Diane waited a few minutes for Freeman to compose himself before continuing with the questions. He wiped the tears from his face and the snot from his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“What happened to the drugs and gun, Nate?” Diane asked.
Diane grabbed Gardiner and headed out to locate Abdi Ali, leaving Stevens and Nugent to deal with booking Nate Freeman on the armed robbery charge. They hurried down the back stairwell toward 109’s rear garage. Diane held tight to a manila envelope containing the photograph that Tran had printed of Freeman’s car.
“Think we should let the lieutenant know what we’ve got, Sarge?” Gardiner asked.
Diane stopped abruptly as she reached the landing between the first and second floors. She spun around to face him and the young detective nearly collided with her.
“If I thought that, we would’ve done it already.” She could see that her reaction had caught him by surprise. She tried a softer approach. “Look, I know you’re new to this, Luke, but this is the job. The big leagues. You’ve seen how this thing has played out from the very beginning, right?”
Gardiner’s head bobbed up and down. “Yeah, kind of a shit show.”
“A shit show is right. Between the leaks and the people intentionally trying to manipulate and take advantage of this thing, it’s been a disaster. A friend of mine was murdered because it was convenient. I watched someone I care a great deal about get driven right over the edge into a suspension. Not to mention having to watch as the entire police department was dragged through the muck over a lie. Now, do you want to make a call to the lieutenant asking permission, risking another leak, or worse? Or would you rather we go out and do our goddamned jobs?”
“You’re the boss,” Gardiner said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I’m with you, Sarge.”
“Good,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Diane and Gardiner drove to the Eastern Halal Market on Munjoy Hill, fully expecting to have a confrontation with the elder Ali over the whereabouts of his son, Abdirahman. What they found instead were Mr. and Mrs. Ali speaking frantically with a uniformed police officer.
“What are you doing here?” Diane asked the officer.
“Dispatch sent me up here for a missing-persons report,” the officer said.
“Who’s missing?” Gardiner asked.
“The store owner’s son, Abdirahman.”
“He has run away,” Ahmed Ali said.
Mrs. Ali barked something at her husband, speaking in Somali. Diane couldn’t understand what the distressed mother was saying but it was clear she was angry with Ahmed.
Mrs. Ali turned to Diane with pleading eyes. “We are very worried about Abdi, Sergeant Joyner. Please help us find him.”
Diane sat Mrs. Ali down, quickly obtaining as much information as she could. Mrs. Ali told her that in addition to running away, Abdi had also stolen his parents’ van. Diane stepped away and called Dispatch from her cell. She gave them the particulars, along with the description of Abdi and the van’s registration number. Before Diane could disconnect the call, Mrs. Ali approached her again.
“There is something else,” Mrs. Ali said. Ahmed yelled something across the room at his wife in their native tongue. Mrs. Ali shouted back. With slumped shoulders, Ahmed turned away in defeat.
“Hang on a sec,” Diane said to the dispatcher. “What is it, Mrs. Ali?”
“My son has a gun with him.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A small gun that fits in your hand,” she said, pantomiming the act of holding a gun.
“A handgun, like this one?” Diane said, pulling back her coat and revealing her own sidearm.
“Just like that, only it is silver colored.”
“Where did Abdi get a gun, Mrs. Ali?”
Ahmed yelled again.
“From my husband,” she said.
Diane glared over at the store owner. Ahmed hung his head in shame. She looked back at Mrs. Ali. “Does Abdi have ammo for the gun?”
“Bullets?” Mrs. Ali asked.
“Yes, bullets.”
“My husband had a box of bullets. It’s missing.”
“You have got to be shitting me,” LeRoyer shouted as he paced the floor of the CID conference room. “Ahmed Ali lied about having a goddamned gun?”
Diane wondered how the lieutenant could ever have put so much stock in what the store owner had told the police in the first place. If it was in fact his gun that Plummer had fired at Haggerty, Ahmed had probably known all along that his son was complicit. She couldn’t help wondering what lies she might have been capable of had it been her son.
“So now Ali’s son is missing, and he’s armed?” LeRoyer asked.
“Yes,” Diane said. “He’s also stolen his parents’ car.”
“Jesus,” LeRoyer said. “This just gets better and better. Tell me we’ve got a shitload of people out looking for him.”
“Everyone.” Except for John, she wanted to add, but didn’t.
LeRoyer combed the fingers of his right hand back through his hair. “I gotta tell Rumsfeld.” He stopped pacing and turned to Diane. “Find this kid, okay? Alive.”
“I’m working on it,” she said, wondering if it was even possible but praying that it was.
“Shit,” LeRoyer said as he opened the conference room door and marched toward his own office.
Diane plopped down in one of the padded chairs surrounding the table and hit the speed dial for John’s cell. The call went directly to voicemail. “You have reached Sergeant Byron’s voicemail. Leave a—”
Diane hung up and pocketed her phone.
Someone knocked at the door. It was the same officer who had taken the missing-persons report on Abdi Ali.
“Hey, Sarge,” he said. “Didn’t mean to bother you but I have the copy of the report you asked for.”
“You’re not bothering me,” Diane said as she reached for the report. “All entered into NCIC?”
“Yes. I delivered it to Dispatch myself. Here’s a copy of the file-6,” he said. The missing-persons report.
“Thanks.”
After the officer departed, Diane turned her attention back to the whiteboard. She sighed deeply. There were now two priorities in her life: locate Abdirahman Ali and find a way to reach John. And she needed to do both things before either of them did something that couldn’t be undone.
Chapter 32
Tuesday, 10:50 a.m.,
January 31, 2017
“911. Operator Gostkowski speaking. What’s your emergency?”
“This is Vice Principal Paul Rogers at Portland High School. We’ve got an armed student in Freshman Alley firing a gun into the air.”
The hair went up on the back of Gostkowski’s neck. “Stay right on the line with me, okay?”
“Okay.”
Gostkowski turned in his chair and yelled over at the dispatcher. “We’ve got an active shooter at Portland High. Start some units.”
“Jesus. My kid goes there. Where’s the shooter?” the dispatcher asked, wide-eyed.
“Freshman Alley.”
“I’m on it,” the dispatcher said, spinning in his chair to key the microphone. “Headquarters calling 101.”
Gostkowski returned his attention to the caller. Following protocol, he started down the checklist. “Okay, Mr. Rogers. Has anyone been shot?”
“I don’t know. I—I don’t think so.”
Diane half ran, half jogged to 109’s rear parking garage. Nugent and Stevens were with her step for step as they headed to their own vehicle. All three detectives were intently monitoring their portable radios. Diane heard multiple sirens blaring in the distance.
“101. Give me the air!” a male voice shouted over the radio.
“Ten-four, 101,” the dispatcher said.
Diane clicked the remote on the Ford’s ignition key as she neared her car, unlocking the door and jumping inside. As the Taurus’s base radio came to life, Diane powered down her portable and threw i
t on the passenger seat. A long piercing tone emitted from the base speaker, sounding twice as the dispatcher cleared the air.
“All units: a signal 1000 is now in effect,” the dispatcher said. “Units on Cumberland Avenue have priority. All other units switch to channel two.”
Diane sped out of the rear garage onto Newbury Street, Nugent and Stevens hot on her tail.
“101!”
“101, go ahead,” the dispatcher said.
“101. I need two units to shut down traffic on Cumberland Avenue. One at Elm Street and another one at Stone.”
“3. I’ll take Elm. Just pulling up now.”
“Ten-four, 103.”
“2. I’ve got Stone and Cumberland.”
“Ten-four, 102.”
“121.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” the dispatcher said.
“I want marked units blocking every entry point to Freshman Alley. We’ll need one on Congress Street, one on Elm Street, and one on Cumberland at the west end of the high school. Pull all the Deering units if you have to. Contact the local departments and request mutual aid assistance.”
“Ten-four, Sergeant.”
Diane was trying to navigate through the traffic on Pearl Street, but her way was blocked by a line of traffic on Congress that had stopped for the eastbound light at Franklin.
“Move it!” she yelled at a woman in a tan minivan who was sitting right in the middle of the intersection. The woman shrugged. “Come on, lady!” Diane yelled. “You’re the one blocking the intersection. Move!”
This was one of those moments when Diane wished she’d been a firefighter. She imagined a giant red ladder truck would be much more intimidating than her unmarked Taurus. She laid on the air horn until finally a pickup truck that had been stopped directly behind the offending minivan pulled around it to the left and out of the way. She gave a quick wave to the middle-aged male behind the wheel of the truck and gunned the accelerator. Stevens’s car was right on her tail as Diane crossed Congress and headed for Cumberland Avenue.
“100.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” the dispatcher said.
“100. Get ahold of SRT Commander Lieutenant Price.”
“Ten-four. Go ahead for Lieutenant Price. He’s standing right beside me.”
“Tell him to call out the team and have him contact me on my cell ten-eighteen.”
“Ten-four. He has it, sir.”
When Diane reached Stone Street she could see the throng of students spilling out of the school onto Cumberland Avenue. So much for shelter in place, she thought. The officer blocking the roadway stepped aside, waving both unmarked cars through. She swerved around the cruiser, then made the left turn up Chestnut Street, pulling over where two black-and-whites were parked, blocking the east end of the alley.
She jammed the Ford’s transmission into Park and jumped out. The black-and-whites belonged to Elmer Anderson, the day class lieutenant, and Officer Lance Beaulieu, the officer covering beat one. Both officers were standing outside of their patrol cars and monitoring the alley. Anderson was talking animatedly on his cell.
“What’s going on?” Diane asked as she and the other two detectives approached Anderson and Beaulieu. Lieutenant Anderson nodded without skipping a beat during his conversation with the SRT commander.
Beaulieu said, “Think we found your missing kid.”
“You sure it’s Abdi?” Diane asked, craning her neck to get a look down the alley.
“Plate number called in by the school matches the vehicle owned by Ahmed Ali.”
“What’s he done so far?” Nugent asked.
“He drove the van down into Freshman Alley and started waving a gun around telling students to get out of there. We’ve got the fire department helping us evacuate the school.”
“Any shots fired?” Stevens asked.
“Oh yeah,” Beaulieu said. “I heard a few myself. Who knows what he’s thinking.”
Diane wondered the same thing. Her biggest fear was that Abdi might be considering suicide by cop. Now that he knew he’d been found out and was most likely shouldering guilt over his part in the death of Plummer, and perhaps even Haggerty, it was anybody’s guess what he might do.
Diane pulled out her phone and dialed LeRoyer.
“Where are you?” the lieutenant asked, answering on the first ring.
“Chestnut Street. I’ve got Mel and Nuge with me.”
“Is it who I think it is?”
“It’s Abdi.”
“Be right there.”
The next thirty minutes were a blur. Diane and the other detectives stood by in case they were needed but there wasn’t much any of them could do. Members of the Special Reaction Team began to arrive and beat officers sealed off the alley from every direction. No one was getting in or out without police approval. Officers cleared the school, searching room by room. LeRoyer stayed close to Price and Rumsfeld. The hostage negotiator, Officer Damon Roberts, had made contact with Abdi on his cell. Roberts was attempting to start a dialogue with Abdi, but the young boy hung up before Roberts could say more than a few words.
“He’s upset,” Roberts said. “Said he’ll start shooting at anyone who comes near him.”
“Oh, he’s upset?” Rumsfeld said. “Well, fuck him. I’m upset. Does he have any idea how much trouble he’s created?”
Neither LeRoyer nor the negotiator responded to the acting chief’s rhetoric.
“What the hell does he want?” Rumsfeld asked.
“Abdi,” Roberts said upon reestablishing contact. “Don’t hang up. I only want to talk.”
Diane waited as they all did, focusing intently on Robert’s half of the conversation, the only one they were privy to.
“My name is Officer Roberts. I understand, Abdi—Is it okay if I call you Abdi? Good. Okay, so listen, Abdi, I—”
LeRoyer began pacing.
“Well, you can talk with me, okay?” Roberts said. “Why do you need to talk to Sergeant Byron?”
Diane saw Rumsfeld turn his head in LeRoyer’s direction. The chief’s mouth twisted up as he glared at the CID lieutenant.
“He’s not gonna be a part of this, Marty,” Rumsfeld growled. “He’s on suspension, for fuck’s sake.”
“He hung up again,” Roberts said, looking exasperated. “Says he’ll only talk to Byron. He’s threatening to kill himself if we don’t let him.”
There was a commotion at the intersection of Chestnut and Cumberland and they all turned to look. Ahmed Ali, Abdi’s father, had arrived. He was shouting and trying to push past the officers.
“Great,” Rumsfeld said. “That’s all we need.”
Roberts looked to the chief. “What do you want to do about Byron, sir?”
Rumsfeld looked at the SRT commander. “Get a sniper in position.”
“You got it, Chief,” Price said
Rumsfeld turned again to LeRoyer. “Drag that son of a bitch down here.”
Chapter 33
Tuesday, 1:30 p.m.,
January 31, 2017
Byron was trying desperately to will away his impending nausea as LeRoyer navigated the silver SUV through Cumberland Avenue’s slalom course of pedestrians and emergency vehicles. The repeated whooping of the Mercury’s siren felt like it might split his head in two.
LeRoyer raced past Portland High School, stopping at the intersection of Chestnut and Cumberland where he laid on the horn. The uniformed officer manning the intersection scrambled out of the black-and-white and ran to the wooden barricades impeding their path.
“Let’s go already!” LeRoyer yelled out the window as the young officer wrestled with the bulky wooden structure. “While we’re fucking young!”
“Easy, Marty,” Byron groaned.
“Hold on,” the lieutenant said as he stomped on the accelerator, nearly cleaning out the remaining barricades.
LeRoyer sped along the Chestnut Street side of the high school. The SUV jerked to a stop about two hundred feet in. The east end of Fresh
man Alley was blocked by two City of Portland fire trucks and surrounded by at least a dozen marked and unmarked cars.
Byron wondered if the PPD garage was empty. His stomach was churning as he stepped awkwardly from LeRoyer’s vehicle.
The chaos surrounding them wasn’t all that different than what he’d experienced in Kennedy Park more than two weeks earlier. So much had happened since then. The shooting, the protests, the media’s three-ring circus, the attack on Haggerty and his subsequent death, Molly’s funeral, and Byron’s suspension. It was all too surreal. Of course, the coup de grâce had been his swan dive off the sobriety wagon.
He stood swaying on sea legs, then turned to look back as the crowd parted for yet another vehicle. This time it was the PPD’s flat-black Special Reaction Team transport pulling in behind them. Three members of the team jumped out, including Kenny Crosby, who ran past carrying a rifle.
Diane jogged over to Byron. Concern etched on her face. “You okay?”
Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down before answering. “Not really. How bad is it?”
“Bad. Abdi’s threatening to kill himself. He has a gun.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“The gun belongs to his father. He and Tommy Plummer did the robbery. You were right, John.”
Yay for me, Byron thought. It was a nonexistent consolation after everything that had transpired. His vision was fuzzy. He leaned back against the side of LeRoyer’s Mercury, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate.
She touched the side of his face with her bare hand. “Jesus, John, you’re burning up. You sure you’re up for this?”
He wasn’t sure he was up for anything. The truth was, had the barricaded person been almost anyone else Byron would have done an about-face, taken LeRoyer’s vehicle, and driven away. After all, Haggerty was dead. Abdi Ali might not have pulled the trigger, but he and Tommy Plummer had set this whole series of events in motion. As far as Byron was concerned, both boys were both responsible for everything that happened following the robbery at the laundromat. But still, he thought, Abdi’s only a kid. A stupid, scared kid who’d most likely been talked into the robbery by Plummer. Byron couldn’t let him commit suicide. Especially not suicide by cop. The madness had to end. Byron couldn’t change what had already happened, but he could keep it from getting worse. He worried about what would happen to his city if he couldn’t save the boy. What would become of the community? What would become of him? If Abdi died today, would Byron ever be able to face himself in the mirror again?
Beyond the Truth Page 32
