Tearing off my soaked shirt I knelt next to Earl and eased him onto his back, tucking the sodden cloth under his head like a pillow. “Lay flat and still. I’ll be right back.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Preble’s cart still moving down the hill. Then either he accelerated or gravity took over because the customized buggy was skidding crazily down the slope. Harding screamed like a kid on a carnival ride as the cart hydroplaned into the pond.
I rose from my crouch, relief washing over me like a cool shower, watching the big man splash around in the reeds and lily pads.
Then I saw Jay Preble, gun in hand, lift himself off the ground ten feet from the water’s edge. He’d been adroit enough to bail out as the cart careened down the hill, and he was smart enough to scan the woods rather than move to rescue Big Leo.
A flash of lightning illuminated the landscape for a long moment. As soon as I saw him see me, I began to run.
* * *
Knowing the golf course as well as he did, Preble made for the cart path that was the shortest route to the parking lot, apparently determined to block me from getting help. That left me the woods, which were full of roots and rocks, fallen branches slippery with moss and briars no less sticky in the pouring rain. Pounding down the hill I must have sounded like a bear with a broken leg, but I had no alternative.
As long as I was running through the woods, Preble’s attention would be focused on me rather than finding Earl. Harding would be able to pull himself out of the mucky pond, but he was a soldier, not a captain. He wouldn’t go looking for Earl unless Preble ordered him to do so. As for Coatesworth, I’d hit him hard enough that he’d be out of commission for a while. Even if he regained consciousness and managed to get moving, there was no way he’d be able to plow through the woods.
Setting aside my worry about Earl, I dodged from tree to tree in case Preble managed to draw a bead on me, slipping in the mud and dead leaves, watching for throat-high branches and hurdling fallen logs. My khakis were plastered to my body. Caked with mud, the soles of my shoes had lost their traction long ago.
Twenty-five yards from the bottom of the hill, I cursed my stupidity. A fence rather than woods defined the ninth hole’s south edge, a no-nonsense wire barrier that separated the golf course from a field of scrubby growth that ended at a power line. In other words, I was about to run out of cover.
Forcing myself to stop, I listened to Preble’s soaked shoes slapping against the cart path. Heavy shrubbery blocked my view, but I knew he was headed to the spot where the fence would force me into the open. Hands on my knees, I took several gulps of air, turned around and began picking my way back up the hill, trying to make as little noise as possible. My only chance of making it to civilization—the clubhouse and parking lot—was to circle behind Preble and sprint for safety via the first hole.
The thunderstorm seemed to be pulling away down the river toward Casco Bay, but the pounding rain continued unabated. The only sound other than its monotonous thump was my own labored breathing, until a gunshot signaled that Preble had noted my change in direction. That was the bad part. The good news was the shot allowed me to pinpoint his location.
Remembering Paulie’s line about a reporter needing to learn when and how to pivot, I did just that, literally. Running across the side of the hill, I climbed back through the weed-choked gully, crossed the cart path Preble had descended, and ducked into the woods on the other side. The land dropped off fast. Twenty feet in, it was low and swampy but I was as wet as I could possibly get, so I ignored the marsh-like stench and powered my way across, hoping my sense of direction was on target and I’d emerge in the area of the first hole’s putting green.
When I could see a clearing through the trees, I stopped to listen, leaning against a big pine to catch my breath. For a long minute I just heard rain, then a branch cracked fifty yards away. Seconds later Preble stepped into view, moving deliberately, gun in his right hand at shoulder height, pointing up.
I knew he’d keep circling until he found me. The neat little pack of lies that was Jay Preble’s life had exploded already. There was no way he was going to be able to explain his actions away. He was going down, and he knew it. That made him a panicking man, even if he looked as unflappable as ever. No question about it. If I didn’t move, he’d kill me.
Keeping my body as low and compact as possible, I bolted for the fairway. Preble fired when I was two steps from the grass, the bullet wide and high. Zigging and zagging in an effort to keep him guessing, I flew across the fairway, trying to put as much distance between us as I could, knowing it would take a lucky shot to hit me with a handgun from more than a hundred yards away. Preble must have known that too, because he stepped out of the woods and began running on a course designed to intersect mine. He squeezed off another shot but it wasn’t close.
When he’d closed the gap between us to twenty yards, Preble lifted the gun again. Attention focused on me like a laser, he never saw the bunker. When the firm ground under his feet gave way to a depression filled with sand, he fell flat on his face. I veered toward the sand trap and for the second time that afternoon executed a textbook flying tackle, catching Preble at thigh level as he staggered to his feet. We hit the ground wrestling, rain drenching us as we rolled in the grit.
The only thing I cared about was Preble’s right hand, still gripping the gun. Grunting with the effort of finding a foothold, I hurled my sand-coated body off the ground, elbowed Preble in the neck and punched the weapon from his hand. He yelped, either in pain or dismay, and tried to scramble after it, but I pinned him and pushed his face into the dirt. As he squirmed beneath me I heard voices, but they didn’t dent my concentration. I kept my hands on Jay Preble’s head and neck until a golf cart stopped beside me and Barbara Wyatt’s voice rang out.
“Police,” she yelled. “You’re surrounded. Drop the gun and reach for the sky.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Riverside, Maine
The entire front and three-quarters of an inside page of Saturday’s Chronicle were given over to the story of Jay Preble’s arrest for the 1968 murder of George Desmond. He also was charged with the kidnapping of Earl St. Pierre and attempting to murder me, small potatoes by comparison.
The main story carried my byline even though Gene wrote most of it. Relying on our combined notes and my retelling of the dramatic showdown on the golf course, he crafted a better story than I could have written myself. In the best rewrite man tradition, he settled for a modest italicized note at the bottom: Eugene H. Pelletier assisted with the reporting and writing of this story.
I’d spent most of Friday evening in the big conference room at the Riverside PD. Officer DeMauro—the first cop to respond the day Desmond’s bones were found at the Saccarappa—had chauffeured me home from the Mill Stream so I could shower the mud away and change into dry clothes. Back at the cop shop, downing one cup of coffee after another, I told Barb Wyatt, Tony Rigoletti and a lovely young assistant attorney general everything that happened out on the golf course during the thunderstorm. We spoke informally at first, then in a question-and-answer format recorded on videotape. Rufe sat in the chair at my left. When the questioning was done, his grin looked like the one he wore when summoned back to the stage for a curtain call.
“You did it, man,” he said while Chief Wyatt verified the video recorder had captured it all. “Solved a four-decade-old cold case, brought a man to justice.”
“All I did was finish the story. Paulie’s footwork showed me the way. And it never would have come together without your help.”
“Happy to play a supporting role. Despite rumors to the contrary, I don’t always have to be the star of the show.”
Rufe deserved plenty of credit for his actions after calling the cops on his cell phone. A lot of guys would have lost it when the gunshots bega
n, but Rufe stayed cool. He found an unlocked window in the pro shop, climbed in and located the stash of cart keys. He handed them over to Chief Wyatt as soon as she skidded into the parking lot, giving the SWAT-geared cops mobility to search for the gunman. When the cops fanned out over the course, Rufe grabbed a cart of his own and followed Chief Wyatt, meaning he saw my takedown of Jay Preble.
“Impressive tackle,” he said. “To think I’d pegged you as a soccer guy.”
Earl was in the hospital. He’d had a mild heart attack on the wooded hillside where I led the police as soon as Preble was in handcuffs. His condition was stable, but at the request of his doctors he wouldn’t be interviewed for at least a day.
As soon as there was a break in the action, I made three phone calls. First, to Helena Desmond, who wept when I reported that it appeared the man responsible for her brother’s murder had been apprehended. Too emotional to hear the all details, she asked me to come to the island to fill her in as soon as I had the whole story. Next, Joan Slater, who’d barely slept since we’d left her standing in her Durham driveway forty-eight hours before. Even over the phone it was obvious she was chain smoking. I thought she might be crying, too, but it was hard to be sure. Like Helena, she asked if we could get together again so she could ask all of her questions at once.
My third call was to Christie, who’d been closing up the diner when the first wave of rumors swept through Riverside. Neighbors of the golf club heard some of the gunshots despite the thunderstorm, leading to all manner of wild supposition about who was killing whom at the Mill Stream. Christie burst into tears at the sound of my voice. Unlike Helena and Joan, who were sobbing for the long-ago loss of their brother and boss, Christie was crying because I was alive.
Chief Wyatt told me Leo Harding was found at the maintenance barn covered with pond slime, sitting with his big bald head in his hands. Ken Coatesworth was next to him, his right eye swollen and bruised, brambles covering his tan golf sweater. While Rufe and I sipped coffee, they were being grilled in separate interrogation rooms, still wearing their sodden, smelly clothing. The experience transformed them into frightened old men, falling all over themselves to confess every crime they ever committed. I hadn’t bothered to report the invasion of my home that morning, so Chief Wyatt had to hide her surprise when Leo blurted that he’d done that, looking for clues to what I knew.
MacMahon was permitted to participate in the interrogations, a gracious move by Barb Wyatt, who publicly acknowledged the case likely would have remained unsolved without the help of the retired statie. This put glory-hog Tony Rigoletti in a box. Ever aware of the optics of a big collar, he kept his churlish nature in check and praised the Riverside PD and his former colleague. An exclusive story featuring that particular piece of cosmic justice ran on page one of the Sunday edition.
In sharp contrast to their well-rehearsed denials all those years ago, Harding and Coatesworth ratted out Jay Preble. They faced a variety of charges, including, at the high end, felony murder. The specter of prison weighing heavily on their minds, they flipped like a matched pair of tiddlywinks, revealing at last the truth about what happened in 1968. They entered guilty pleas at their first court appearance, no doubt hoping their cooperation and advanced age would translate to light sentences.
Mike Thibodeau was arrested as soon as Coatesworth and Harding sang his name, but he kept his mouth shut and pleaded not guilty at his arraignment. His lawyer told the police that even if Thibodeau had reason to suspect in the spring of 1968 that the mill men were up to no good, he had no idea they were burying George Desmond’s body behind the wall. Barb Wyatt called it the saw-no-actual-evil defense.
Jay Preble refused to say a word when he was taken into custody. Head high, expression composed, he arranged for bond in the amount of $750,000 to be posted within hours of his arrest. Three days later Preble’s name was splashed all over page one again when he was found dead in his study by the minister he’d summoned for pastoral counseling. The medical examiner calculated he’d chased a fistful of sedatives with several fingers of scotch less than an hour before the hapless clergyman knocked on his door.
The rambling note Preble left behind revealed him as a man without a conscience. He denied stealing from the Saccarappa accounts, though once Coatesworth sang and the forensic accountants reexamined the scam from the bank’s end, there was more than enough evidence to damn him. Preble also insisted he hadn’t killed Desmond, but Ken Coatesworth and Big Leo Harding’s recollections of the details were consistent and unshakeable in multiple separate interviews.
Still, the retired banker used the letter to proclaim his innocence and excuse himself from the rigors of fighting the charges.
I am unwilling to sully my family’s name by standing trial for theft and murder, Preble wrote. Despite my legal team’s belief that I have a strong case, I shall not attend the circus.
The day after Preble’s body was found, I drove to Kennebunkport in sweltering humidity to debrief with MacMahon. The fact Preble was beyond prosecution freed MacMahon to fill me in on the kind of details reporters dream about.
Chief Wyatt, still charting a cautious course, preferred to remain circumspect on the record, but she tacitly agreed to this arrangement. The rest of the press—TV, radio, internet and old-fashioned newspaper—choked on my dust. At least that was the expression Paulie would have used to describe dominating the coverage on a big story.
MacMahon said it turned out the one who had a big gambling addiction back in the day was Jay Preble—the anti-gaming crusader—not Coatesworth. Preble started out betting on horses and sports. But his downfall was poker. One night in January 1966, he used his Riverside National Bank shares to back a bet in a high-stakes game in Boston, only to see his four kings trumped by a straight flush. He was given a week to come up with a hundred grand or his father would be informed that a big chunk of the bank’s stock was now owned by the mob.
I thought back to my conversation with Preble after the Downtown Club debate. He’d been so convincing when he told me about a college pal having been in just such a fix. It hadn’t occurred to me he was twisting history to throw me off track.
“My instincts were partly correct about Coatesworth,” MacMahon said. “He’d been running errands for the mob since college, but not because he liked rubbing shoulders with wise guys. His paternal relatives were Yankees who’d spent all their money and were living on the memory of it. His mother’s family was Irish mob. Their dirty dollars paid for his exclusive education, a fact he kept secret except from his friend Jay Preble. He did messenger jobs and similar low-level work in exchange for the tuition payments. His Irish uncles found it amusing that his clean-cut looks enabled him to fly beneath law enforcement radar.”
Coatesworth swore he’d stopped working for the family once he was hired on at the Saccarappa, but admitted arranging Preble’s invitation to the high-stakes game in Boston. When Preble got himself in trouble, he convinced Coatesworth to broker a payment plan through his maternal uncles.
“Preble admitted to Coatesworth the payback money was coming from the mill’s bank accounts. He was managing a big bunch of stock accounts, treating them like a taproot for cash. His original plan was to siphon off only enough money to redeem the stock. By the time a year had passed, Preble had paid back five times what was owed and the mob boyos still had their hands out.”
While Preble was manipulating the accounts at the bank, Coatesworth kept a close eye on Desmond, the only mill employee they believed was smart enough to discover the theft. Sure enough, Desmond eventually realized considerable money was leaking out of the mill’s accounts. In a quiet attempt to investigate before sounding an alarm, he circulated a memo asking the various departments to update their information about the vendors and stock holdings related to their function.
“Coatesworth gave a copy of the memo to Preble, who promptly went into cover-up overdrive.”
MacMahon wheeled himself over to the far wall of his living room and turned up the speed on a big box fan that filled a window, talking all the while. “Big Leo was ordered by Preble to follow Desmond. When he reported spotting Desmond huddled with Earl St. Pierre at the Warp, Preble panicked, assuming Desmond was spreading the word and his sins were about to be found out. The only way to keep that from happening, he told Coatesworth, was to kill Desmond.”
“Nothing subtle about that.”
MacMahon lingered in front of the fan. “Coatesworth said he wanted no part of murder. Running errands for bad guy relatives was one thing. Killing a man was quite another. Still, Preble was persistent and eventually Coatesworth agreed to concoct a reason to draw Desmond into the office on a Saturday and let Preble take it from there.
“Because he already was being extorted plenty, Preble wasn’t about to arrange for a hit by the mob. He figured he’d do it himself. Using Coatesworth’s key, he let himself into the Saccarappa office building early on the morning of May 11, 1968 and ambushed Desmond as he entered his own office, clocking him with a baseball bat. Honoring Coatesworth’s request to be left out of it, Preble called Harding—who knew everything about the layout of the mill and would ask no questions—to ask for help. Harding was the one who suggested Desmond’s body be disposed of in the mill’s basement, where a section of the interior wall was falling down.”
“Harding as an active player, that I can believe,” I said. “He’s always struck me as having a nasty streak.”
“Amoral, the psychologists would say.” MacMahon rolled his neck, which, like mine, was dripping with sweat. “Preble? Pretty clear he was a sociopath. Harding’s more of a street kid who never matured beyond situational ethics.”
In a particularly gruesome twist, MacMahon said, Harding confessed to driving his father’s refrigerated fish delivery truck right up to the back door of the office building late that Saturday morning so they could keep Desmond’s body on ice while they made a plan.
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