit to be public for maximum effect. Said he wanted to send a message. Terry was all for sending messages, but candy-apple red would make disappearing from the scene next to impossible. Besides, this wasn’t just anyone his uncle wanted to waste. This was a cop.
The sound of squeaking sneakers echoed throughout the Portland High gymnasium. Ten players ran up and down the hardwood floor, while several others stood in front of the bleachers watching the scrimmage, awaiting their turn. Detectives Stevens and Gardiner stood beside Coach Rick Miller as he shouted commands to the players. Gardiner had given Stevens the heads-up about Miller being “kind of a dick,” but talking to him in person was a study in arrogance.
“Coach, I understand you need the kids to stay focused,” Stevens said. “But we’re investigating a robbery that resulted in the death of one of your players. We’d like a little cooperation.”
“Stay with him, Pat,” Miller yelled as one of the players went baseline and sunk a shot from the corner. “Are you gonna do that in a game? Come on! Don’t let him get outside like that.”
“Coach?” Stevens said.
Miller turned to face them. “Look, I get it. You need to talk with my players. But I need to get this team ready to win another state championship, and that’s a tall friggin’ order now that our best player is gone.” He turned back toward the court to watch the team wearing gray T-shirts set up on offense. “Slow it down, Abdi. Give him time to set the pick.”
“Coach Miller!” Stevens shouted, having lost her patience. “Are you going to let us talk to your players or not?”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Miller blew the whistle and called the players over to the stands. He addressed Stevens directly. “Take one at a time and use my office if you want.”
Miller looked back at the group. “Guys, these detectives have some questions to ask you.” Miller pointed to the player he’d been yelling at before, a tall gangly kid with sideburns. “Pat, since your brain isn’t in the game anyway, why don’t you go first. The rest of you get back out there.” He looked back at Stevens. “Happy?”
“Overjoyed.”
Sean Haggerty sat beside his attorney, Eugene Pomeroy, in one of the firm’s conference rooms overlooking Congress Street. Haggerty had given depositions before. What was unusual was coming to the table to be questioned by an investigator from the state Attorney General’s Office. While doing the job the city paid him to do Haggerty had killed a man. Not even a man—he had killed a teenaged boy. In the line of duty, protecting the citizens from armed robbers like Tommy Plummer and his unknown accomplice, he had killed a kid. And now he would be expected to justify his actions.
Haggerty felt nauseous. The room was suddenly much too warm. He tugged at his collar. The sweat was beading up on his forehead. Maybe Pomeroy was right. Maybe it was too soon. But Haggerty badly wanted to get it over with. To move on with his life and return to the work he loved.
“You okay, Sean?” Pomeroy asked. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Haggerty lied. “Let’s do this.”
Phillips and Pomeroy exchanged nods. Phillips activated the digital recorder sitting between them on the table.
“My name is Lucinda Phillips and I am an investigator for the Attorney General’s Office of the State of Maine. Today’s date is January 16th, 2017, and the time is 3:05 p.m. The interview is being conducted in the conference room of the law offices of LeClair and Pomeroy. Also present are Officer Sean Haggerty of the Portland Police Department and Attorney Eugene S. Pomeroy. Mr. Pomeroy is representing Officer Haggerty in the matter of the shooting death of Thomas Plummer, which occurred on or about January 15th at 9:35 p.m. within Kennedy Park in Portland, Maine.”
Haggerty sat quietly as she spoke. He was having difficulty understanding what Phillips was saying. Her words seemed to run together. This was surreal. Sitting in this room, needing an attorney while being questioned by an investigator from another law enforcement agency, for what? Doing his job? He felt like a criminal.
“Do you understand everything I’ve said, Officer Haggerty?” Lucinda asked, snapping him out of his funk.
Haggerty looked to Pomeroy. The attorney nodded his approval to proceed.
Haggerty turned to Phillips and gave a nod of his own.
“I’ll need a verbal response for the recording, Sean,” she said.
“Sorry,” he said. “Yes. I understand.”
“And do you also understand that this interview is in no way connected with any internal investigation that may be subsequently conducted by the Portland Police Department?”
“Yes.”
“And you are making this statement voluntarily and of your own free will, correct?”
“Yes,” Haggerty said again.
Lucinda nodded at him. “Let’s begin, then. Officer Haggerty, take me back to the start of your shift on Sunday, January 15th, 2017.”
Pomeroy placed a hand gently at the center of Haggerty’s back. Sean looked over at him again. Pomeroy nodded and gave a half smile.
Haggerty turned back to face Phillips. “My shift—” The words caught in his throat. He felt his eyes watering and closed them. He heard liquid being poured into a cup. He opened his eyes again. Pomeroy handed him a clear plastic cup of water. Haggerty took it and drank. He set the half-empty cup back on top of the table, cleared his throat, and began again.
“My shift started at fifteen hundred hours.”
Byron stood silently off to one side of the examination table while Ellis worke
d and Pelligrosso moved around the room snapping photos. Byron had attended more autopsies than he cared to remember. He had seen every conceivable manner of death. Some taken by others, some lives extinguished by the victims themselves. Byron had seen bodies that had been stabbed, shot, hanged, electrocuted, sexually assaulted, asphyxiated, dismembered, drowned, even one memorable case where the body was run over repeatedly and intentionally by someone driving an automobile. He had spent more than two decades bearing witness to this depraved indifference to human life. And to Byron, too, on the autopsy table, lives were reduced to nothing more than evidence-collecting expeditions. Bodies, once life vessels, were methodically cut, examined, weighed, and preserved until all available answers had been obtained.
The one thing Byron had never acclimated to was seeing the body of a child on that table. And at seventeen years of age, despite his size, Tommy Plummer was still only a child. Lying faceup and naked, head cradled in a stand, on full display, was a life wasted before it had even begun. And while it may have been Plummer’s own actions that played the largest part in his ultimate demise, his life was cut short by bullets from a cop’s gun. Haggerty’s gun. And Byron knew that Haggerty’s life also depended upon the outcome of this investigation. There was more at stake than just whether the shooting was righteous. Justified or not, Haggerty would be forced to live with the decision he’d made for the rest of his life.
“Sarge, you still with me?” Ellis asked.
Byron climbed back out of his own head to find Ellis and Pelligrosso both staring at him. “Yeah. Sorry, Doc,” Byron said, shaking it off. “You were saying?”
“I said two of the five rounds that struck Plummer were fatal. The one in the head, obviously.” Ellis pointed to one of the entry wounds in the left side of Plummer’s torso. “But this one here actually nicked the pulmonary artery causing massive internal bleeding. Even without the head wound, it’s likely he would have bled out before receiving medical help.”
“What about direction?” Byron asked. “Can you give me something definitive?”
Beyond the Truth Page 9
