Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “I’ve done the best I can,” Levesque said.

  “When can we talk to him?” Byron asked.

  “It won’t be for a while, I’m afraid,” Levesque said. “We’ve stabilized him but we’re intentionally keeping him sedated right now. Officer Haggerty’s body—”

  “His name is Sean,” Byron said.

  Levesque nodded his understanding. “Sean has suffered a great deal of trauma. He needs rest. We want to see him get his strength back. Then we’ll reassess.”

  “Level with us, Doc,” Byron said. “What are his chances?”

  Levesque looked Byron straight in the eye. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to God.”

  And Hags, Byron thought.

  Byron walked past the uniformed officer guarding Haggerty’s room in ICU with a silent nod. He entered the room and stood beside the bed. A maze of wires and tubes were connected to Hags. The beeping electronic monitor displayed his pulse and BP and a number of other things Byron didn’t fully understand. Looking down at Hags made him feel helpless. He realized that no matter how hard he worked to catch the person responsible for Haggerty being here, Byron had no control over whether his friend would pull through. The doctor had indicated that it was in God’s hands now. Byron would have preferred something more tangible to put his faith in, having had it badly shaken so long ago. Despite the doubts, Byron closed his eyes and prayed silently for his friend.

  “I find that never hurts,” a male voice said, startling Byron out of his thoughts.

  He turned to see a nurse who’d come in to check on Haggerty. The young man was olive-complected, with only the slightest remnants of a foreign accent.

  “What never hurts?” Byron asked.

  “Praying. Only so much we can do. The rest is up to him and whoever he answers to,” the nurse said, pointing to Haggerty.

  Byron, who said nothing as the nurse went about his work, turned his attention back to Hags. He contemplated what the nurse had said. It made sense. It never really came down to anything more than what each of us chooses to believe.

  The irony of Byron’s career choice had frequently occurred to him. Like a priest, he was constantly surrounded by death and questions of faith. He also spent much of his time trying to get people to confess their many sins. Unlike a priest, however, Byron could not offer absolution, only incarceration.

  Byron wondered if Haggerty’s faith was strong enough to get him through this battle. He turned to ask the nurse another question, but the room was empty.

  Byron departed from the hospital and retraced his route back to Hannaford. The uniformed officer guarding Haggerty provided only a small measure of comfort. Byron knew it was unlikely that anyone else would be brazen enough to make an attempt on Haggerty’s life but there was someone still on the loose who had. He wanted them located and held accountable.

  He had only driven about a half mile from the Maine Medical Center, approaching Park Avenue on Deering, when he heard the dispatcher call his number over the radio.

  “720,” the dispatcher said.

  He keyed the microphone, clipped to the dash, without unhooking it. “720, go ahead.”

  “Sergeant, we have a York County patrol supervisor on the phone asking to speak with you. If you call in on the nonemergency line, we’ll connect the two of you.”

  “Ten-four.”

  After making the turn onto Park Avenue, Byron pulled over across from Deering Oaks Park and stopped. He pulled out his cell and dialed Dispatch.

  “Police Dispatch, Operator Gostkowski speaking.”

  “Dale, it’s John Byron.”

  “Hey, Sarge. Hang on a sec and I’ll connect you with Sergeant Milliken. Just gotta put you on hold for a minute. Don’t hang up, okay?”

  “Thanks,” Byron said, opening his notebook.

  After several moments Gostkowski came back on the line. “Sarge, you still there?”

  “Right here,” Byron said.

  “Okay, you guys should be hitched up. I’ll get off the line.”

  “Sergeant Byron? This is Sergeant Ed Milliken from York SO.”

  “Sarge, what can I do for you?” Byron asked as he scribbled down the name and time into his case notes.

  “Well, I’m not positive but I believe I may have seen the vehicle you guys are looking for.”

  “The black Mitsubishi?” Byron asked hopefully.

  “That’d be the one. I feel bad ’cause I didn’t know about it until after.”

  “After what?”

  Milliken explained that the York County computer link to NCIC had crashed. As a result, they never received the ATL sent out by Portland until after he had seen the Mitsubishi. He told Byron the story about the guy who was hauling it away.

  “You happen to catch the name of the tow company?” Byron asked.

  “I didn’t. Sorry. I’ve already asked our dispatch center to start calling all the local wreckers to see if one of them grabbed it. I remember the driver saying that it was a Triple A tow.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got video in your vehicle?”

  “It’s being repaired,” Milliken said. Byron could hear the embarrassment in the deputy’s voice. “I can describe the wrecker and driver for you though.”

  After taking down the information, Byron said, “Thanks, Ed. I appreciate you reaching out. Can I get you to write that up and email it to me?”

  “Will do. How’s your officer?”

  “He could use some good thoughts.”

  “I’ll send those along too.”

  Byron hung up and immediately called Dustin Tran to provide him with the wrecker lead.

  As Byron was pulling into the Hannaford Plaza from Baxter Boulevard, his phone rang. It was Diane.

  “How’s it going, John?” she asked.

  “Slow. We might have a lead on the last known location of the Mitsubishi. A York SO sergeant thinks he may have seen it being loaded onto a flatbed in Buxton about forty-five minutes after the shooting.”

  Byron waited for the officer blocking the way to the scene to wave him through.

  “Did he get a plate?” Diane asked. “Or the name of the tow company?”

  “He didn’t even get the ATL from Dispatch until a half hour later. York County’s link to NCIC crashed. What’s happening on your end?”

  “Hags’s parents are scheduled to land at the jetport within the hour. I’m headed out there now to pick them up and bring them to the hospital.”

  Byron couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of emotional roller coaster Haggerty’s parents had been riding for the past several days.

  “How’re you holding up?” Diane asked.

  “Talk with you later,” he said, ending the call and answering her question simultaneously.

  Byron pulled up next to the crime scene tape that had been strung around the area. A dozen or so vehicles were still parked inside it. As he stepped from the unmarked Chevy he glanced toward another of the officers who’d been tasked with keeping the scene secure. The uniform was speaking with several angry-looking people who Byron guessed were the owners of those vehicles. Compassion seemed in short supply.

  The double doors to the evidence van stood open and Pelligrosso was loading items into the back.

  “Sarge,” Pelligrosso said. “How is he?”

  “He’s out of surgery, in ICU. Find anything more we can use?”

  The evidence tech shook his head. “I’ve recovered all there is. I was just about to release the scene. You good with that?”

  Byron surveyed the area. “Yeah, if you are.” He caught the attention of one of the uniformed officers and signaled him to take down the tape. The officer shot him a thumbs-up and began to do just that.

  Byron looked back at Pelligrosso. “The surgeon said he removed one of the slugs from Hags. Why don’t—”

  “Already sent Murph up to the hospital to retrieve it.”

  “Thank you, Gabe.”

  Twilight had faded to black by
the time Byron returned to 22 Bramhall Street. He parked in his favorite no-parking zone near the front entrance to the hospital and walked inside.

  Byron found the lieutenant pacing the hall just outside of the ICU.

  “Hey, John,” LeRoyer said.

  “Any change?” Byron asked.

  “No. His parents are in with him now.”

  Byron studied LeRoyer’s tired face. He’d never noticed just how old his boss was beginning to look. Crow’s-feet had imbedded themselves at the outside corners of his eyes and a permanent vertical frown line was tattooed onto his forehead just above his nose. Byron knew how much of a toll his own job took, and he wondered how much harder it was for the lieutenant.

  “Gabe still working the scene?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Just finished.”

  “Any leads?”

  Byron filled him in on the York County contact. “And I’ve got a half dozen detectives taking calls and running down leads.”

  LeRoyer nodded.

  “I’m gonna head down to the cafeteria for a coffee,” Byron said. “You want anything?”

  “A coffee might be nice.”

  “Want anything in it?”

  “How about ten extra shots of caffeine?” LeRoyer said, forcing a grin.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Byron was seated in an uncomfortable molded plastic-and-metal chair in the ICU hallway. He was on his cell checking his office voicemail remotely when his phone buzzed with an incoming call from Melissa Stevens.

  “Sarge, I think we might have something,” the detective said, sounding breathless.

  “Go with it.”

  “I just took a call from a kid who works at a gas station in Standish, right near the Buxton town line. Says he sold gas to a guy a day or two ago and the guy was driving a primer-black Mitsubishi with a loud exhaust. He said he could smell paint, like the primer had just been applied.”

  “Did he get a plate?”

  “No, but the station has video. Nuge and I are headed out there now.”

  “Good work, Mel. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. The attendant thinks he might even know the guy.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Byron was pocketing the phone when he observed a well-dressed man approaching him from the far end of the hall. He’d noticed the silver-haired man speaking with LeRoyer before heading in Byron’s direction. Byron stood up and turned to face him.

  “Excuse me,” the man said, reaching him at last. “Are you Sergeant Byron?”

  “I am,” Byron said.

  “I’m James Haggerty,” he said, extending his hand. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for my son, Sergeant.”

  Haggerty, who appeared to be well into his sixties, had the deeply tanned skin of a Floridian and sad eyes. Byron could clearly see the resemblance to Sean. He shook the elder Haggerty’s hand firmly but had no idea what to say. He didn’t feel like he had managed to do anything. He hadn’t located the second robber or the gun, and now he was struggling to find Haggerty’s attacker.

  “I’m very sorry about your son,” Byron said. It was all he could think to say.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re all pulling for him,” Byron added. He wanted to say praying but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

  “My son talks about you frequently. He told me this morning about your visit to his house last night.”

  Byron, not knowing how much Hags had shared with his father, remained silent.

  “Your friendship means a great deal to Sean, Sergeant Byron. He looks up to you.”

  Byron nodded even as he grappled with his emotions. There was a brief and somewhat awkward pause in the conversation.

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” Haggerty said. “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to thank you for being a friend to Sean.”

  Byron wanted to tell him that Hags was going to be okay. He wanted to assure him that they would find the person responsible for shooting Sean and bring him to justice. He wanted to promise they would find the other robbery suspect, and the gun, and would clear Sean’s name. But he couldn’t say any of those things. As bad as they all wanted things to work out, it didn’t always go that way. Good didn’t always triumph over evil. Byron took the hand that was offered and shook it again.

  “It was good to meet you, sir,” Byron said.

  Haggerty gave Byron a weak smile, then turned and walked back down the hallway.

  Chapter 21

  Friday, 5:35 p.m.,

  January 20, 2017

  Detectives Melissa Stevens and Mike Nugent stood crammed inside the tiny back office of the Standish Fill ’er Up. They waited impatiently as the pimply faced young clerk ran back and forth alternating between tending the register and helping the detectives review the security video from two days prior.

  “Sorry about that,” the attendant said as he returned to the office. “This is the busiest it has been all week.”

  “Typical,” Nugent growled.

  The clerk gave Nugent a puzzled look, while Stevens gave the detective a threatening one.

  “Not a problem,” Stevens said. “We really appreciate the help.”

  “Okay, this is it.”

  On the video screen a flat-black Mitsubishi two-door coupe pulled up to the pumps, exactly as the clerk had described on the phone. A lone white male was at the wheel. Stevens flipped out her notebook, jotting down the time and date that was stamped on the recording.

  “How did he pay?” Nugent asked. “Credit?”

  “Nope. It was a cash transaction. Sorry.”

  “On the phone you said you might know the guy,” Stevens said.

  “Well, I don’t actually know him, but I’ve seen him a few times.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “I think he drives a wrecker for one of the local companies.”

  “Which one?” she asked, praying that he’d actually know.

  “I can’t remember.”

  Nugent spoke up. “Is this the only camera angle you have?”

  “No. We have one that gets ’em leaving in case of drive-offs.”

  Nugent gave Stevens an eye roll followed by a “what the hell is this kid’s problem” look. She ignored him.

  “May we see it?” Stevens asked.

  Byron was standing outside the hospital’s ambulance entrance in the cold, conversing by cell with Pelligrosso, when the connection broke up with an incoming call. He pulled the phone away from his ear to check the ID. It was Stevens again.

  “Gabe, I got a call coming in from Mel. Call me back if you get anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Byron switched to Stevens’s call. “Hey, Mel.”

  “Sarge, we’ve got a plate.”

  “Go.”

  Stevens read off the plate and Byron copied it into his notebook.

  “Who is it registered to?” Byron asked.

  “Well . . .”

  Byron shook his head. “Tell me.”

  “The plate hasn’t been used for several years. Actually, it expired five years ago in 2012. It was registered to a guy named Clifford Andrews out of North Berwick.”

  Byron continued to scribble notes that only he would ever be able to decipher. “I’m assuming by your tone that Andrews isn’t our shooter.”

  “I highly doubt it. The guy has no criminal history, and he’s in his eighties.”

  “Go ahead with his current address,” Byron said.

  “Um, he lives in Bradenton, Florida.”

  Byron could feel the tension rising from every part of his body, meeting at the big knot forming at the back of his neck. One step forward, two steps back. It was infuriatingly predictable. “Did you find a phone number to go with the address?” he asked.

  “No,” Stevens said. “Couldn’t locate one. You want me to contact the PD in Bradenton?”

  “Yeah. Have them pay Mr. Andrews a visit. Find out what happened to that plate. See if he knows who might be usi
ng it now.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Byron hung up and headed back inside the hospital to update LeRoyer.

  Twenty minutes later, after realizing he wasn’t doing anything useful at the hospital, Byron returned to 109 to meet with his detectives.

  Tran had commandeered a desk in CID to be nearer to the detectives who’d been assigned to work the phones for leads, Luke Gardiner among them. Nugent was talking on his phone but gestured that he wouldn’t be much longer. Rather than wait, Stevens and Tran followed Byron into the conference room to bring him up to speed.

  “What happened in Florida?” Byron asked. “Did we have any luck locating Andrews?”

  “We did,” Tran said. “Or rather Bradenton PD did. Turns out Clifford Andrews had an accident in York County, Maine, back in 2010. The plate we’re looking for was attached to the car he was driving when the accident happened.”

  “Who has it now?” Byron asked, attempting to hide his impatience.

  “Andrews claims he doesn’t know,” Stevens chimed in. “I talked to him on the phone. He said his car was towed. The insurance company declared it a total loss.”

  Maine law required that registration plates no longer in use be returned to the state for reissue. But Byron knew that this requirement was rarely enforced; often, plates ended up hanging on someone’s garage walls as a memento or as building material for craft projects, like birdhouses. Anywhere but where they were supposed to be.

  “Who towed the car?” Byron asked.

  “Marcotte Automotive,” Nugent said as he entered the room, waving his notepad. “I just got off the phone with York SO. They investigated the crash in 2010. No one at the sheriff’s department had a key to records. I told the on-duty CO why we needed the information and he broke into Records to get it. How’s that for customer service?”

  “Okay, let’s contact the owner of Marcotte,” Byron said.

  “You can’t,” Nugent said. “According to Lieutenant Wiggins they went out of business six years ago, after the owner died.”

  Byron couldn’t believe they’d hit a dead end so quickly. He took a moment to consider their next move, running the scenario through his head. “The assets,” he said finally. “Find out what happened to the building and all of the equipment. They must have records.”