While waiting for several black-and-whites to depart the garage, Byron’s mind wandered back to the problem at hand. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t envisioned this very scenario. Hell, every cop in the state had imagined the possibility that a police shooting in Maine might one day have all the necessary ingredients to become a carbon copy of the politically charged incidents seen in other parts of the country. After more than two decades on the job, Byron had witnessed the awesome power wielded by the press too many times to discount it. And that same power to incite was the reason so many people in the public spotlight acted irresponsibly. It was free advertising. Some, like the late Paul Ramsey, Esquire, jumped at any opportunity to try a case in front of the television cameras. Dr. Phil goes to court, Byron thought.
Pulling into the garage he wondered what it said about a society that repeatedly condemned members of its police force even before all the facts were in. Didn’t public servants deserve the same presumption of innocence that the rest of society demanded? And deserved? The legal standard is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, not the court of public opinion. This was real life, not The Gong Show. These irrational reactions by the public reminded Byron a bit of the Wild West. Let’s break out the torches and pitchforks, he thought.
As Byron punched in the key code to the rear door to 109 and stepped inside the building, he wondered what would happen if this hysteria continued? Would there eventually come a day when police departments around the U.S. would no longer be able to recruit and retain new officers? As it was, many of the Maine departments were struggling, forced to offer signing bonuses to attract candidates. Even the Portland Police Department, the state’s largest municipal agency, was down fifteen officers, a dangerous position to be in. The statewide pool of qualified police candidates had become so depleted that many departments were offering higher starting pay and benefits to entice officers from other agencies into lateral transfers. A self-perpetuating hole in the thin blue fabric of law enforcement. A national shortage of police officers meant there wouldn’t be anyone left to keep the wolves away. And as any cop could attest, the wolves are plentiful. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
With his briefcase in one hand and the near empty travel mug of coffee that Diane had prepared in the other, Byron stepped out of the stairwell into the fourth-floor hallway. Lieutenant LeRoyer was hovering around the CID lobby, lying in wait.
“John, you got a second?” LeRoyer asked.
“Any chance I could get settled first?” Byron said, snapping back a little more forcefully than he’d intended.
Surprise registered on LeRoyer’s face instantly.
Realizing that the Haggerty shooting hadn’t exactly been a picnic for his boss either, Byron backed down a notch. “Sorry, Marty. Guess I’m still overtired. Come on, we can talk in my office.”
The pink message slips had grown from a small neat stack to a mountainous pile tossed haphazardly atop his desk. It was Shirley Grant’s way of telling him that his voicemail was full again and that she’d had enough of his unresponsiveness to the messages. He shoved the slips to one side and sat down.
“What time did you finally make it home last night?” LeRoyer asked as he settled into one of the visitor chairs.
“Around ten, I guess,” Byron said. “You?”
“Maybe an hour before that. Manage any sleep?”
Byron hid a grin behind his coffee cup as he recalled the previous night with Diane. “A little.”
“My damn plow guy didn’t show. Had to dig myself out. My back is already killing me,” LeRoyer said, reaching around with both hands to massage his lower back through his suit coat.
Byron wondered when the lieutenant would end the pleasantries and get to the point.
“You got any good news for me?” LeRoyer asked.
If I did, you’d have it already, Byron thought. “Dr. Ellis confirmed that Tommy Plummer was facing Hags when he was shot. So, when the bullshit about him being shot in the back starts you can use that to douse the flames.”
“Not that anything I say will matter,” LeRoyer muttered.
Byron, who couldn’t argue with LeRoyer’s assessment, continued. “Ellis said two of Plummer’s wounds were fatal.”
LeRoyer did his trademark pass through his hair with his fingers. It was the lieutenant’s classic nervous tell and the reason the detectives had nicknamed him Einstein. By day’s end LeRoyer’s wild hair would no doubt rival that of the world’s most famous mathematician. Byron couldn’t help but wonder if his boss had ever managed to win a dime at poker.
“The public is gonna lose their shit when they find out Tommy was shot in the head,” LeRoyer said. “I can see the headline now: Police Execute Teen.”
Byron frowned at the lieutenant’s dramatics, but he knew he was probably right. “Ellis said even if the head shot hadn’t happened the kid would still be dead. One of the bullets penetrated the chest cavity, nicking the pulmonary artery. He would have bled out internally anyway.”
“You think the public is gonna care about that?”
Byron didn’t imagine they would, but it wasn’t his job to worry about public perception. His mission was simple: find the second robber and fill in the missing pieces of the case. Spin was for someone higher up the food chain than him. It was also one of the reasons Byron had never aspired to a rank higher than that of detective sergeant.
Byron spent several more minutes bringing LeRoyer up to speed on the latest developments before heading down to 109’s third floor. He wanted to check in with Pelligrosso. And he had an assignment for Tran.
“Anything I can do to help, Sarge?” Tran asked as Byron entered the computer lab.
Byron still hadn’t adjusted to Tran’s recent change in demeanor. The computer whiz kid’s newfound respect for authority was a bit unsettling. Byron didn’t realize how much Tran’s surfer dude delivery had become a part of their everyday interactions. Perhaps Tran was maturing, or maybe it was only because of what was at stake with Haggerty’s shooting. Regardless of the reason, Byron began to worry he might miss Tran’s irreverent streak.
“Actually, I do have something for you, Dustin.” Byron handed him a slip of paper with the names and birth dates of the four Portland High students that Detective Gardiner had provided. “I want you to find out everything you can on these kids.”
“Who are they?” Tran asked as he read the list.
“Known associates of Tommy Plummer. They hung around with him enough to garner a look.”
Tran looked up from the list. “You think one of them might have been with him when the robbery happened?”
“It’s possible. Get ahold of Mel. She’ll have another list for you. I want you to dig up everything you can find for connections. Relatives, addresses, incident reports, anything that might help us. If Plummer had a gun, I want to know where he got it. Someone could have sold him a gun on the street, but I’d think it was more likely he stole it or borrowed it from an adult. Keep that angle in mind while you’re digging, okay?”
“I’ll get right on it, boss.”
“One more thing. Check for any drug-related history on each.”
“In-house or do you want me to make a trip to the DA?”
Byron considered the consequences if someone leaked the fact that Tran was poking around in juvenile records for so many students. “Let’s keep it in-house for now.”
As Byron departed Tran’s office, headed for the crime lab, he cast a quick glance back at his young detective. He was definitely going to miss the surfer dude.
It had taken Terry Alfonsi the better part of two hours to plow the dooryard and driveway to the garage. The actual plowing was easy; it was shoveling out and moving various customers’ cars that took so long. By the time he’d finished the chore he was in a foul mood. While he had been outside busting his ass, Vinnie hadn’t done a damn thing.
“Comfortable?” Terry asked as he studied Vinnie seated behind the counter playing with his cellphone and munchi
ng on a stale donut.
“Very,” Vinnie said without looking up. Sugar sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.
“Tell me again why I have to do all the work around here?” Terry asked.
“Simple physics,” Vinnie said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means I’m bigger than you.”
Terry despised Vinnie’s habit of threatening him without actually making a threat. Terry had had his ass handed to him by Vinnie before, and the big lug hardly broke a sweat while doing it. He hated being smaller.
“Have you done anything around here this morning while I’ve been out killing myself in the yard?” Terry asked.
Vinnie’s eyes rolled skyward as if he were trying to recall. “Yup.”
“What? ’Cause it looks to me like all you’ve done is sit there on your lazy ass.”
Vinnie looked at him the way he always did, with those disinterested eyes.
“Not true,” Vinnie said. “I made the coffee, took a shit, watched a little TV, and tuned that burner over there.”
“You tuned up the car already?”
“Yup. Runs like a champ.” Vinnie went back to studying his phone.
That was another thing that bugged him about Vinnie. He was a crackerjack mechanic, and body man. Everything came so easy to him. It wasn’t fair.
“Yeah, well, don’t do shit until I tell you,” Terry said. “Uncle Derrick is gonna tell us when to move.”
“Already did.”
“What?”
“He called while you were outside.”
“What did he say?”
“End of the week.”
“I’ve managed to identify the manufacturer and style of sneaker from the tread pattern,” Pelligrosso said as he pulled up the image on his computer screen.
Byron leaned in to look at the comparison. The pair of angled parallel squares located on the heel and ball of the tread were the same as the prints left behind at the scene. “So, our missing robber wears Nike basketball sneakers. What size?”
“Nine and a half.”
“That’s good, right?” Byron asked.
“Not really. Nike LeBron Soldier X is a pretty popular brand of sneaker with the high-school-aged kids right now.”
“What about unusual tread wear? Anything we can match?”
Pelligrosso shook his head. “The sneakers that made these prints were fairly new. There’s no discernible wear.”
“Can you print out a photo of the actual sneaker for me?”
“Sure. This is what they look like,” the evidence tech said as he clicked on a link, changing the image.
Byron studied the black-and-gold shoes on the screen. They were ankle-high, with the familiar Nike swoosh at the back just below what appeared to be a signature.
“Were either of the students you spoke with yesterday wearing anything like these?” Pelligrosso asked.
Byron took out his cellphone and pulled up the photos that Gardiner had sent him by way of text messaging. He compared them to the picture on the screen. The photographs didn’t match.
“No,” Byron said. “And we were only able to speak with three of them before Davis Billingslea went public with our evidence. Unless our missing robber is completely inept, those sneakers are long gone.”
“Most likely,” Pelligrosso agreed.
“What about Plummer’s cell?” Byron asked.
“I put it on the charger and rebooted it. It works fine. I’ll keep it here until you guys get a warrant to go through it.”
Given the latest trend among Plummer’s mates of erasing all cell history, Byron wondered if that might end up being a fool’s errand.
“And the flashlight?” Byron asked. “I read the MedCu attendant’s statement about the flashlight being on when they got to the body. Were you able to confirm that when you powered it back on?”
Pelligrosso shook his head. “No. I even tried to re-create the event with my own phone. If you activate the flashlight app, then power the phone down, when you power up again, the flashlight is automatically back in the off position. There’s no way to confirm what the attendant saw.”
Byron had known it wouldn’t be that easy. It never was. “Any idea what the powder is in those baggies you seized?”
“I weighed them and tagged them. Haven’t had time for anything more yet.”
Byron’s cell rang before he could check off the next item on his mental to-do list. The number on the display was blocked. “Thanks, Gabe,” Byron said before walking out of the lab to answer the call.
“Byron.”
“John. Sam Collier.”
Special Agent Sam Collier was a fellow law enforcement dinosaur and longtime friend of Byron’s. Collier had worked with him on many sensitive cases over the years and was one of the few people within the FBI that Byron trusted.
“I saw the news, John. How’s your officer holding up?”
“He’s a tough kid. I think he’ll be okay. I’m up to my ass on this though.”
“That’s why I’m calling. You got time for a quick coffee?”
By the time Byron walked to Milk Street in the Old Port, Collier was already waiting for him in the back of the Crooked Mile Café with two large coffees, two cranberry scones, and a man Byron had never seen before. Judging by the man’s suit and haircut, he was a fed.
Byron stamped the snow off his boots on the mat just inside the door, then walked to the table.
“Breakfast too?” Byron said. “This can’t be good.”
“Large, black, and your favorite kind of scone,” Collier said as he stood and shook Byron’s hand. “John, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Mark Lessard.”
Lessard stood and shook Byron’s hand too. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant,” Lessard said.
“Mark is up from the Boston field office overseeing a case,” Collier said.
Byron took off his wool overcoat, draped in over the empty chair to his right, and sat down. “You’re stalling, Sam.”
“You know me too well.”
“So?”
Collier looked to Lessard. Lessard nodded, a clear indication to Byron of exactly who was in charge. Collier looked around the room. Byron followed his gaze. Only one other table was occupied and it was at the far end of the dining room near a window.
“Cone of secrecy is now engaged,” Collier said.
“Of course,” Byron said.
“A little bird told me that you recovered some controlled substances at the scene of the shooting Sunday night.”
“This bird have a name?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way, John.”
“Okay. Yeah, we did. Found several baggies. One contained about fifty Xanax. Several others held a white powder we haven’t tested yet. Why?”
“You think the drugs belonged to the robbery suspects?” Lessard asked.
Byron, who wasn’t about to share more details of PPD’s investigation without knowing why, shrugged as he took a bite of his scone. He washed it down with some coffee before proceeding. “Who knows. One of them is dead and the other got away. Why are you asking?”
Collier surveyed the room again, then looked back at Byron and leaned in close. “We think the drugs may have come from the laundromat. Do you know a girl by the name of Christine Souza?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Byron but he couldn’t place it. “Not sure. Should I?”
“She was a Portland High School cheerleader. Died at a Westbrook party shortly after the school year started last fall. Drug overdose. Cocaine, alcohol, and methylenedioxy-methamphetamine.”
“MDMA,” Byron said. “Ecstasy.”
“Yes. Souza choked to death on her own vomit. This would have been her senior year.”
“I remember hearing about it. What does any of this have to do with the laundromat robbery?”
Byron listened for the next several minutes as Collier laid out the intel received by the bureau following Souza’s OD. Collier sa
id the drugs may have been coming into the high school from a local laundromat or dry cleaner. The intel also addressed the possibility that someone on the school staff was facilitating the operation from the inside, matching what Patrick Mingus had told Melissa Stevens.
“You’re telling me that the bureau has a detail up on the Bubble Up?” Byron asked, wondering why he was only now hearing about it.
“Yes.”
Byron could feel his anger building as he looked back and forth between the two men. “And do the Maine Drug Enforcement guys know about it?”
Collier shook his head.
“Not even Crosby?”
“No.”
“Sam, don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck? You guys have known about this since September and you’re just letting us know now?”
Roses bloomed on Collier’s cheeks and he began fidgeting with his tie. He took another look around the room without answering.
“You’re telling me that Haggerty didn’t have to go through this shit?” Byron snapped.
Lessard spoke up. “The source of our intel didn’t know which laundromat or dry cleaner, only that it was local. Greater Portland somewhere. We had no idea which place to set up on. It wasn’t until recently that we discovered which laundromat.”
“How recent?” Byron asked.
The agents exchanged glances. “Recent,” Lessard said.
“So this wasn’t a cash grab?” Byron asked. “It was a drug rip. And Haggerty had no idea what he was getting himself into.”
Collier sat back in his chair. “We believe the laundromat is part of an out-of-state OC case.”
“Organized crime. Great.”
“It took us some time to narrow the possibilities to just a couple of businesses,” Lessard said. “Something we could handle without breaking the manpower bank.”
Byron was still unsure what it was that Collier and Lessard were holding back. “And?”
“One of the things we’ve discussed was who the inside contact was at the high school,” Collier said.
Beyond the Truth Page 11
