Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  He stepped out of the stairwell into the fourth floor, nearly colliding with a cameraman. Byron sidestepped around the bearded man and gaped at the crowd of reporters blocking the entrance to CID as well as the elevators. Rumsfeld was holding an impromptu press conference right there in the hallway. To avoid the media circus, Byron banged a left and cut down the back corridor into CID.

  He had been at his desk all of five minutes when a frazzled-looking Lieutenant LeRoyer breezed into the office and sat down.

  “Did you see that?” LeRoyer asked. “The mob in the hallway?”

  “Hard to miss,” Byron said.

  “You know what it was about?”

  “Don’t really care. Although if you took away the cameras and microphones and handed them signs, they could stand in for the mob outside. Speaking of which, what happened to the ‘no protestors in the plaza’ directive?”

  “The chief rescinded it after people complained to city hall that this is a public building and they had a right to free speech.”

  “I hope they didn’t forget to mention that they pay our salaries.”

  “One of the students you questioned, his parents went out and retained an attorney. They’re accusing you of harassment.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Which student?”

  “Mohammed Sayed.”

  Byron paused to consider this unexpected development. His interaction with the Sayeds had seemed nonconfrontational. Both parents vouched for their son’s illness and had alibied his whereabouts on Sunday night. Why were they hiding behind an attorney? The last time Byron had seen Mohammed Sayed he’d been with Abdi Ahmed at the halal store, and both boys disappeared right after they’d seen him.

  “Sayed was a known friend of Tommy’s,” Byron said. “They frequently hung out together. That’s the reason we’re looking at him. And we haven’t harassed anyone.”

  “Well, their attorney says he’s a good student who has never been in any trouble.”

  “Good student? He got kicked off the baseball team last year after he was caught selling weed in school. I don’t see Harvard in his future, do you?”

  “Dammit, John. Must you joke about everything?”

  “I’m not going to have some two-bit ambulance chaser torpedo this case, Marty. Tommy Plummer pulled that robbery with somebody. And it had to be someone he trusted. Right now the entire field is in play. If we rule anyone out it will be because the facts support their innocence, not because we were bullied into backing off.”

  LeRoyer let out a long sigh and swiped his fingers back through his hair. “At least tell me you’re making some progress.”

  “Maybe. I got a late-night visit from my accountant.”

  “Your accountant?”

  “My neighbor Khalid Muhammad. He’s friends with Ahmed Ali. Ahmed had asked him to talk to me on his behalf.”

  “Did he give you anything?”

  “No, but it might mean that Ahmed is looking to help us. Even if he has to do it indirectly.”

  “Well, if you think he knows who the other robber is, let’s get him to tell us. Put some pressure on him.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure that will work. Weren’t you just whining about us harassing Mohammed Sayed?”

  “This is different. Ahmed Ali is an adult. If he knows something he has a responsibility to cooperate.”

  “You really think it’s that simple? Ahmed is trying to take care of his family and run his business. You think he’s gonna risk all of that so he can pursue our justice?”

  It had been nearly twenty minutes since the big cop entered the grocery store and Vinnie was becoming antsy. He’d had to piss since before leaving the gym. If Haggerty didn’t come out of the store soon Vinnie was going to have to chance pissing in public. He was parked at the far end of the lot, affording himself a clear view of the entry and exit doors to Hannaford’s Supermarket.

  How long does it take to get a few groceries, for fuck’s sake? Vinnie thought.

  The Mitsubishi was running well. The rear plate was bogus, stolen from God knew where. And the black primer paint job wasn’t as nondescript as he would’ve preferred, but it was necessary.

  Vinnie turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired up. Once idling, it purred without so much as a hitch. He opened the glove compartment and removed the revolver. Only a fiver. Some bullshit chief’s special, designed to be hidden easily. He’d have preferred a semiauto, mainly because they held more rounds. But semiautos sprayed shells everywhere, and shells were evidence trails. Vinnie had no intention of getting caught. He set the gun on the seat between his legs, pressed down on the clutch, and slid the car into gear.

  This wouldn’t be the first time he’d shot someone, but it would be his first cop. Slowly he circled the lot, then pulled into the fire zone, facing the supermarket exit doors. He lowered the tinted window on the driver’s door several inches, feeling the cold air on his face, and cranked up the stereo. The adrenaline was beginning to flow through him. He inhaled deeply, then slowly released the air from his lungs. Vinnie lived for this.

  Haggerty was standing in the checkout line at Hannaford’s, waiting for the cashier to scan his groceries, when his cell rang. He recognized Byron’s number instantly.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Haggerty answered.

  “Glad to see you’re taking calls again,” Byron said.

  “Yeah. Feeling a little better about things today.”

  “Glad to hear it. Perspective tends to do that.”

  “So does a good workout. I figured getting back into the gym would clear my head.”

  “Did it?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “What’s that beeping sound?” Byron asked.

  “I’m at the grocery store. A man’s gotta eat, right?”

  “That he does. Any more trouble with the press showing up at your house?”

  “Nah, I think I’ve solved that problem for now.”

  “How so?”

  “I moved into my parents’ house. It’s vacant for the winter and no one is likely to find me there.”

  “What about the detail?”

  “The department is keeping a black-and-white at my house for another day or so to throw media wolves off my scent.”

  “Smart thinking. So, you’re good?”

  “I am. Thanks for checking on me last night, Sarge.”

  “Any time, my friend. Talk soon.”

  “Roger that.”

  Haggerty pocketed the phone just as the cashier scanned his last item.

  The cop exited the door farthest away from where Vinnie was parked. He was carrying several plastic shopping bags in each hand. Perfect, Vinnie thought. Since he already knew where Haggerty had parked, it would be easy to slide up and pop him. Vinnie waited for a vehicle to pass, then he pulled away from the curb. Slowly he cruised along the front of the store. He paused to let an oncoming car pass by, then he took a left, following the cop up a travel lane away from the store toward Preble Street Extension.

  Creeping along at less than five miles an hour, he approached Haggerty from behind. The subwoofer was thrumming from the rear of the car. Vinnie reached for the gun, then lowered his window the rest of the way down. He intentionally avoided making eye contact with several pedestrians as they passed, headed toward the store. Vinnie brought the car up alongside his target and stuck the revolver out the window with his left hand. Haggerty turned his head to the right, surprise registering on his face. Vinnie pulled the trigger at precisely the same moment that things went to shit. He fired two rounds at the big cop. Haggerty dropped the bags and dove to his left. Vinnie wasn’t sure if the cop was attempting to take cover or if the bullets had found their mark. Before Vinnie could reacquire his target and squeeze off a few more rounds, the Mitsubishi was violently impacted from the right side. A loud bang, then the crunch of sheet metal. The impact jolted him sideways in his seat, knocking the gun from his hand and out onto the pavement. The Mitsubishi’s engine stalled.

  “Shit!” Vin
nie yelled. “Shit, shit!”

  He turned his head to the right to see what had collided with his car. The passenger side windows of the Mitsubishi had spidered. Tinting film was all that held the glass together. The tailgate of a large pickup was pressed solidly against the Mitsubishi, blocking Vinnie’s view through the passenger side windows. He scrambled to restart the car. His eyes darted back to the left, searching for the cop, but Haggerty was nowhere to be found. The starter was turning over, but the engine wouldn’t catch. Panic set in like something crawling inside him. He twisted the key forward again and pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The engine roared to life along with the stereo. The driver of the truck pulled forward, disengaging from the Mitsubishi, causing the much smaller vehicle to shudder. Vinnie jammed the gearshift lever into First and eased off the clutch, trying hard not to stall it.

  As the Mitsubishi lurched forward, Vinnie felt intense pain on his left side, like he was being stung by angry wasps. The pain began in his left shoulder, then moved across his chest. He glanced to his left again. The big cop lurched toward the Mitsubishi, firing at Vinnie. Vinnie knew he had to get out of there or he would die where he sat. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The squealing of rubber on pavement was deafening as the Mitsubishi’s front drive wheel fought for and finally achieved traction. As the car shot forward, Vinnie felt another sharp pain in the back of his left shoulder and neck. Immediately following was the sound of bullets striking the sheet metal of the driver’s door.

  Vinnie punched the gas as he exited the lot onto Preble Street Extension, nearly striking two other vehicles. The sports car slid sideways toward the curb on the far side of the roadway as he spun the steering wheel hard to the left, then corrected the skid and moved into the passing lane. Still accelerating, he blew through a red traffic light where Preble Street intersected Baxter Boulevard. As he sped toward Forest Avenue, he reached across his body with his right hand and felt something wet and sticky coating his neck. He pulled his hand back and held it up in front of his face. It was covered in blood.

  Byron was pulling into the rear garage of 109 when he heard the familiar signal 1000 tone blast from base radio speaker mounted under the dash of the unmarked. He backed into a space, increased the volume on the radio, then sat with the car idling, waiting until he heard the call. Byron had heard the emergency signal hundreds of times, maybe thousands, during his twenty-plus years on the job, but something about this one in particular, with everything going on in the city, filled him with foreboding.

  Amid a crackle of static, the dispatcher began to speak. “Any units in the area of 295 Forest Avenue, Hannaford Plaza, respond along with MedCu Five for a report of shots fired. We have a caller on the line who is reporting that an off-duty police officer is involved. Units responding please acknowledge.”

  “1 has it.”

  “102 copies.”

  “3 copies.”

  “21 responding from 109.”

  “Ten-four, 1, 2, 3, and 21.”

  Byron’s hair stood straight up on the back of his neck. There was an unmistakable urgency in each of the responding officer’s voices. He put the car in gear and exited the garage. The feeling of dread had intensified a hundredfold.

  “21,” the patrol sergeant called out, shouting to be heard above his own siren.

  “21, go ahead,” the dispatcher said.

  “21. Find out from the caller if this is still an active scene. I don’t want my people driving into an ambush.”

  “Ten-four, 21,” the dispatcher said. “The caller isn’t sure what’s going on. We’re now receiving multiple calls, Sergeant. There’s a possibility that there’s more than one shooter.”

  “21 to 101, 2, and 3, did you copy that?”

  “Got it, Sarge,” one said.

  “Copy that,” 2 and 3 said, talking over each other.

  “21 to Dispatch.”

  “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  “Have some of the Deering units slide over that way until we know for sure what we have. We made need help with the perimeter.”

  “Ten-four, 21.”

  As the dispatcher allocated additional resources, Byron used his vehicle’s emergency lights and siren to get through the snarl of traffic at Pearl and Congress. It seemed time had slowed to a crawl.

  “101, I’m out.”

  “Ten-four, 101,” the dispatcher said.

  The driver of the maroon Audi traveling in front of Byron refused to pull to the right. Byron laid on the Chevy’s air horn.

  “Get out of the way, asshole!” Byron shouted. “Move it! Move it!”

  The Audi swerved to the right, nearly striking the curb. Byron roared past him.

  “1. Have MedCu step it up! I’ve got an officer down, multiple gunshot wounds. Advise 21, it’s one of ours!”

  Byron refused to let off the accelerator even as he approached the elevated intersection at Pearl and Oxford Streets. The Malibu bottomed-out violently on the pavement, jarring his body forward against the seat belt, then hard against the seat back. He momentarily lost contact with the gas pedal as he struggled to regain his footing. Byron punched the accelerator again and the unmarked shot down the hill toward Somerset Street. He already knew who the victim was.

  Byron knew it was bad. Haggerty was drifting in and out of consciousness and he’d lost a great deal of blood.

  “Who did this, Hags?” Byron asked, taking his friend’s hand. “Who shot you?”

  Haggerty’s eyes were open, but he was unresponsive. The paramedic looked at Byron for permission to restore the oxygen mask to the officer’s face. Byron nodded silently.

  “Hang in there, Hags,” Byron said. “You hear me, Sean? Keep fighting.”

  Byron stepped back out of the way as the paramedics quickly loaded Haggerty into the back of the ambulance. Byron wanted nothing more than to climb inside and remain with his friend, but he knew his job was here at the scene where he could do the most good. He had to find out what happened, and locate those responsible. Byron turned his attention to the uniformed officer who’d climbed inside the ambulance and sat down beside the stretcher.

  “Stay with him,” Byron said. “No matter what.”

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  Byron watched the MedCu unit speed away with lights flashing and siren blaring, a black-and-white leading the way and another right on its tail like some high-speed street parade. He’d been listening to the radio traffic and knew that the hospital had a trauma team at the ready. And the staff at the Maine Medical Center ER was as good as they came. For a man who didn’t believe in miracles, Byron had seen them bring more than one person back from the brink of death. As he listened to the sirens fade into the distance Byron hoped they had enough magic in the bag to do it one more time.

  Unable to get anything out of Haggerty, Byron knew he’d be forced to rely on the remaining witnesses.

  His cell buzzed, and he answered it with shaking hands.

  “How bad, Sarge?” Stevens asked.

  “Bad,” Byron said.

  “I’m with Nuge. Where do you need us?”

  “Hannaford Plaza.”

  Chapter 19

  Friday, 10:35 a.m.,

  January 20, 2017

  As soon as the detectives arrived they hit the ground running. Byron had Nugent commandeer the security office inside the supermarket. They’d need the surveillance video as soon as possible. Melissa Stevens interviewed a witness. Byron assigned several uniformed officers to tape off and secure the scene, and several more to take statements from bystanders who claimed to have seen the car drive past them prior to the shooting. Byron spoke briefly with the driver of a pickup truck who’d been the victim of a hit-and-run. According to witnesses the pickup had collided with the shooter’s vehicle.

  “Did you get a good look at the car or the driver?” Byron asked the gangly teenager who reeked of pot.

  “I never saw the driver,” the kid said. “The windows were tinted.”

  “Wh
at about the car? Make? Model? Color?”

  “Flat black. Like primer. Rad stereo.”

  “What?”

  “It had killer bass.”

  Byron, resisting the urge to grab the kid by the throat while explaining the far more important nonaudiophile points of the investigation, chalked up his lack of focus to the effects of cannabis sativa.

  “Did you get the make of the car?” Byron asked again.

  The kid smiled proudly. “Yup. A Mitsubishi.”

  Byron’s cell buzzed with a call from Mike Nugent.

  “Give me something, Nuge,” Byron said.

  “Dark-colored two-door. Outbound on Preble Street Extension after leaving the lot. Might be a Mitsubishi.”

  Vinnie knew he was in trouble, and it wasn’t just the white-hot pain radiating throughout his body. His left side was going numb and blood was running down his torso, soaking through his clothing and into the seat. He was growing light-headed and knew if he pulled off the road to hide he might never get moving again. Their plan to flatbed the car out of Portland under the cop’s noses was off the table. He had to get back to the garage fast.

  The tinted windows, even the two broken ones, turned out to be a blessing as they prevented the other drivers traveling on Route 25 from seeing into the car. One look at him and the Cumberland County emergency switchboards would have lit up like Christmas trees with calls about a dead man driving through Westbrook. Fishing the cellphone out of his pants pocket took nearly every ounce of energy he had, but he finally managed it. He hit the speed dial for Terry’s cell with his thumb, smearing blood on the screen in the process. The call went straight to voicemail.

  “Shit,” he said. Either Terry was on the phone with someone else or he was in a bad cell area with no reception. Vinnie hung up and dialed the number to the garage. One ring. Two. Three.