by Jordan Jones
“Thank you,” Welker replied from his desk. He was a chiseled, stone-faced man that did his best impersonation of someone being polite.
I grabbed my Americano and went back to my desk while the other detectives made a dash for theirs. Harlow sat at her desk across from mine and turned on her computer.
“So, where are we going with this thing?” Abraham said.
“The Maise case?” I asked. “I have my theories, but I’m reluctant to run it by anyone yet. Just a thought, nothing more.”
“I am wondering about something myself,” he said. He swiveled his chair around to face my back. “What if she was afraid of her dad for some reason? She referred to him as a phoenix.”
The picture on my computer from her room depicted a fiery white bird, chasing down villagers below.
“We don’t know that,” I said. “We just know she wrote a note, but we don’t know who it’s addressed to.”
“I’ll do some research on him to see what the deal is.” Abraham swung back around.
LT Anderson came out of his corner office with coffee mug in hand and made eyes at everyone, then looked directly at me. “Trotter, I need to see you for a minute.”
Harlow gave me a look of sarcastic fright as I stood up. Anderson’s office was draped with his usual war ribbons and Marine Corps slogans. He had a copy of The Declaration of Independence framed on his wall, along with medals of valor.
He rarely talked about his time in the 2003 invasion of Iraq, but it was something that was evident in every square inch of his office.
“Please, take a seat.” He shut the door behind him and walked around his large solid oak desk. The command he held in the room with just the two of us was unquestionable.
It must’ve been what his men experienced in war.
“I have Dr. Allen here and she’ll be talking to you,” he said, matter-of-factly. He saw the disdain on my face and said: “I know what you’re thinking, all right? It doesn’t matter. It’s agency protocol, so you’re going to do it.”
“I won’t object,” I said. “But, this Maise thing isn’t over yet. I would rather focus on this.”
“You can and you will. Give her five minutes and then you’ll be cleared. Just make sure you don’t discuss the Alvin Dugger case and you’ll be fine.” LT Anderson lit his cigar, took a puff and studied me. “You saw some pretty wild stuff barely two days ago. Stuff I’ve seen a hundred times over. I know what it’s like, and I wish my company commander made me see a shrink.”
I nodded. I couldn’t go toe to toe with Anderson. He helped get me to where I was in my career, and as many doubts as I was having about it, I was thankful.
Above his mantel, he had many pictures in a collage, and the most prominent one being of him and my father standing beside a tank somewhere in Kuwait in 2003. Anderson told me they left the next day to start the invasion of Iraq. As much as I was a natural at leading my men, your father did it twice as good, he told me. They both joined the Maine state police after discharging in 2008.
“Dr. Allen is in the empty office across the hall,” he said, and began working on his computer.
Dr. Allen greeted me with a smile and motioned for me to sit directly across from her. She was an elderly woman with gaudy earrings and a necklace that was far too big for her scrawny neck.
Each time we saw something that was “out of the ordinary,” we were to have a quick conversation with Dr. Allen.
I’ve seen her over two hundred times in twelve years.
“Detective John Trotter,” she said, smiling. “It’s nice to see you again. I find you in here quite a bit more than the others, that’s for sure.”
“What can I say? Trouble will find me,” I replied, trying my best to appear amused.
“I’ve heard about the girl you saw at the bridge the other day,” she continued. “Such a terrible thing that happened to her. She must’ve been going through a lot.”
“You could say that.”
Tell me,” she said, pausing for a brief second. “How have you coped with it? I know what you saw wasn’t pleasant.”
I thought back to drinking with Abraham the very night Madison died, and watching Abraham fall for the seduction, willingly.
I thought about when I nearly jumped off my balcony from fifteen stories up just so I didn’t have to investigate this case or any more like it.
I thought about how I had laid in bed for the past two nights, unable to sleep because I couldn’t wrap my head around Kay, and what she must be experiencing.
“I’ve been coping OK, I guess you could say.” I couldn’t even convince myself.
“What does that mean?” she said, sensing my lie.
“I’ve just been reading a lot lately,” I replied. I knew better. This was a trap to get me to take a leave. The Maise case had bogged me down, but I was not out. It was hard enough to find motivation on my own, let alone when I felt like my agency wasn’t behind me.
She gave a disapproving sigh. “Well, I’m only here to make sure you’re still able to work to your full capacity.”
“I am.”
“It’s not something to be ashamed of if you can’t,” she continued. “Especially after what you’ve just seen. Take a few days off. You can come right back and resume exactly where you left off.”
“That’s not how it works,” I said.
“Then how does it work?”
“There are things in this case that aren’t adding up, and I want to fix it before I take any time off. Otherwise, it’s going to consume me.” I stopped, and looked at Dr. Allen. She saw her opening.
“Do you often get consumed by these cases, Detective Trotter?” she asked. She knew I backed myself into a corner after spilling too much. She added ‘Detective Trotter’ as the cherry on top.
“No, I don’t.” I didn’t say anymore.
“But, this one has consumed you?”
“No, not yet. I said if I took time off it would. I’m good now. I just have a good groove and have a few questions left to uncover.” She could sense the agitation in my voice.
“Very well, Detective. I will be speaking to you once the case is closed just to check-in.”
I exited the office in a hurry and returned to my desk.
Abraham was missing; It was likely he was talking to LT Anderson, then Dr. Allen soon after. Harlow looked up from her computer screen concerned. The file on my desk was still open with witness statements from the couple on the bridge that witness Madison’s fall.
“Another Dr. Allen game of ‘I bet I can get you to say something taboo?’” Harlow said, eyes back on the screen.
“Something like that,” I said.
Have fun with it. The note taken from the notebook was Xeroxed and placed in the file. What was Madison saying? Was she talking to her father?
Harlow looked up again. “Phillip Maise is going to be released from University City Prison on March14th. That’s in about six weeks.”
My ears perked up. “What does it say about him?” I asked.
“He was caught trying to solicit a minor online. A vigilante group hunting pedophiles online caught him back in 2019. They pose as kids and lure men to meet them in public places before they upload them on the internet for everyone to see. The police in Portland got wind of the video the group posted and found him here in Lincolnshire.”
“So, it wasn’t even a police sting?” I said.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Send me that link.”
The video loaded up and the then-forty-year-old Philip Maise was walking through a department store being harassed by at least four young men, with one young woman with them.
They chastised him, ridiculed him, and belittled him all throughout the store. The grainy footage showed his license plate number after the group followed Philip to the parking lot.
Visibly embarrassed, Philip said he’d never do it again and sped off. The drive to Portland was nearly two hours, and what a long drive it must’ve been.
Th
e creators of the video didn’t look like they were even in their twenties, but they did a marvelous job, albeit dangerous. What I experienced while watching the footage, I couldn’t explain. I wanted to be happy and excited, but something about it looked very familiar to me. I watched the video again, and then a third time.
“Are you all right over there?” Harlow asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “This is fascinating.”
“What is?” Harlow looked over the top of her monitor. “You mean those kids following pedophiles around and exposing them? It’s happening all over the place now.”
I looked through videos of other vigilante groups and they did much of the same. They all seemed professional enough. Explaining to each perpetrator that they were not cops and they wouldn’t get hurt. They informed the creep that they could leave at any given time.
“Who made the one with Philip Maise in it?” I asked. I wasn’t technology illiterate, but I wasn’t well versed in any one aspect of it. Computers were just short of acting as my bane.
“They were called ‘Nightstalkers,’” she said. “They haven’t uploaded a video for over a year, though. So good luck finding them.”
My stomach dropped. I needed to speak with Evan Crist immediately.
“We have cybercrimes,” I reminded her. “I have a friend over there that owes me a favor anyway. I’m sure it wouldn’t take him long to figure out where these videos originated from.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to typing. “You know,” she said. “You don’t have to pour out your coffee just because I brought you some. My feelings wouldn’t have been hurt.”
“Oh, I didn’t do it to spare your feelings,” I responded. “I did it because this coffee is much better than the stale crap I bring from home. Besides, it’s more likely you’ll bring some again for me next time.”
She smiled, but I was too busy looking back at my screen.
I needed to talk to the Nightstalkers as soon as possible.
Chapter Seven
Chaplan in cybercrimes tagged an IP address from the Nightstalker videos, which pulled up a home address in Gardiner, just north of Portland and east of Lincolnshire along interstate 295 in Maine. The Night Stalker channel was defunct early 2024, but it was connected to a newer channel where it’s creator, Evan Crist, travels around the country looking inside abandoned buildings.
He made a lucrative career by the looks of his home.
Chaplan told me that he posts almost daily and it’s likely he wouldn’t be home, though two sedans sat side by side in his driveway as I pulled up.
Fresh snow blanketed his front yard and not a footstep in sight, not even to his mailbox. I felt discouraged as I texted Abraham nearly sixty miles away at his desk at the precinct:
Made it. No signs of life. Going to try my luck anyway.
My scarf was secured tightly around my neck, covering up enough of my face to be unrecognizable, though not deceitful.
I made my way up the slippery drive and before I would wrap on the door, it opened.
A tall, skinny man with a freshly cut beard answered in surprise. He looked like he was on his way out, and I wasn’t sure what face I was looking for, as he was always behind the camera in his videos.
“I’m sorry, can I help you?” he asked. His annoyance was obvious and he looked in a hurry.
“Yes, err, sorry. My name is Detective John Trotter. I’m with the Lincolnshire Police Department. I’m investigating a suicide and I’m looking to see if you can help me with it.”
He was taken aback. A pale-skinned, slender woman appeared from behind him. “Who is it?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “It’s a police detective. He wants to talk about a case. Please, come in.”
I followed them inside, unbuttoned my coat, and set my fedora on the couch at my side. My scarf was still securely in place.
“Mr. Crist,” I began. “There was a suicide in Lincolnshire. A twelve year old girl jumped to her death two days ago and we’re trying to wrap up the case.”
“Oh, I heard about that!” Evan’s wife interjected. “That poor family. I don’t know what I would do if our daughter did something like that.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Evan asked. He was slightly more annoyed.
“Your videos you used to post - with the Nightstalkers,” I said. “One of your catches was this girl’s father.”
“That was probably a while back. I stopped filming that stuff about a year ago after someone pulled a gun on me for the third time.” Evan looked at his wife. “It scared her to death and I didn’t want to leave my kids without a father. I had to stop.”
“All that was admirable, truly,” I said. “But, I wanted to know if you had any information on this guy that wasn’t posted. Another video, perhaps? Maybe a transcript?”
He thought for a minute and said, “I think I do, actually. I kept all the chat files on a thumb drive in case anything ever came from the catches. We had a pretty high conviction rate…for the one’s the police sought. A lot of them just got away.”
Evan went to a back room and his wife and I shared an awkward glance for what seemed like an eternity. He returned with a laptop and thumb drive.
“Do you remember his name? I have all the files saved by name.”
“Look for Philip Maise,” I answered. “I think the catch was on April, 7th, 2019.”
He stared intently at the screen and his eyes brightened. “Yep. Here it is.”
He handed the laptop to me and I scrolled through the messages, scouring through each disgusting word transmitted between an adult man and whom he thought was a young child.
“Was this you talking with him?”
“Yeah,” Evan responded. “I made up a new account with a new screen name every few weeks. Once the creeps started catching on to one name, I’d change it to another.”
“Smart.”
The graphic conversation only got worse as I scrolled down the page. I read each line, page after page and word after word of the most perverse language imaginable. He was excited about a possible rendezvous with a young girl.
Thankfully there wasn’t one.
“So, he was caught and convicted for this,” I said, sort of half asking, half talking.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think that was one of the many that I went on the stand for. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I said, distracted by the words. “He’s set to be released in a matter of weeks.”
“Really?” Evan asked. “That seems longer than a lot of our other catches.”
“Yeah, I imagine they all get different sentences based off jurisdiction how the judge feels that day,” I said. While reading through the messages, the subtext was always Philip’s needs. As the decoy, Evan informed him many times that she had a tough upbringing, likely strengthening her desire for an older male in her life.
He was on board to play that role.
“Was there some link to him getting released and his daughter’s death?” Evan’s wife blurted out. “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping boundaries.”
“Oh, not at all,” I said. “But, it’s an ongoing investigation and I can’t give out any of that information.” The conversation turned almost parental within the chat. Almost like Philip was acting like a father to the decoy.
The decoy played it brilliantly.
Then there it was. As bright as day, shimmering through the rest of the putrid-sewage-filled paragraphs. The shining star of the conversation was as subtle as a hammer smacking a windshield. Philip disclosed subversive information right on the surface for all to see, though the investigators that initially read through Philip’s disgusting words missed it.
My girlfriend won’t mind if we meet. In fact, she might prefer it.
Philip was married to Kay at the time of the encounter. Madison was the only other one to live in the house at the time, and my heart sank at the atrocities she experienced.
“Can you email me this transcript, please?” I asked, handing him my card. “That was horrible to read. How did you talk to those guys like that?”
“I had to stop and take breaks often,” he said. “My wife and I were just dating at the time, and I wouldn’t let her see what these guys were saying to me. I’m just glad it was to me and not some young girl or boy.”
“Me too.”
“Let me get you one of my cards in case you need something more,” Evan said, standing up and walking into a back room. His wife turned back into the kitchen.
I quickly reached for my thumb drive and slammed it into the side of his laptop, searching the files rapidly for a Tommy Roisman.
Bingo.
Click…click…click. The file was also downloaded onto the thumb drive and I disconnected the thumb drive from the port just as Evan walked back in and sat down.
I thanked the both of them and walked out to the unmarked charger. My phone buzzed as soon as the engine turned on.
“Trotter,” I answered.
“Hey, man.” It was Abraham, and he sounded panicked. “Just got a call from CSU, we have a homicide on Pinewood.”
Chapter Eight
Pinewood Avenue was a well-known middle class area of Lincolnshire. It was the type of area that if you didn’t maintain your lawn well enough, your neighbor might call the HOA.
The houses all matched each other in size, and varied little in architecture. Families were out shoveling driveways from the previous night’s dusting. Friendly waves caught my eye as I passed by.
The closer I got to the house, the more concerned the neighborhood residents looked. Up ahead, I saw squad cars with lights, fire trucks, and an ambulance.
It was definitely like us as a department to overdo it with theatrics.
I pulled behind a squad car and Abraham walked to me quickly.
“What the hell took so long?”
“I was a town over,” I said, defending myself. “Working the Maise case. I think I —“
