Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Ellis began the exam by gloving up and donning an apron. Carefully, he unzipped the bag containing Ramsey’s remains, releasing the foul fishy odor of decomposition. Rivulets of water ran onto the table, forming reflective pools. A pair of silver dollar-sized black crabs skittered from the bag to the table then dropped down onto the concrete floor. The unlikely stowaways had evidently secreted themselves somewhere inside the remains, continuing to feed during transport to Augusta.

  Byron glanced over at Cody, whose face was now as white as a sheet. Pelligrosso, having taken up a position behind the officer, caught him easily before he could collapse onto the floor. Byron and the others carried Cody into a nearby office and laid him on a sofa, while Ellis waited with a satisfied grin on his face. Byron returned to the exam room, making a mental note to avoid seafood for the foreseeable future.

  Ellis began by describing in detail everything he observed into a digital recorder. Each item of clothing was carefully removed from Ramsey’s body. Pelligrosso took custody and bagged every item of wet clothing, all of which would be taken back to 109 Middle Street, Portland police headquarters, and air-dried in the lab. Ellis next performed a slow methodical examination of Ramsey’s body, checking for signs of rigor and taking note of any visible injuries or abnormal marks.

  Ellis turned to Byron. “When was Mr. Ramsey last seen alive?”

  “We haven’t established a timeline yet,” Byron said. “We know he was in court early Tuesday afternoon. But we haven’t had time to talk with anyone.”

  Ellis lifted one of Ramsey’s arms and tried to bend it. “Still a bit of stiffness present,” he said, referring to rigor mortis. “Cold water would slow the process somewhat.” Ellis addressed Pelligrosso. “I assume you checked the ocean temp, my boy?”

  “Forty-nine.”

  Ellis nodded.

  “Any idea, Doc?” Byron asked.

  Ellis shook his head. “Best guess? And that’s all it would be. Probably sometime Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. Too many variables on this one to count on rigor. I’m basing most of my guess on the damage from ocean feeders.”

  Byron scribbled another quick note.

  “Shall we begin?” Ellis said as he picked up his scalpel and made the first incision.

  During the hour that followed, the detectives watched closely as Ellis cut and removed, weighed and examined, every square inch of Paul Ramsey’s remains. Each time he found anything of significance he invited Byron and Diane over to have a look. The detectives jotted in their notebooks while Evidence Tech Pelligrosso snapped digital photos. As usual, Nicky silently and efficiently provided whatever Ellis required.

  Byron noticed that Cody had rejoined them in the lab, but the young rookie wisely sat on the opposite side of the room, away from the autopsy, behind the glass viewing partition.

  “Take a look at this,” Ellis said, holding up the top of Ramsey’s skull like a ceramic bowl.

  Byron and Diane both moved closer.

  “See these marks?” Ellis said, pointing inside.

  Pelligrosso snapped another photo.

  “What are those?” Byron asked.

  “Impact points,” Ellis said. “The bullet appears to have entered through the forehead and for whatever reason didn’t penetrate through. Why you didn’t see an exit wound. It just sorta bounced around in there, scrambling his brains.”

  “If the bullet didn’t come through, where is it?” Diane asked.

  “Most likely still trapped inside the brain tissue.”

  Ellis went to work with the scalpel, carefully removing Ramsey’s brain and carrying it over to a metal tray. He methodically sliced until he located the bullet. “Here you are,” he said, pushing the round to the center of the tray and rinsing it off with a small squeeze bottle of distilled water.

  “Jacketed round,” Pelligrosso said. “About the size of a .380 or maybe a 9 mm.”

  “That’s a pretty big round,” Diane said. “Any idea why it didn’t penetrate?”

  “Guy had a hard head,” Ellis said.

  “Could have been old ammo,” Pelligrosso said.

  Byron knew that when it came to knowledge of firearms, Pelligrosso was a veritable Encyclopedia Britannica. The flat-topped ex-soldier had received training on every weapon imaginable.

  Pelligrosso continued. “The powder may have been fouled. Or perhaps the killer reloaded their own ammo and didn’t use enough powder. Even a bullet this size wouldn’t go all the way through the head if it’s underpowered. It will act more like a smaller round, more like a .22 or a .25 caliber.”

  “Think there’s enough detail left for a ballistic comparison?” Byron asked his evidence tech.

  Pelligrosso bent down to examine the deformed round more closely. “It’s pretty dinged-up but it looks like there might still be enough.”

  “You can package it up and take it with you when I’m finished here,” Ellis said.

  “How much of what we’re looking at for facial trauma is postmortem, Doc?” Byron asked.

  Ellis pulled Ramsey’s forehead back onto the skull. “Some. The eyelids and lips sustained cuts and bruising prior to death, probably what attracted the crabs so soon. You can see where they were feeding.”

  “So he took a few knocks to the face before he was shot?” Byron asked.

  “Either that or he fell down, landing on his face.”

  “Could he have been in a fight?”

  “Doubtful. No damage to his knuckles. The body is pretty well developed. A regular at a gym, no doubt. You don’t get to look like this hanging out in a courtroom. More likely he’d have my svelte physique,” Ellis said, grinning. “Unless the tox shows that he was blistered, he should’ve been able to fight back.”

  Byron made a note to check.

  “So what are you thinking, Doc?” Diane asked.

  “I think he may have been struck from behind, knocking him down.”

  Ellis produced a stainless steel tray containing several tiny black specks. “I removed these from the skin in the back of his head. They were imbedded within the hairline.”

  “What are they?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “Broken pieces of some type of polymer,” Ellis said.

  “Plastic?” Diane asked. “I don’t get it.”

  Byron nodded his understanding. “He was struck in the back of the head, and the plastic was left behind.”

  “What would be hard enough to knock someone his size down that was made of plastic?” Diane asked.

  “Plastic shielding a metallic frame. The grips on a handgun,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Bingo,” Ellis said, pointing a bloody gloved finger at the evidence tech.

  “So he was pistol whipped?” Diane said.

  Ellis set the tray down. “That’d be my guess. The attacker whacks him from behind with a gun. Victim falls forward, landing face-first on the ground.”

  “Or a boat,” Pelligrosso said.

  Byron looked at Ellis. “Don’t suppose you can magically analyze those bits of plastic and tell us where this all happened?”

  “Sorry,” Ellis said. “Dr. E.’s supernatural powers do have limits. Although, if it helps, the stomach contents indicate Ramsey’s last meal consisted of french fries, clams, and shrimp. Ironic considering that the crabs were recently dining on him.”

  “Doesn’t help much that every establishment in the Old Port probably serves those,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Anything else?” Byron asked.

  Ellis showed them several oddly shaped bruises on the outer skin at the right side of Ramsey’s rib cage.

  “Any idea what those marks are?” Byron asked.

  “Business end of a gun, maybe,” Ellis said. “Someone may have pressed the gun against his ribs to get him to cooperate. No detail, I’m afraid, because it was pressed through clothing.”

  Pelligrosso snapped several more photos.

  Ellis continued. “On the self-inflicted front, his liver was in bad shape from chronic ethanol abus
e.”

  Byron and Diane scribbled notes as Ellis spoke.

  “Also, the good Mr. Ramsey liked his blow.”

  “How’s that?” Diane asked, looking up from her notebook.

  “Cocaine,” Ellis said.

  “How can you tell?” Byron asked.

  “Ramsey’s preferred method was snorting,” Ellis said, holding his hand under his nose and pantomiming the act. “The cartilage between his nostrils was nearly worn away. There’s actually a small hole in the septum.” Ellis pushed a long stainless steel rod with a hook at one end through the opening. “See. Right here. This guy was a regular vacuum cleaner.”

  Byron had heard the rumors about Ramsey’s propensity for illegal drugs. He had also heard rumors about Ramsey’s firm having diverse financial interests. He wondered if there might have been some truth to those rumors after all. Had Ramsey’s addiction led to his demise? Or was someone sending a message to his employer?

  Pelligrosso snapped another picture.

  Ellis, still holding the rod in Ramsey’s nose, turned to the camera and smiled.

  “Glad I never picked up that habit,” Diane said with a grimace.

  “You don’t make enough money to afford such a habit, Detective,” Ellis said, giving her a wink.

  “What’s the bottom line, Doc?” Byron asked. “Was he still alive when he went into the water?”

  “No. Nothing I’ve found indicates he was still breathing when he went into the water.”

  “Any chance the bullet wound was self-inflicted?” Diane said.

  “The entry wound is non-contact. The barrel of the gun wasn’t close enough to leave either flash or powder burns. Unless he had a magic selfie stick designed to fire a handgun, someone else shot him in the head.”

  “Then dumped his body in the ocean,” Byron said, trying it on.

  Ellis eyed Ramsey’s body. “Did I hear you right? He was a Portland attorney?”

  “High-priced trial lawyer,” Diane said.

  “High-priced asshole,” Pelligrosso added.

  “Looks like somebody shares your opinion, my boy,” Ellis said.

  Chapter Five

  Thursday, 2:00 p.m., April 28, 2016

  Byron and Diane drove back to Greater Portland in search of Mrs. Ramsey, while Pelligrosso and an embarrassed Officer Cody returned to 109 Middle Street, or what the cops simply dubbed 109. On the way, Byron called Detective Tran and obtained the Ramseys’ Yarmouth address.

  Mast Landing wasn’t a landing at all but a quaint little cul-de-sac consisting of four colonial-style homes, each positioned to allow for an ocean view.

  Diane whistled through her teeth. “What do you think these babies go for?”

  Byron, pleased to see she was in a better mood, said, “Dunno, but I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the property tax.”

  “That looks like the one,” she said, pointing to a white three-story structure with maroon shutters and an attached three-bay garage.

  “The biggest one on the street, of course,” he said, turning the unmarked into the driveway, constructed from landscape stones laid out in a herringbone pattern.

  “God, I hate these,” Diane said.

  Byron, knowing that she was referring to death notifications, agreed. No cop wanted to be the bearer of such grim news. But it was part of the job, especially important in murder cases. How people reacted to news of a loved one’s death was often telling. Seasoned investigators always paid attention. You never knew when you might be addressing the killer.

  “How do you want to do it?” Diane asked as they approached the granite front steps.

  “You up for this?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “I’m fine, John. I was just a little out of sorts earlier. Really.”

  Byron stepped to the side. “Have at it.”

  She reached out and pressed the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Ramsey?” Diane asked as the front door opened.

  “I’m Julia Ramsey,” she said, her eyes shifting back and forth between them. “May I help you?”

  Julia Ramsey was dressed in white slacks, sandals, and a light blue short-sleeved blouse. According to the Maine Bureau of Motor Vehicles, she was sixty-one, five years Ramsey’s senior. Byron wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to look like but she certainly didn’t look old enough to be on the other side of sixty. Ramsey’s widow was attractive, tan, and fit. Byron imagined she had a private gym membership or, more likely, a personal trainer.

  Well-rehearsed and nearly synchronized, the detectives each displayed their credentials.

  “Mrs. Ramsey, my name is Detective Joyner and this is Detective Sergeant Byron.”

  Ramsey nodded, gave each ID a cursory glance, and acknowledged Byron with a weak smile.

  Diane continued. “May we come in?”

  Ramsey looked directly at Diane. She appeared to be studying the younger woman’s face. “You’ve come to deliver bad news, haven’t you?” she said finally.

  “I’m afraid we have,” Diane said.

  “It’s Paul, isn’t it?”

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Ramsey. Your husband is dead.”

  Ramsey’s gaze shifted toward Byron. Her eyes welled up with tears. “Won’t you please come in,” she said, suddenly looking much older.

  The detectives followed Mrs. Ramsey through the foyer and into the living room.

  “Would either of you care for something to drink?” she asked. “Coffee, perhaps, or tea?”

  “We don’t want to put you to any trouble, Mrs. Ramsey,” Diane said.

  “Please,” Ramsey said. “It’s no trouble. And it will give me something else to focus on.”

  “I’d love some tea,” Diane said.

  Byron wasn’t in the mood for either, but experience had taught him that everyone handles grief differently. Mrs. Ramsey appeared to be in shock at the news of her husband’s death and if being on hostess autopilot was working for her, he certainly didn’t want to break the flow. Besides, he had already given Diane the lead on this interview. “Coffee would be great,” he said.

  “Why don’t I give you a hand,” Diane said.

  Byron remained behind as the two women disappeared into the kitchen and, like any good investigator, he used the time to look around.

  The living room was large and richly appointed, the furniture plush, everything tastefully decorated. It was obvious that Mrs. Ramsey either had a keen eye for design or had hired a professional. Byron wondered how someone so refined had ever ended up married to such a pompous prick. He walked past a large picture window toward the fireplace. Standing atop a gleaming white ornamental mantelpiece was a row of silver-framed black and white photographs. He picked one up and looked at it. Seated on the home’s front steps were three women and a half-dozen children. The Ramseys’ grown children and grandchildren sans spouses, he guessed. Paul Ramsey hadn’t seemed the fatherly type, at least not the one Byron had known. He looked more closely. Each of the women bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Ramsey. He wondered if Paul might not be the father. Perhaps he had been a second husband and these were his stepdaughters and stepgrandkids.

  He was replacing the picture upon the mantel when the women returned from the kitchen. Diane carried a silver-colored serving tray upon which sat a large carafe and three ceramic mugs.

  “How do you take your coffee, Sergeant Byron?” Mrs. Ramsey asked.

  “Cream only, thank you,” he said, making eye contact with Diane and mouthing the word Well?

  Diane gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she sat down next to Ramsey on the sofa.

  Byron walked over to the center of the room, taking a seat in one of two plaid overstuffed chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table.

  “Here you are, Sergeant,” Ramsey said, passing a mug across the table to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, Detective Joyner,” Ramsey said after they were all settled. “What can you tell me about my husband’s death
?”

  “Well, we’re still awaiting the medical examiner’s findings, Mrs. Ramsey.”

  “Where was he found?”

  Diane looked to Byron for help.

  “We recovered his body from the ocean,” Byron said. “He was found by a commercial fisherman near Peaks Island.”

  Ramsey’s hand was visibly shaking as she sipped from her mug.

  Diane reached out and took Ramsey’s left hand in her own.

  “Did my Paul drown?” Ramsey asked.

  “No,” Diane said.

  Ramsey looked at Byron. “Was he murdered?”

  “We are treating your husband’s death as suspicious,” Byron said.

  Ramsey leaned over and with a trembling hand set her mug on the coffee table, very nearly spilling it in the process. She waited a beat, cleared her throat, then looked up at Byron. “How did he die, Sergeant?”

  He knew she deserved the truth, but he also knew that preserving as much detail as possible about the cause of death was key to solving any case. Details given to family members oftentimes got leaked to the media, making it much harder to avoid dealing with crackpots. Those folks who will confess to something they didn’t do for the sake of attention.

  “He was shot, Mrs. Ramsey,” Byron said, taking a chance.

  She covered her mouth with her right hand and closed her eyes tightly. The detectives waited a few moments, allowing her time to deal with the shock.

  Diane reached over and gently rubbed the widow’s back.

  Finally, after composing herself, Ramsey lowered her hand to her lap and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry. Please proceed.”

  “Mrs. Ramsey, it’s very important that you don’t share any of the details we’ve given you about your husband’s death. Even with your family,” Byron said. “Having information get out prematurely could hurt our investigation. Make it much harder to catch the person responsible. Do you understand?”