Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Billingslea considered what she’d said. It made sense but he realized that just about anything she said made sense at this point. He was smitten.

  “I don’t understand why they’d have him try a civil case when his background was criminal defense,” he said.

  “Most of the prep work for these cases is done by people like me. Compile the information, organize it, type the briefs, file the motions, do the research, all of it. The firm’s senior partners conduct strategy sessions about how to handle a case, then, once they decide something is going to trial, they’ll pick the litigator who gives them the best shot at winning. Paul’s background didn’t really matter. He knew courtroom procedure. He knew how to play to a jury and handle witnesses. Paul Ramsey was simply their best hope to win.”

  “Still, a million bucks is a million bucks,” Billingslea said, lifting his glass and finishing the last swig of beer.

  “Yeah,” she said. “But it isn’t ten.”

  Chapter Eight

  Friday, 6:45 a.m., April 29, 2016

  At 6:45 the next morning, Byron sat impatiently behind the wheel of his unmarked at the St. John Street Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through. Waiting like some well-dressed addict to score an extra-large cup of America’s last legal stimulant. He had his cell pressed to his ear waiting for Sergeant Huntress to pick up.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got another floater, John?” Huntress said, skipping right past the usual pleasantries.

  “Thought you guys lived for this stuff,” Byron said.

  “Well, I do have a life, ya know, unlike you psychos in CID. Besides, half my shit is still wet from yesterday.”

  “We recovered Ramsey’s vehicle late yesterday afternoon.”

  “I heard. Martin’s Point Bridge, right?”

  “Below it. The old access road, where Veranda ends.”

  “I know right where that is. The anglers use it. So what are we looking for today?”

  “Hang on a sec.” Byron pulled up to the window and handed the clerk three ones. He took his coffee and change then pulled away from the window.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Java stop.”

  “Good for you. So you were about to tell me what you hoped to find.”

  “The gun used to kill Ramsey.”

  Huntress agreed to assemble his team for a ten o’clock dive. Byron had just ended the call when his cell rang. The caller ID showed a blocked number.

  “Byron,” he answered.

  “Top o’ the morn’, Sergeant.”

  Ellis.

  “Hey, Doc. You’re up bright and early.”

  “Maine’s most brilliant pathologist is on his way to the gym.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. My GP says I gotta drop a few if I don’t wanna end up on my own table.”

  Byron laughed, picturing the portly throwback sweating atop an elliptical. “Damn doctors, huh? Think they know it all.”

  Ellis chuckled. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I know what Ramsey had in his system.”

  “That was fast. Do tell.”

  “Counselor Ramsey had himself quite a little party before meeting his demise. BAC was .16 and his blood also contained a very high level of what we in the doctorin’ biz call cocaine metabolites.”

  “How high?”

  “Over five hundred nanograms per milliliter of blood. Pretty typical for a chronic user.”

  “So, no surprises.”

  “Not so fast. There was a third substance on board. Fentanyl.”

  “Fentanyl? Thought you said he was a coke addict?”

  “He’s got all of the usual indicators. Doesn’t mean the late Counselor Ramsey didn’t occasionally partake of the other white drug.”

  Fentanyl, a powerful narcotic analgesic, didn’t match what Byron knew about Ramsey. But Ellis was right, the deceased might have experimented with other drugs. They’d need to track down Ramsey’s supplier.

  “Where would he get his hands on something like that?” Byron asked.

  “Hey, you’re the detective, Sergeant. Ha! Get it.”

  “Yeah, I got it. How long can you keep the cause of death under wraps, before you start getting grief?”

  “How long do you need?” Ellis asked.

  “A week?”

  “I’ll give you till Monday.”

  Byron toted his extra-large coffee into CID. He grabbed a medium-sized stack of overnight crime reports off the printer, then walked to his office. First order of business, check voicemail. According to the automated female voice on his desk phone, he had sixteen new messages. Typical during the first few days of a murder investigation. Three of the calls were from the ever persistent Davis Billingslea, and one each from the newsrooms of Channels 6, 8, and 13. He deleted them one at a time until finally getting to one that actually mattered.

  “Sarge, Gabe. It’s eleven-thirty and I’m going home before I fall down. I categorized and entered the fingerprints from the door handle into AFIS, no matches on file. Also, I checked the weight on the bullet, figured I’d give you a head start. It’s a .380. Same diameter as a 9 mm but weighs a bit less. Haven’t gotten to the ballistics yet but I will in the morning. I’m planning to be in by eight-thirty. Later.”

  “Hey there, good lookin’,” Diane said as she walked in carrying a large coffee of her own and commandeered one of the chairs across from Byron.

  “Really?” he said, looking past her to the doorway.

  “Relax, lover. Nobody’s even here yet.”

  Their physical relationship had begun last fall, immediately after he’d been served with divorce papers by his ex. It bothered him how nonchalant Diane had become about their relationship. He wondered, and not for the first time, how badly things were likely to go if they were found out. Which one of them would LeRoyer kick out of the bureau? Or would Stanton see to it that they were both booted back to the street? Department regulations were very clear regarding fraternization between members of the same unit. They needed to be more careful.

  “Didn’t hear you take off last night,” Byron said.

  “I left about one. You were out cold. Must have been my little sleeping pill,” she said with a wink. “Any word on the tox?”

  “Ellis just called. Alcohol, coke, and fentanyl.”

  “Fentanyl? Thought our boy was just a blowhard.”

  “That’s what I said. Doc said it’s not unheard of for a user to experiment.”

  “Normal levels?”

  “Who knows what was normal for Ramsey? Ellis said his BAC was .16 and the level of coke was typical.”

  “Anything from Gabe?”

  “He left a message. No match on the print. The round is a .380.”

  “Ballistics?”

  “He hasn’t done that yet.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “We’ve got a lot to do. I want to pay a visit to Ramsey’s bosses at the firm, find out what they know and get some background on this guy who was threatening him. Also, we need a list of phone numbers and contact info from all of the firm’s employees.” He held up the subpoena. “We need to get this served on Ramsey’s cell carrier and put Tran on the research. I want to know everyone Ramsey was in contact with leading up to his death. We need to find the asshole from the bar—”

  “McVail?”

  “Yeah, and the girl McVail was with. I may put Nuge and Mel on that. Anything else you can think of?”

  “We should try and find out who Ramsey’s supplier was. Ramsey may have been in arrears on his dope payments. I’ll check with Crosby’s guys and see if they’ve got a line on who’s dealing at the Fox.”

  “Good. I’ll reach out to the firm and put Dustin to work.”

  “Don’t forget about the note from the Unicorn,” she said.

  “That’s right. Talk to Joe?”

  “Want me to check on that, too?”

  “Nah. I’ll give that to Dustin as well.�
�

  After Diane departed, Byron finished giving a cursory listen to the rest of his voicemail messages before heading down to see Tran in the computer lab. The only other noteworthy message was left by attorney Devon Branch, from the law firm of Newman, Branch & DeWitt, looking to have a sit-down. Byron wasn’t surprised by the call. He figured Ramsey’s former employer would look to minimize any exposure that might damage their reputation. And, as it so happened, Byron needed to find out a few things from them as well.

  Detective Dustin Tran’s office was located on the third floor of 109, next to the Regional Crime Lab. While technically the Computer Crimes Unit, it was only one room with one detective, Tran.

  Tran was on the phone when Byron walked in. He held up a finger, signaling that he was almost finished.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought as well,” Tran said into the phone. “But after checking further into the subfiles on the C drive, I think there might be more.”

  The bulk of Tran’s workload was searching the computers of predators for child pornography. Byron didn’t care to think about what other files might be contained in whatever C drive subfiles Tran was checking. He perused the shelves stacked with computer towers and hard drives, all waiting to be analyzed. The heat generated by the electronics made the small room uncomfortably warm and gave it an oily mechanical smell. He wondered, and not for the first time, why if fighting cybercrime really was the inevitable future of law enforcement the city hadn’t funded more than a single detective stuck in a closet. It felt more like the usual window dressing thinly applied to the issue of the day. Something he’d seen far too often in his twenty plus years.

  “Okay,” Tran said. “I’ll let you know. Later, alligator.” He hung up, turning his attention to Byron. “Morning, Striped One.”

  A typical greeting from his highly unorthodox detective. Tran was one part police officer and at least two parts computer geek. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in the military, Byron thought, not with their rigid chain of command structure. But Tran was good at his job. He could sniff out information in his sleep and password cracking was one of his specialties. Every visit to the computer virtuoso was another reminder for Byron to change his own passwords.

  “I’ve got some work for you,” Byron said.

  “Ramsey?” Tran asked excitedly.

  “Ramsey,” Byron said, nodding. “You got time?”

  “For you, sire, I’ll make time.”

  Byron handed him the subpoena that Ferguson had faxed overnight, then filled Tran in on everything he knew about Attorney Ramsey, his wife, Donald McVail, the law firm, and the name Joe. Tran promised to fill in the blanks ASAP.

  Byron was exiting the fourth-floor stairwell when he bumped into Lieutenant LeRoyer.

  “John, glad I caught you,” LeRoyer said, falling into step with his sergeant.

  “What’s up?”

  “Any progress?”

  “No. Ramsey’s still dead and we haven’t made an arrest yet.”

  “Do you have to work at being such a prick or does it just come naturally?”

  “It’s early. Wait till I get warmed up.”

  “Stanton has commanded an audience,” LeRoyer said.

  “Give him my best.”

  LeRoyer scowled. “With both of us, sunshine.”

  “Great. Let me find Diane.”

  “Ah, she’s gonna be busy for a bit.”

  “Doing?”

  “I sent her to take care of something.”

  Byron stopped walking. “Might be nice if I knew what it was. She does work for me, Lieu.”

  “Yup, she does,” LeRoyer said as he continued toward his office. “And last time I checked you work for me.” He held up his arm and pointed to his watch. “Stanton’s office, ten minutes.”

  One of the things Byron disliked most about Chief of Police Michael Stanton was his fondness for describing murder as nothing more than an aggravated assault that the victim never walked away from. Byron hated the dismissive implication in that statement. More than once he’d been forced to restrain himself from telling the chief exactly where he could stick that notion. Investigating and, more importantly, solving a murder requires commitment, even if Stanton couldn’t comprehend it. Commitment to the deceased and a never-ending commitment to the victim’s loved ones. Byron had always thought of murder as the theft of life, and unlike most thefts, there was no way to make restitution.

  Stanton’s office occupied most of the northeast corner of the fourth floor at 109 Middle Street. With the exception of the floor-to-ceiling window wall, every vertical surface in the spacious room was decorated in twenty-first-century egocentric, or what Byron sarcastically referred to as “walls of me.” Pictures of Stanton posing with various celebrities and dignitaries adorned each wall from chair rail to ceiling. Byron counted at least three presidents, two major sports stars, and a foreign dignitary. Any space devoid of a photo was occupied by some award or plaque that had been presented to Stanton: Lawman of the Year, Elks Club Man of the Year, Parade Magazine Cop of the Year, et cetera. Stanton was a textbook narcissist. Byron wondered if any of the rooms at Casa Stanton were adorned in similar fashion and what shortcoming Stanton might be trying to overcome.

  Byron and LeRoyer waited in awkward silence as Stanton finished up his business in his private washroom. Evidently, having your own washroom was another perk that came with being the head of Maine’s largest municipal policy agency, Byron thought.

  Stanton exited the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem, Chief,” LeRoyer said cheerfully.

  Didn’t realize I had a choice, Byron thought but did not say.

  “How was your vacation?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Oh, we had a great time down there, Marty. Either of you ever been to Tampa?”

  Byron shook his head.

  “The wife and I went once,” LeRoyer said. “Left the kids with her parents. Got to see the Sox play at the Trop. Did you catch a game, Chief?”

  “Nope, strictly the beach for me and the missus,” Stanton said as he began knotting his tie into a Windsor.

  “I was going to mention your tan,” LeRoyer said.

  It was all Byron could do not to roll his eyes.

  “Gonna be a bitch keeping it up here,” Stanton said as he plopped down in the chair behind his large wooden desk. He turned his attention to Byron. “I understand you’re investigating a new homicide. How’s it going?”

  “Going okay. Still early.”

  “What can you tell me about the case?”

  As little as humanly possible. “Not much to tell, really,” he said. “Yesterday morning, we pulled Attorney Paul Ramsey out of the ocean behind Peaks.”

  “Drowning?” Stanton asked.

  Byron could tell by Stanton’s expression that the chief already knew better, but if he wanted to play twenty questions, Byron was more than willing to play along. “No.”

  “Do we have an official cause yet?”

  “We’re still waiting for the official report from the medical examiner, Chief,” LeRoyer nervously interjected.

  “So we don’t know anything yet?” Stanton asked, raising a brow.

  “Not until we have Dr. Ellis’s findings,” Byron said.

  Stanton gave Byron a knowing glance before moving on. “We have any idea how he ended up in the ocean?”

  Byron wondered what number question they were currently on. “Not yet.”

  “I know I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this case is,” Stanton said. “Ramsey was a lawyer with Newman, Branch & DeWitt, one of the city’s largest firms.”

  “The biggest,” LeRoyer chimed in, as if it somehow mattered to the case. It didn’t.

  Byron listened to Stanton pontificate, waiting for him to get to the point and wondering which of the three wise men had already reached out to the chief.

  “I got a call last night from Devon Branch,
” Stanton said.

  And we have a winner, Byron thought.

  “Devon is a personal friend of mine and a major benefactor to this department. His firm has donated nearly all of the money for our K-9 program.”

  Byron figured the chief was likely personal friends with anyone willing to make him look good. Every chief wants a pet project to take credit for. Stanton’s had been to update and expand Portland’s K-9 unit, adding bomb detection, more training and equipment, including Kevlar for the dogs. Stanton had funded this effort with donations from Newman, Branch & DeWitt in the form of several rather large checks each delivered with plenty of fanfare in front of news cameras.

  Stanton continued. “Devon expressed concern about details of the case coming out. Details which might reflect poorly on the firm.”

  “Details, Chief?” Byron said, aware LeRoyer was squirming uncomfortably in the chair beside him. It might even have been fun if Stanton wasn’t once again trying to insert himself into one of Byron’s cases. “What details are those? Does Branch have information pertinent to Ramsey’s death?”

  Stanton stared back at Byron, his displeasure obvious. “That’s something you’ll have to take up with him, Sergeant. My point is that I don’t want us to be playing fast and loose with any aspect of this case.” Stanton shifted his gaze toward LeRoyer. “And I don’t want to read anything inflammatory in the papers.”

  Ironic, Byron thought, as it was often Stanton behind the media leaks.

  “I’m aware that you and Ramsey had a history, Sergeant,” Stanton said. “Don’t let that history cloud your judgment.”

  “It won’t,” Byron said flatly.

  After several more minutes of pointless chatter, Stanton dismissed Byron but told LeRoyer to stay behind. The after party where a real conversation would be had.

  Byron left the office wondering why Devon Branch was working so quickly to circle the wagons. What was it that the firm was so worried might come out? What was Ramsey involved in? Time to pay a visit to Chief Stanton’s benefactor.

  “Marty, I want to discuss something else with you,” Stanton said, following Byron’s departure.