Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “My patient thinks his boyfriend may have killed Paul Ramsey.”

  Byron hadn’t known what information Kay was planning to share, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for this revelation. The lengthening list of suspects was making him wonder whether they’d ever apprehend Ramsey’s killer. “What’s your client’s name?”

  She gave him a disapproving scowl. “You know it doesn’t work that way, John. I have to maintain confidentiality.”

  “Then why tell me any of this?”

  “I need to know how Ramsey died. If it was the way my patient thinks, he would be willing to meet with you.”

  “How did he tell you it happened?” Byron asked.

  The waiter returned with their meals, momentarily interrupting the conversation.

  “Do either of you need anything else?” the waiter asked.

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Byron said.

  Following Nunzio’s departure, Kay continued. “My patient told me that his boyfriend got into an altercation with Ramsey. That it got physical.”

  “Did he tell you where this happened or why?”

  “I think the boyfriend and Ramsey knew each other from the gym where the boyfriend works. Was there any evidence Ramsey had been in a fight?”

  Byron nodded. “There was.”

  “Was he shot?”

  Byron debated sharing sensitive case information with Kay. He knew he could trust her but keeping case information close to the vest was instinctive. Expanding the list of people who knew the facts was always a dicey proposition. “Yes. He was.”

  Kay sat back, dropping her hands in her lap, and sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Did your patient witness the murder?” Byron asked.

  “I don’t think so. He said his boyfriend told him about it. Even showed him the gun.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “I think you’d better ask him.”

  As they ate, Kay attempted to steer their conversation in other directions. Byron, wanting to stay on topic, kept bringing it back to her patient. Talking about the case was safe.

  Byron’s cell rang. Haggerty’s name was displayed on the ID. Byron had previously left a message saying that he needed to speak with him. The call signaled the end of their lunch date and, ironically enough, was precisely the kind of thing that had eroded their marriage. Kay hadn’t been willing to share her husband’s every waking moment with the City of Portland and its police force. And, if he was being honest with himself, who could blame her?

  “You’ll call me as soon as you’ve spoken with him, right?” Byron said.

  She nodded. “Promise me that you’ll go easy on him. He’s very fragile right now.”

  “As long as he tells me the truth.”

  “Will I see you on Sunday?”

  “Sunday?”

  “Katie’s graduation party.”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll try and make it.”

  Gently, Kay reached out and took hold of his hand. “It’s good to see you, John.”

  “I’m glad you called,” he said.

  She gave him a wry grin. “Because it might help your case?”

  “Of course. But I’m glad you called anyway.”

  “So am I.”

  They parted with another hug. This one far less awkward.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday, 1:15 p.m., April 30, 2016

  Diane talked one of Sergeant Peterson’s detectives into watching the monitor for her. Childress and his attorney were still in the middle of an animated conversation, and as much as she would have loved watching the contractor squirm in silence, she had a supplement to update.

  Diane, having retreated to her desk, now sat staring at the flashing cursor on her computer monitor. Shirley’s bombshell about who John was meeting left her unable to concentrate. Certainly not the amount of concentration needed to compose a document that might eventually be used to try a murderer.

  Why would John lie about what he was doing? Was he really seeing Kay again? Or was Shirley making more of this than it was? But what if Shirley was right? What did that make her? The rebound girl? Fuck that.

  Diane’s desk phone rang, startling her out of her stupor. She answered it.

  “CID. Joyner.” Nothing. She waited. The line was definitely open. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” a feminine-sounding voice answered. “Are you one of the detectives who came by the Unicorn asking about Paul Ramsey?”

  “I am. I’m Detective Joyner. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Um. My name is Trixie.”

  “Trixie . . .”

  “Just Trixie.”

  Diane flipped open her notepad and scrawled the name, date, and time. “Are you the person who left us the note?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know something about the murder?” Diane could hear the woman breathing.

  “Trixie, do you know something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Diane knew this dance all too well. A potential witness as nervous as a deer on the side of the highway and just as likely to bolt. She pressed forward as gently as she could. “If you do know something about this, it’s important that we talk.”

  “I shouldn’t have called you. If my boss knew I—”

  “No one is going to tell your boss.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can meet you somewhere? You name the place. I’ll be there.” More breathing as Trixie, or whoever she was, thought it over. “Trixie, your boss won’t know you talked to me, you have my word.”

  “I’ll be at Denny’s on Congress Street.”

  “When?”

  “One hour.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll sit near the door.”

  During his return to 109, Byron called Haggerty. He tasked the squared-away veteran with locating Erwin Glantz.

  “Why don’t we just put out an ATL for him, Sarge?” Haggerty asked.

  “I’d rather not spook him, Hags. The camp Gabe found in the woods might not even have been his.”

  “But you think it was?”

  “Yes, and if it was, and if he saw anything, he’s gonna try and hide. He won’t want to get involved. I’m looking for the gentle approach on this one.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “See if you can get him to come see me.”

  “I’ll put the word out, Sarge.”

  Byron thanked Haggerty and disconnected the call. He parked the car in front of 109 and trotted up the steps to the plaza. There were a number of things in need of his attention but most of his focus was on Kay’s patient, whoever he was.

  He tapped the elevator’s up button and began the long wait. He often wondered how it was that a building only four stories tall, five if you counted the basement, equipped with two elevators, never seemed to have one at the ready. While waiting, he gazed absently at the various job postings pinned to a cork message board. The city was looking to fill several positions at the Barron Center, an assisted living facility, and a computer specialist in the M.I.S. lab. Each of the postings included a cover-your-ass caveat proclaiming that women and minorities were encouraged to apply as the city was an equal opportunity employer, a disclaimer he’d always found both amusing and mildly insulting, for all parties concerned.

  One of the elevators was finally moving downward. He checked the display and saw that it had stopped on three. Impatiently, he went back to scanning the board. The promotional lists had been posted. The lists were supposed to be anonymous with each person assigned an identification number, followed by their test score, weighted to fifty percent of the total value, evaluation score weighted to forty percent, and seniority points straight up. The problem was, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the candidates once you knew who had actually taken the test, how they normally fared, and seniority. Most years it only took a day or two for someone to scribble the names next to the numbers. A half point of seniority was earne
d for every year of service with a cap of ten points. The system had been implemented when the twenty-year retirement system was still active. Twenty-five was now the minimum. Byron wondered how it could be that five additional years of experience counted for nothing. Evidently the city must have assumed that officers with twenty years on knew all there was to know. Hardly.

  He checked the names on the lieutenant’s list first. Milliken had been inked in at the top followed by Sadler and Collins, two kiss-ass sergeants. Milliken was a good man, but Byron knew it was likely that he’d be passed over yet again in favor of one of the two yes men. A sad truth repeated time and again. Crosby’s name was fourth. Byron couldn’t help but smile. Sorry, old chap, maybe next time.

  Next he perused the names written beside the anonymous list for sergeant. No surprises until he reached the fifth name. Joyner.

  Diane had taken the test? He couldn’t believe it. Surely someone must have penned her name in by mistake. She would have told him if she’d been planning to take the test. He double-checked the seniority, calculating in his head. The points matched. She wouldn’t leave the detective bureau. Would she?

  The doors to both elevators opened simultaneously. He grabbed the one on the right and punched four. Arriving at his destination, he walked into the entry vestibule of CID, stopping in front of Shirley’s desk.

  “Anything for me?”

  She passed him another stack of pink phone message slips. “Your voicemail is full.”

  Of course it is, he thought as he scanned through the stack.

  “The lieutenant’s looking for you.”

  “Okay,” he said absently. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Diane said to tell you she and Mel are out following up on a new lead.”

  “I thought she was watching Childress,” he said, now fully attentive.

  “Nope. One of Sergeant Peterson’s detectives is.”

  “She say what this new lead was?”

  Shirley shook her head. “Nope.”

  He paused for a second, trying to read her face. She had the look of a cat who’d just finished gobbling the pet canary. “That it?” he asked.

  She nodded but her expression remained unchanged.

  He started toward the interview room and had nearly made the corner when Shirley blurted out, “How’s Kay?”

  Diane held the door for Stevens as they entered the restaurant. She made immediate eye contact with a young blonde woman sitting alone several booths in from the entrance, vaguely remembering her from the strip club.

  “That her?” Stevens asked.

  “I think so,” Diane said. “She looked a little different the other night.”

  “Must be the clothes.”

  The woman, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two, was attractive in spite of the artificial tan, heavy eyeliner, and hair stripped to the point that it was nearly white.

  “Trixie?” Diane asked as she and Stevens stopped at the table.

  “Thought you were coming alone,” Trixie said defensively, hugging her purse close as if one of them might grab it.

  “It’s okay. This is my partner, Detective Melissa Stevens.”

  “Hello,” Stevens said, extending a hand as they slid into the booth across from Trixie.

  Trixie ignored the gesture, remaining focused on Diane. “I’m still not all that comfortable talking to you about this.”

  “Trixie, if it’s about—”

  “I know what you said. But I need this job, okay? I got a five-year-old daughter and I can’t afford to go on welfare. And my name isn’t Trixie. it’s Abigail. Abigail Dees.”

  “Abby,” Diane said, doing the math inside her head. “Is it okay if I call you Abby?”

  Dees nodded, releasing her grip on the purse.

  “Can I get you ladies anything?” a pimple-faced teenaged boy wearing a Denny’s polo shirt and chinos asked.

  “We’re all set, thanks. Unless you’d like something else?” Diane said, addressing Dees.

  Dees shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” the waiter said. “Let me know if you change your minds.”

  Following his departure, Diane continued. “Abby, when Sergeant Byron and I stopped by the other night we asked if anyone was dating Paul Ramsey. Were you?”

  She shook her head. “Not me. One of my coworkers at the club.”

  “Your note said, ‘Talk to Joe.’ Who’s Joe?”

  Dees looked away without answering.

  “Why don’t you want your employer to know you’ve spoken with us?” Stevens asked. “Are they involved in this?”

  Dees’s eyes widened. “I—I—I don’t know. I never considered that. I hope not. I didn’t want to say anything because they have a policy about not talking to the cops.” She looked back at Diane. “You don’t think they’re involved, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Diane said. “We’re just trying to piece this together. Let’s not jump to any conclusions, okay?”

  Dees closed her eyes and exhaled. “Okay.”

  “What about your coworker?” Diane asked. “The one with Ramsey.”

  “Candy. She had been seeing Ramsey on and off for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Months.”

  “Did he ever come by the club?”

  “A few times when they first started dating, but not recently.”

  “Did your bosses know?”

  “Yeah, that’s why Ramsey stopped coming around. They told Candy that he was too well-known. He stuck out.”

  “Who’s they?” Diane asked.

  “Kakalegian.”

  “Do you know where they’d go on their dates?” Stevens asked.

  “Sometimes her apartment, sometimes in his car.”

  “His car?” Diane asked.

  “Yeah. Candy has a kid too. A daughter. She’s divorced and only gets to have her at the apartment once in a while. When Candy wanted to meet up with Ramsey, she’d wait until her daughter went to sleep before going to meet him.”

  “Do you know if Candy met up with Ramsey Tuesday night?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “Do you know Candy’s real name and address?” Stevens asked.

  Abby sighed and looked away again. “Are you going to tell her I told you?”

  Diane reached out, gently placing a hand on Dees’s forearm. “We don’t have to say it was you, but if you don’t tell us how to find her we’ll have no choice but to ask Kakalegian.”

  Byron sat opposite Childress and his attorney. He pulled the tollbooth photographs out of the folder and set them on the table again. “I understand you want to talk, is that right?”

  Childress nodded.

  “You understand that when you asked for your attorney, you invoked your Miranda rights. Are you now waiving those rights?”

  Childress looked to his attorney. The attorney gave a nod of his own.

  The big man kept glancing down at the black and white images in front of him, as if they might somehow change. “I wasn’t at my brother-in-law’s house that night.”

  No shit. “Which night?”

  “Tuesday night.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Somewhere else,” Childress said as he looked sheepishly up at Byron. “Somewhere I shouldn’t have been.”

  “Where?”

  “At a motel. With my girlfriend.”

  “Which motel?”

  Childress sighed deeply. “Riverside Inn, Westbrook. Right where you got my picture the next morning,” he said, tapping on the second photo. “Used to be Exit 8. How did you find out? My dumb-ass brother-in-law tell ya?”

  “Actually, you did.”

  “What?”

  “Your E-ZPass,” Byron said.

  His shoulders sagged. “Shit. I forgot about that.”

  “What time did you arrive at the motel?”

  “Guess it must have been around eight-thirty? That’s what time I was supposed to meet her. She had alread
y checked into the room by the time I got there.”

  “You know how she paid?”

  “Cash. I reimbursed her.”

  “That the usual routine?” Byron asked.

  Childress nodded silently.

  “What is your girlfriend’s name?”

  Childress cocked his head to one side like a dog. “Fuck me. Do you really need that?”

  “Right now, all I have is your word. Which, based on your previous bullshit alibi, isn’t worth a damn. And I have digital pictures that show you were right here in Portland the same night a man you’ve been threatening for months was murdered. The attorney you blame for helping the guy responsible for your daughter’s death go free. In case you haven’t been keeping score, that means you had motive, opportunity, and the means to have killed Paul Ramsey.” Byron waited a moment as Childress considered his options.

  “We’re going to need her name,” Byron said.

  “Please don’t drag her into this,” Childress pleaded.

  “Too late. She’s already in it.”

  Childress looked to his attorney for help, but all he got was a nod. Tilting his head back he stared at the ceiling, exhaling loudly. “My wife is going to fucking divorce me.” He looked at Byron and shook his head, defeated. “It’s Stacy. Stacy Adams.”

  Byron slid a blank sheet of paper and pen across the worn wooden the table. “Write down her phone number, work, and home address.”

  Childress scribbled Adams’s contact information, including her place of employment, then handed the paper back to Byron. “Don’t suppose I’m free to leave?”

  Byron stood up and opened the door. “What do you think?”

  He stared at Byron for a beat before lowering his forehead onto the table. “Fuck.”

  Byron left Childress to stew in the interview room, posting a uniform at the door. He sent Nugent and Tran to Westbrook to retrieve the records and any security video from Riverside Inn, while he headed off to find Ms. Adams.

  Byron wandered the lobby of the Happy Days Child Care Center, checking out the various crayon drawings covering the walls as he waited for Stacy Adams. A high-school-aged girl with pigtails dyed an outrageous shade of purple manned the front desk. Byron caught her stealing glances at him, as if she’d never seen a cop before.