“You think it might have been the kid Haggerty shot, Tommy Plummer?” Byron asked.
“Maybe. But our intel makes it sound like someone in a position of authority.”
“So, what? The principal, assistant principal, head librarian, who?”
“What about the SRO?” Lessard said as he exchanged a quick glance with Collier.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Byron said. “Sean Haggerty? You’re telling me that you suspect a police officer is the inside guy at the high school?”
“I’m just saying it was discussed,” Lessard said. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Sergeant. But this influx of drugs didn’t hit the school hard until this fall. Haggerty came on board as the new SRO at the same time. Hell, he runs your summer police athletic league. He knows many of these kids.”
“Jesus, you’ve even checked up on him?”
Byron couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ten minutes ago he’d mistakenly believed that his only problems were finding the second robber and trying to clear Haggerty of a bad shoot.
“I’m trying to conduct an investigation into a questionable police shooting and an armed robbery. How the hell do I do that without us tripping over each other?”
Lessard spoke up. “Do what you were doing anyway. So long as you don’t confront Cavallaro about the drugs, our investigation will not impede your efforts.”
Byron stood up abruptly and grabbed his coat. “You’re impeding my efforts right now.”
“Look, John, don’t shoot the messenger,” Collier said. “We’re just giving you a heads-up as a courtesy. We wanted you to know what you’re up against.”
Byron shook his head in disgust as he slid his coat on and grabbed the coffee. “Thanks for the breakfast. Can I assume that any helpful information you guys develop will also be kept from us? Or would it be too much to ask that the bureau actually keep us in the goddamned loop?”
“Not us, John,” Lessard said. “You. This isn’t to be shared with anyone else. We’ll let you know if anything develops.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
As he trudged back to 109, Byron wasn’t sure which thing he hated most: the fact that he’d been burdened with the additional knowledge of a secret federal investigation, or the possibility that Haggerty might be involved in something so despicable, and the implications which accompanied that possibility. Haggerty’s request to leave patrol for the school resource officer position had seemed to come from out of the blue. Byron had tried for years to persuade the veteran beat cop to leave the street and come to CID, but Hags had turned him down time and again, saying that he loved working the street too much to settle for a desk job.
And there were other things weighing on Byron’s mind. Had Collier come to Byron as a friend, or had he been elected as messenger by the powers that be inside the Portland Resident Agency or the Boston field office of the FBI? Or Lessard? The one thing Byron was sure of was that the stakes had just risen exponentially.
Byron stood up to stretch his legs and stiff neck. He had been sitting at his desk doing his best to read through the enormous stack of statements and supplements connected to the shooting, but the conversation with Collier and Lessard kept gnawing at him. He couldn’t help but wonder what else they weren’t telling him.
The supplements had all been written by officers and detectives while the statements came from the many residents and visitors of Kennedy Park. Most of the latter were people who had heard sirens and loud bangs but not much else. Many of the witnesses thought the noises were kids playing with fireworks, a few described the sounds as a car backfiring. Only a handful had recognized the sounds for what they really were: gunshots. Nothing stood out as particularly helpful.
Byron also spent considerable time reading and rereading the statements from both of the MedCu EMTs who had attended to Tommy Plummer. While one of the attendants made no mention of observing a cellphone lying on the ground with its flashlight activated, the other dedicated nearly an entire paragraph to it.
Why hadn’t any of the officers noticed the light? Byron wondered. Could Haggerty have confused the cellphone’s flashlight with the muzzle flash from a gun? The attendant’s statement wasn’t doing a thing to quell Byron’s unease.
He grimaced as he gulped down the last dregs of cold coffee Collier had purchased, then departed the office to stroll through a mostly vacant CID. Nearing the conference room, he heard the television coming from within and the familiar instrumental intro to the midday news broadcast.
Seated alone at the table, with a stack of paperwork and a sandwich, Nugent was doing the same thing Byron had been doing, except for the lunch part.
“Hey, Sarge,” Nugent said.
“Anything worth hearing?” Byron asked as he entered the room, cocking his head in the direction of the television.
“Actually, yeah,” Nugent said. “You might want to sit down for it though.”
“Really?” Byron said as he pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down. He picked up the remote from the table and increased the volume on the television. “Wanna give me a hint?”
“Don’t think you’ll need to wait that long,” Nugent said.
“Good afternoon, I’m Keith Tolan,” the news anchor with the bad comb-over said. “Well, that was some storm, wasn’t it, Ginny?”
“That is was, Keith,” Meteorologist Ginny Wells, wearing too much mascara, affirmed. “And crews are still digging out from what some are calling the biggest storm of 2017. Many areas around Greater Portland received well over a foot of the white stuff. The Portland Jetport reported thirteen and a half inches. And we’re already looking at another system moving this way for later in the week. I’ll have snowfall totals and more in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Ginny,” Tolan said. “But before we get to the rest of our top stories, we have some breaking news to tell you about. Leslie Thomas is live in Portland. Leslie, what have you got for us?”
The screen cut to an attractive twenty-something blonde standing outside on a Congress Street sidewalk. Thomas was wearing a brightly colored knee-length red wool jacket, white knit hat, and matching white mittens. Standing beside her was a short stocky dark-skinned male who appeared to be of Hispanic descent. The man was dressed in sweatpants and a gray hoodie, making him look like a boxer in training. His face looked familiar, but Byron couldn’t place him.
“Good afternoon, Keith,” Thomas said. “I’m standing here with Lucas Perez of South Portland. Mr. Perez, thank you for agreeing to go on the air with us.”
“No problem,” Perez said.
Perez. The name didn’t ring any bells for Byron.
“Mr. Perez, can you tell our viewing audience what you just told me about the police shooting on Sunday night?”
“Sure thing. I was visiting a friend of mine who lives in Kennedy Park on Sunday night. We were outside having a smoke when we heard sirens coming. The next thing I know these two kids ran by me and a big cop with a gun was chasing them.” Perez held his hand up above his head in a gesture designed to indicate that the police officer was somewhat taller than he was.
“What happened next, Mr. Perez?” Ms. Color Coordinated asked.
“These two kids ran up to a fence, but they didn’t have anywhere to go. The cop pulled his gun and started yelling at them—‘Freeze,’ ‘Don’t move,’ shit like that.”
The reporter glanced nervously at the camera before looking back at Perez. “Remember, we’re on live television, Mr. Perez.”
“Oh yeah. Damn. Sorry.”
“Please continue.”
“Anyway, I saw both of the kids turn around with their hands raised, you know? Like they were giving up.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then the cop just starts shooting at them. About twenty times. I couldn’t believe it. This one kid just fell. I knew he was hit.”
“Tommy Plummer?” the reporter asked.
“I guess. I didn’t know his name.”
<
br /> “What about the other kid?”
“I don’t know what happened to him. One minute he was there and the next wasn’t. Guess he ran off. I’d have run too,” he said, turning to look right into the camera to make his point.
Byron noticed Tolan trying to suppress a grin, as if anyone might find this remotely humorous.
“Did either one of the people being chased have a gun?” Leslie Thomas asked.
“I don’t know. Not that I saw.”
“What happened next?”
“I ran back inside my friend’s apartment. I didn’t want to get shot too, you know?”
Byron picked up the remote and muted the television. He could feel his blood pressure rising. “Tell me we already interviewed this asshole,” he said.
“I don’t recognize the name,” Nugent said, shaking his head. “I’ve been reading all these statements and I haven’t seen one from anyone named Perez.”
Byron hadn’t read anything resembling the account Perez had just provided. He scanned the whiteboard for Perez’s name but came up empty.
“Dammit. How did we miss him?”
“Maybe we didn’t, Sarge. He could be full of shit.”
Byron knew that Nuge might well be right. So many people just couldn’t help themselves when it came to a chance at the limelight. But Byron also knew that even if Perez had made up his account of the incident, the damage was already done.
Byron’s cell rang. The ID showed that the call was from AG Investigator Lucinda Phillips.
Chapter 11
Tuesday, 12:55 p.m.,
January 17, 2017
Immediately following the midday news, Byron was summoned to the chief’s conference room for a one o’clock. From his formidable experience only two things were delivered in that particular room: attaboys and ass-chewings. It was the latter he was envisioning as he entered the room and sat down.
The small rectangular space had the same out of place feel as many of 109’s subdivided afterthoughts. The short end bordering the two entry doors was all glass. Windows that only overlooked a hallway were covered by heavy cream-colored floor-to-ceiling drapes. The far wall played host to a large decorative bookcase, which almost succeeded in making the room feel like a study. Displayed on the two long walls were framed sepia-toned Portland police photographs from the 1920s and ’30s. A large faux-mahogany wooden table with matching chairs dominated the space. Occupying the chairs were Acting Chief Rumsfeld, Lieutenant LeRoyer, Lucinda Phillips, Assistant Attorney General Jim Ferguson, Commander Edward Jennings, and a bespectacled Barry Sonnenfeld, the department’s legal advisor, who had always reminded Byron of the folk singer John Denver.
Ferguson acknowledged Byron with a slight nod.
“How in hell did you miss this Perez guy?” Rumsfeld barked at LeRoyer.
Byron wondered if the acting chief’s pronoun shift from the collective to the singular more accusatory version was by design or a subconscious defense mechanism.
Byron glanced over at LeRoyer. The lieutenant looked as though he might actually melt into the floor like Baum’s wicked witch.
Rather than let his floundering boss suffer further abuse, Byron spoke up. “It’s my fault, Chief.”
Rumsfeld tore his eyes away from the CID commander and fixed them upon his detective sergeant. Byron experienced mild satisfaction at seeing Rumsfeld’s clear irritation with him for having the audacity to interrupt this obviously scripted display of his power.
“I thought we’d done a complete canvass of the park,” Byron continued. “Evidently, we missed someone.”
“Evidently,” Rumsfeld mocked. “Your incompetence has made this entire department look like shit. First, we hold back on the missing gun, now it looks like we didn’t bother to do a thorough canvass for fear that we might actually locate a witness to a bad shooting.”
“With all due respect, Chief,” Byron said, not really believing the man deserved any, “we don’t know any such thing. We’re still trying to piece together what did happen.”
“And I’m trying to keep this department and city together!” Rumsfeld shot back. “Maybe you haven’t noticed the protestors outside. They’re calling for my resignation, for chrissakes.”
“That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it?” Byron said before he could stop himself. “Your goddamned promotion to chief.”
“John, that’s enough,” LeRoyer snapped.
Rumsfeld’s eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. Byron wondered if this was the first time anyone had dared question the acting chief’s authority since he’d taken over the temporary position.
None of the room’s other occupants made a sound.
Byron noticed Ferguson’s raised eyebrows and barely suppressed grin from across the table.
Rumsfeld finally spoke up, only it came out sounding more like a growl than actual speech. “Sergeant Byron, I suggest you get the hell out of my conference room and get back to doing your job before I find someone else to do it for you.” He pointed at the conference room door, glaring at Byron as if daring him to speak.
Byron glared back while trying to decide his next move.
LeRoyer caught Byron’s eye. The lieutenant gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Byron knew it was his lieutenant’s attempt to keep his senior sergeant from burying himself any further.
Byron had only a second to collect himself. If he verbalized what was on his mind he’d be busted back to the street for insubordination and would no longer be able to help Haggerty clear his name. This wasn’t Marty LeRoyer he was screwing with; it was Danny Rumsfeld, the man running the department. Byron and LeRoyer shared a history together and a mutual respect, something he and Rumsfeld would never have. Byron knew that Rumsfeld only cared about himself, and if expediency dictated throwing Haggerty to the wolves, the acting chief wouldn’t hesitate. And if Rumsfeld could cast Haggerty aside that easily, Byron was no more important to him than a squirrel running out in front of his car.
Byron stood, shoving his chair back into the wall, then walked slowly from the room, red-faced, without uttering another word.
Byron was still fuming as he retreated to his office. He had planned a return trip to the high school to try and locate Mohammed Sayed, assuming Sayed had recovered from his recent illness, but that would have to wait. Lucas Perez had risen to the top of their to-do list.
A quick search of the PPD in-house computer revealed a possible South Portland address for Perez. Byron grabbed Detective Mike Nugent and the two of them went out in search of the elusive witness and whoever it was he’d been visiting in the project. Prior to departing from 109, Byron had asked Shirley Grant to make a copy of the Portland Housing Authority list of every resident in Kennedy Park. Byron drove while Nugent compared the names and addresses on the list against the statements they had looking for any obvious gaps in their canvass.
“We heard some shouting from the chief’s conference room,” Nugent said. The provocative tone of his voice was unmistakable. “Care to share, Sarge?”
“No,” Byron said. “I don’t.”
As if conjured by Nugent’s comment, Byron’s cell rang. He checked the display. LeRoyer. Byron knew precisely why the lieutenant was calling. He thumbed the ignore button and slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“I’ve got some good news,” Nugent said. “Wanna hear it?”
Byron looked over at him, trying to get a read on whether he was serious. Nugent had a reputation for delivering inappropriate remarks at the most inopportune times. “If you’re thinking about making a bad joke, Nuge, now isn’t the time.”
“No, I swear. This really is good news.”
“Go with it.”
“I’m gonna be a dad again,” Nugent said, his face beaming with pride.
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. Congratulations. I didn’t know you guys were planning on having any more kids. Thought you said two was more than enough?”
“I know,” Nugent said. “We weren’t. Guess one must have slipped past the goalie.”
Byron saw the look of pure joy on Nugent’s face. It was refreshing. More often than not police investigations had a way of sucking all the good out of life. The thought of a third little Nugent running around had left Byron’s senior detective beaming. A bright spot amid the darkness.
“How far along is she?” Byron asked.
“Only about three months. We haven’t told anyone yet. Well, except for you.”
“I’m honored, Nuge,” Byron said. “And your secret’s safe. Congrats. Give Dee Dee a big hug from me.”
“Thanks, Sarge. Will do. Now, let’s go find this asshole.”
South Portland’s Early American Estates was comprised of a half dozen or so two-story row houses built perpendicular to each other. The exteriors were finished in an impressive mock Tudor style. Although Byron was confident that any similarities these buildings had to the half-timbered originals ended at their façades.
After scouring the lot, much of which had not been plowed, they located an empty parking space, or at least three quarters of one, near the building marked Administration. Byron shoehorned the Chevy into it.
The detectives entered the office to find an overweight middle-aged man seated with his feet up on a desk. At first glance he appeared to be reading a periodical.
“Help ya?” the man asked, looking up from what now was obviously a soft-core porn magazine with glossy photos.
He wore a sweat-stained long-sleeved thermal undershirt, bright orange insulated snow pants with suspenders, and the familiar tan and brown LL Bean boots from which snow was melting onto the desktop forming dark puddles. A camel-colored insulated field jacket lay over a grungy wooden chair at the end of the desk.
“Portland police detectives,” Byron said. “We’re looking for the manager.”
The man pointed to a sign on the wall behind him. The sign read The Beatings Will Continue until Morale Improves—The Management.
Beyond the Truth Page 12
