Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

“Jamie.”

  “You know Phil Goodall, right?” Huntress asked. “He’s our volunteer dive master.”

  “Sure, we’ve met before,” Goodall said as he shook hands with Byron.

  “Thanks for helping us out with this, Phil,” Byron said. “Any luck?”

  “We found a gun,” Huntress said.

  “Really?” Byron asked hopefully.

  “Yeah. Pretty sure it’s not your murder weapon, though,” Huntress said as he produced a rust-colored hunk of steel that was at least the approximate shape of the gun.

  “Pretty sure you’re right,” Byron said, handing it back and looking for something to wipe his hand on.

  “Told you you wouldn’t believe what we find down there.”

  “Any luck with a shell casing?” Byron asked, knowing full well that if they couldn’t locate the gun, the casing would be nothing more than a pine needle in the proverbial forest.

  Huntress shook his head. “Nope. Pelligrosso was by earlier. Had a couple of guys out here with a metal detectors checking the surrounding bushes and shoreline but I don’t think they found too much. Trash mostly.”

  Byron sighed as he scanned the area.

  “You positive Ramsey was killed out here?” Huntress asked.

  “On this case? I’m not positive of anything.”

  Diane made a quick left onto Franklin Street from Congress, skillfully guiding the unmarked through the rush hour traffic.

  “Have you told the sarge about the promotional exam yet?” Stevens asked.

  Diane glanced over at her then back to the road. “No.”

  “You do care about him, don’t you?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then you need to tell him, Di. Before he finds out some other way.”

  Diane took a deep breath then exhaled loudly. “I know, you’re right, Mel. It’s just—”

  “What?”

  “My relationship with John. It’s complicated.”

  “News flash, all relationships are complicated. How complicated can yours be?”

  Diane slowed then stopped for the red light at Marginal Way. “You know what I mean. I’m not even sure it’s really going anywhere. We never go out, not like on a real date. This trying to hide it thing sucks. I want everyone to know we’re together.”

  “Have you told him that?” Stevens asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “You need to be honest with him, Di. He deserves that from you. He’s not only your sergeant, he’s your lover.”

  Diane liked the sound of that. She and John were lovers, and it had been good between them. But something was still missing.

  “You owe him the truth,” Stevens said.

  “I know. And I feel like such a hypocrite. This dishonesty bullshit is exactly why I left New York.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’ve never really talked about him. He was on the job, right?”

  “Yeah. You think I’d learn, wouldn’t you? First few years were great, but then he became a controlling asshole. Men, right?” Diane said, looking at Stevens and rolling her eyes.

  “News flash, men haven’t cornered the market on that. I’ve been with a few of the fairer sex who were just as bad. One was worse.”

  “After that he started lying to me,” Diane said.

  “Kinda like you’re lying to John?”

  She realized she had no comeback for that. Mel was right. “I’m just worried how he’s going to take it.”

  A car horn blared loudly from directly behind them.

  Stevens whipped her head around toward the backseat and flipped the driver of a silver Nissan off through the rear window. “Relax, dickhead.”

  “Jesus, Mel,” Diane said, laughing as she proceeded through the intersection and up onto 295. “This is a city car, ya know.”

  “Screw him. Your problems are more important than that macho asshole’s.”

  Diane smiled as she activated the left blinker, and merged into the interstate’s southbound traffic.

  The Pathfinder roared past them in the next lane; the driver returned Stevens’s one-fingered salute while laying on the horn.

  “So, you gonna take the media job?” Stevens asked.

  “I don’t know. Guess I’m still conflicted.”

  Stevens shook her head. “Sounds to me like you’re not sure about much of anything. If you really want to be with John, why not take the job they offered you? End the conflict.”

  “Because I’ve got serious reservations about accepting the position,” Diane said.

  “Like?”

  “The city’s motives.”

  “Let me guess, you think they’re only making this offer because you’re black?”

  “They all but said it, Mel. Waved the first female detective sergeant thing right in my face. But what they really meant was that I’d be the first black female detective sergeant.”

  “So?”

  Diane hadn’t expected that response. “How would you feel? What if they were making the same offer to you because you’re gay?”

  “Does it really matter how you get it? I mean, you’re totally qualified. Who cares if they’re just trying to capitalize on your lineage?”

  “My lineage? Did you really just say that?”

  Both of them broke up laughing for a moment.

  “Shut up,” Stevens said, still laughing. “You know what I’m saying. You’d make an awesome detective sergeant, Di.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Hell ya!” Stevens said, giving her a playful smack on the arm. “You go, girl!”

  Diane fixed her with an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Mel.”

  Byron had departed from Veranda Street and was headed for the jail when his cell vibrated. It was Pelligrosso.

  “Sarge, it’s Gabe.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We finished recanvassing the area where Ramsey’s SUV was recovered. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yeah, Huntress said you’d been by. Anything?”

  “Not really. Oh, there was one thing. We found a makeshift homeless camp in the bushes nearby. Abandoned.”

  “Anything left behind?” Byron asked.

  “Just some random trash. A ripped plastic tarp, empty soup cans, and an As’ cap.”

  Byron caught an image in his head. Portland had more than its share of homeless folks. They arrived by any means necessary to what some thought of as the land of milk and honey, collecting bottles and cans or standing on street corners with cardboard signs in all manner of dress. But the As’ cap could only mean one man: Erwin Glantz. Or Winn, as Byron affectionately referred to him. A combat veteran of the first Gulf War who hailed from sunny California. And like so many before Winn, serving his country had left him damaged, both physically and psychologically. After earning two Purple Hearts and an honorable discharge, Winn returned to the States, quickly finding himself on the wrong side of the law and on the outs with his family. He had spent several agonizing years trying to assimilate out west, before pulling up stakes and dragging himself as far from his family as possible, settling in Portland. Byron had crossed paths with Winn soon after. Winn had been casing the RSVP liquor store on Forest Avenue about to commit a burglary, and Byron knew it. Instead of busting Winn, Byron drove him to an all-night diner and fixed him up with some food and drink. Winn, who had never forgotten Byron’s kindness, had been a great source of information when Byron had needed it. What goes around comes around.

  “Did you seize any of those items?” Byron asked.

  “I did,” Pelligrosso said. “Didn’t think any of it was connected but you never know, right? I grabbed the hat and a couple of miscellaneous items.”

  “Anything you can print?”

  “The soup cans, maybe. I can try.”

  “Let me know.”

  Byron disconnected the call, pausing a moment before returning the phone to his pocket. It could have been any one of several hundred
homeless people camped out in those bushes. But he’d be willing to bet a paycheck it was Winn. Had he seen something that caused him to abandon camp? Or was it only a coincidence that Ramsey’s vehicle had been dumped there? If it was Winn, leaving his prized ball cap suggested he’d left in a hurry. Byron needed to find him.

  Byron stood waiting beside a uniformed jail guard. He stole a sideways glance at the acne-covered face of the deputy. Byron knew he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one. The guard looked up at the security camera, a signal to the tower guard that they were in position. There was a loud buzz followed by an equally loud metallic clank as the electronic lock was disengaged. The hinges protested loudly as the guard pushed the heavy iron door inward. Byron followed him down a small corridor, which led to three different visitor rooms, each with a rectangular metal table and four chairs. The walls were nothing more than painted concrete block. No doors, no frills, and no privacy. The first two rooms they passed were empty. Byron, who couldn’t help but be reminded of Stockton’s story The Lady or the Tiger, turned the corner and entered the third where Detective Nugent and McVail were already waiting.

  “All set?” the deputy asked Byron.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right down at the other end of the hall. Holler if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” Byron said, turning his attention to McVail and taking a seat next to Nugent. “I guess this just isn’t your day, huh, Donny?”

  Nugent chuckled. “He claims that neither the boots he was wearing, nor the coke hidden inside them, were his.”

  “Tough luck, huh?” Byron said.

  “I got nothing to say,” McVail said.

  “That’s too bad,” Byron said. “I just got off the phone with your PO. He’s considering having you serve every single day of your remaining sentence.”

  McVail fixed him with a smug grin. “That’s bullshit. No way they’ll make me do eighteen months. Wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Nothing to do with fair, Donny. You got caught holding again. You beat up a guy who’s now dead and you resisted arrest.” Byron turned to Nugent. “I forget anything?”

  “Don’t forget about the knife.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. And one more thing, it’s not just possession on the drug charge.”

  “What do you mean?” McVail asked.

  “You brought coke into a jail, Donny. The courts frown on that sort of thing. What’s the legal term for that, Nuge?”

  “Legally? I’d say he’s fucked, but I believe they still call it trafficking in prison contraband.”

  McVail scoffed. “Whatever. That’s just a misdemeanor.”

  “Wrong again, Donny ol’ boy,” Byron said. “Class C felony.”

  McVail’s eyes widened. “Fuck that! There was only a half a . . .”

  “Half a what, Donny?” Nugent asked. “Thought it wasn’t yours.”

  “Whatever. You guys are just bullshittin’ me.”

  “I don’t bullshit,” Byron said.

  “Of course, if you had a prescription for the coke you’d be okay,” Nugent teased. “How ’bout it, sport? You got a doctor’s note for blow?”

  “They have that?” McVail asked hopefully. “Same as weed?”

  “No, Donny, they don’t,” Byron said. “And if you thought eighteen months was bad, imagine what five years will feel like.”

  “And you wouldn’t be doing it here in the county lockup either,” Nugent added. “Nope, right to the big house in Warren. They’re gonna love you. Literally. Just try to imagine what that’s gonna feel like.”

  McVail hung his head. His arrogance was gone. “What do you want from me?”

  Byron put his forearms on the table and leaned over close to McVail. “The name of Paul Ramsey’s supplier.”

  Byron departed the jail mulling over the information McVail had provided. He was also contemplating the next move. Downtown traffic was crawling as he drove east on Congress Street scanning the numerous vacant storefronts interspersed among Portland’s more prosperous and longstanding establishments. On display in some of the empty commercial properties were signs of promise, along with the high hopes of new lessees, The Future Site of, and Opening Soon. Starstruck entrepreneurs with a vision to restore vitality to Maine’s struggling economy.

  Years earlier, as a young detective, when he hadn’t been immersed in the middle of a major case, Byron and his old mentor, Ray Humphrey, would intentionally drive the Congress Street route back to 109. Humphrey had been fond of calling it the “Congo run,” mainly because the human interaction along Portland’s main downtown thoroughfare was both primal and fascinating. More like a jungle than an urban landscape. There were aggressive panhandlers, scared business folk hurrying to or from meetings, street corner musicians and preachers, the mentally deranged talking aloud to themselves, and more scared business folk. Summertime saw the addition of tourists, mindlessly snapping selfies amid the throngs. Portland had it all. The good, the bad, and the unmedicated.

  He stopped at the red traffic light where High Street intersected Congress. A young man stood in the median holding a cardboard sign: Out of Work Vet. Anything Helps. God Bless. Byron wondered exactly which war the teenager was claiming to be a veteran of. He also wondered how it was that he could be begging for money while wearing two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar cross-trainers, talking on his cell, and smoking cigarettes. Hell, Byron couldn’t afford to take up smoking.

  He recalled having seen an early twentieth century sepia tone photograph of Civil War General Joshua Chamberlain riding proudly on horseback down this same thoroughfare during a parade. As Byron watched the “well-to-do indigent” taking hard-earned money from passing motorists, he wondered what General Chamberlain would have thought of his beloved city’s transformation. He wondered, too, what Chamberlain might have thought of Paul Ramsey.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he removed his cell. McVail had given them a solid lead and, as much as Byron hated the idea, it was time to reach out to Sergeant Crosby for help.

  “Help ya?” the balding man with the beer belly said from behind the open siding glass counter window.

  “I hope so,” Diane said. She and Mel both flashed him their IDs.

  “Lady cops, huh? You here to bust me?” he asked, raising his arms for effect.

  “Not unless we have to,” Stevens said, deadpan.

  Lines of confusion appeared on Beer Belly’s forehead. A white oval name tag bearing the name Skip was sewn onto the breast of his faded chambray shirt.

  “She’s kidding,” Diane said. “We’re looking for information about one of your long haul truckers.”

  “Which one?”

  “Justin Elwell. He works here, right?”

  “Justin’s a sub.”

  “Sub?” Diane asked.

  “Subcontractor. Owns his own rig. We just hire him to transport our trailers.”

  “Where would he normally take them?” Stevens asked.

  “Wherever. Depends on the shipping schedule. And believe you me, there’s nothing normal or routine about that. Why you askin’ about Justin anyway? He in some kind of trouble?”

  “We don’t think so, but we need to verify his whereabouts for the past week,” Diane said.

  Skip grabbed a grungy olive-colored three-ring binder off the desk and brought it to the window. He slipped a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and up over his greasy nose. “Let’s see,” he said, licking a finger and flipping pages. “He was off last week.”

  “He didn’t make any deliveries?” Diane asked.

  “Not for me.”

  “What does that mean?” Stevens asked.

  Skip looked up from the notebook, grinning. There was a dark-colored gob of food stuck between his front teeth. “Means the guys who have their own rigs work for whoever they want. Good money in moonlighting. Actually, he’s been off for a few weeks. Some legal thing.”

  Diane wondered if Skip had any idea how m
uch had been at stake regarding Elwell’s “legal thing.” She doubted he’d even care. “Do you know when he came back to work?” she asked.

  “Yup. Right here,” he said, pointing to an entry and spinning the binder toward the detectives.

  Elwell’s name was written in the margin several times at the start of the week. “This shows him working Monday and Tuesday,” Diane said.

  “Why are the entries different?” Stevens asked.

  “’Cause Monday was a short hop,” Skip said.

  “What’s that?” Diane asked.

  “What we call a one-day run. A down-and-back. Usually New England states. Can only log so many hours driving in a day. Any more than allowed and the Staties get their panties in a bunch.” Skip’s face turned a blotchy shade of crimson as he realized what he’d said. “Sorry about that. You know what I mean.”

  “Do I ever,” Stevens said, exaggerating the act of adjusting her belt with both hands.

  Diane worked hard to maintain her poker face. “So what’s with Tuesday’s entry? That wasn’t a short hop?”

  “No, ma’am. We sent him to Kansas City to pick up a load of tires.”

  “When did he leave?”

  Skip spun the book back around, so it faced him. “Signed out a trailer at three-thirty Tuesday afternoon.”

  “When did he return?”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “He hasn’t returned?” Diane said, surprised.

  “Not yet. Probably won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you worried that something may have happened?”

  “Not really. It’s not like I’m paying him by the hour. Driving long haul can be a pain in the ass. All kinds of shit can go wrong. Accidents. Weather. Exceeding your driving time per day.”

  “I could drive out there in less than a day,” Stevens said.

  “Yup, if you didn’t stop, you sure could,” Skip said. “Problem is, the truckers only get eleven hours of driving time per day. That’s the max. As I said, them Staties don’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Can you at least call and see if he ever made it to the pickup?” Diane asked.

  Skip checked the clock on the wall. “I could, ’cept the warehouse is closed now.”