Finding Amy

by Joseph K. Loughlin

  Police also worked closely with several of Gorman's friends, hoping that, in an unguarded or intoxicated moment, Gorman would confide something incriminating. On his side, Gorman, who was an experienced criminal, was engaging in “disinformation” to test his supposed friends. He would tell them stories that weren't true to see if those stories got back to the police. At one point, for example, he told a friend, “If I had killed that girl, I would have dropped her off the B & M trestle and let the crabs get her.” Police had to assume that this might be the truth, and so they searched the area.

  Early in the investigation, the Maine State Police had done some aerial searches. Now Lieutenant Loughlin and MSP detective Lance McCleish conducted another set of aerial searches arranged by Diane Jenkins's employer, DeWolfe Realty, with a helicopter and pilot donated by Sam Hamill of TCI Aircraft. They were hoping that with the leaves off the trees they might have a better chance of spotting something.

  11/21/01. The rotors are still thwapping and the fast air washes across my face. Out pops this small man with dark hair and bright eyes. After introductions, he starts blurting out questions and orders. Did you guys do this? And that? How come you haven't arrested him?

  Whoa, Airwolf, I say to myself but entertain his questions because this man is willing to help. All the while I want to scream. What? Are you frigging kidding me? Do I tell you how to fly the chopper? We are all so exhausted and frustrated at this point.

  I've just been introduced to Mr. Sam Hamill, aka “Airwolf.” I'm so backed up at work I don't have time for this, plus we've already done aerial searches, but these people want to do something to help. I tell myself, okay, let's just try to enjoy the ride and who knows? It's another chance to find Amy.

  We're in a beautiful sleek black Bell helicopter. It's Lance McCleish from the state police, David Gulick from DeWolfe Realty, who's a friend of Diane's, me, the pilot, whose name is John, and Sam. Over the intercom, Sam barks orders to John and we lift off. What a great view of Portland! Only we're not up here for the view.

  We travel south over the interstate, chugging and chattering, about two hundred feet up, studying the woods/road border. I keep hoping we'll see something. Anything. All the way down to Berwick, nothing. We head back northbound over the pine trees. Amazing the amount of ground you can see. We stare ’til our eyes hurt, but there's nothing.

  Over the noise of the flight, the headset clicks as Sam continues his line of questioning about what we did or

  didn't do. I'm exhausted. I've walked through the woods, over bridges, down tracks, along the water almost every weekend and some nights after work. When I jogged Riverside Industrial Parkway, near my home, I would check behind the buildings for Amy. If this is how I am, how does Danny function?

  I ask Amy, show us, please show us! I have a list of areas we want to check and I relay that to Sam and the pilot. I still think—from things that Gorman's said—that she's in the water and we head toward the Fore River. The vibrations chugging with a downdraft every now and then help keep me alert.

  We fly over a wooded area called the hobo jungle, across to the Merrill Transport. Looking. Searching. It's low tide and the water is clear. It's amazing how far down we can see. Every now and then something looks odd but turns out to be nothing or debris. Airwolf's chatter breaks my concentration.

  “Yes, sir, we have investigated that point.”

  “Yeah, we have a suspect but no Amy.”

  “Why don't you bring this guy in and beat the shit out of him? Ya can't? Let me talk to him.”

  “Well, Sam,” I respond, “we have a Constitution, you know, that protects people from that. It's not like on TV, you know.”

  “Well, can't you guys tell me who he is?”

  I chuckle, but I'm exasperated and tired. There are so many goddamned quarterbacks I can't go five fucking feet without running into one. I know Sam cares and means well, but he hasn't been doing this every day for a month! I bring my mind back into the search. Amy, where are you? We bank left and the centrifugal force pulls on my belt. A Coast Guard boat below in Casco Bay is also searching for Amy.

  “Go over to the B & M factory and fly over the tracks.”

  Of course, Airwolf's first question is an excited, “Why? What's going on over there?”

  “Well, Sam, it's something in the investigation I can't discuss right now and I just want to see it by air.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Look,” I say, frustrated, “can we just look?” He talks to the pilot, a staccato “Whiskey Bravo Tom 179er, changing vector to …” and we change course.

  The noise fades into the background. I'm thinking about what Gorman said to a friend about how, if he'd killed her, he would have dumped Amy off the B & M trestle, and my anger burns.

  Imagine. Imagine. Now, I know this guy killed her and did something with Amy but where? And I imagine killing someone and then making a statement like that! I think of all of the victims I've seen over twenty-two years and the shitheads who do despicable things and walk away. The arrogance! The GP [general public] has absolutely no idea of the horrors that occur each day. That occur right here in Portland.

  At one point we're near Gorman's mother's house and she comes out and stares up at us. She doesn't wave. As we move off, Sam shouts, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! People always wave. I've never seen that.”

  Chugging slow with a thwap over the terminal and factory. I can see down into the water. Last weekend I spent hours walking over the trestle and peering down into the cold azure water. Hoping to see something. Begging Amy to show me. She was on my mind all the time. But God … what was it like for Danny?

  I know he's at another interview while I'm flying. Danny has his own daughter Amy, yet when we say “Amy” he thinks about Amy St. Laurent. My mind drifts as we thwap along. Danny walked by my office last night around 1900 and no doubt he was ill. Pasty, pale, sweaty, and

  heading toward the bathroom. “Danny. Go home. You're not going to be any good sick.”

  He looks at me directly and says, “I can't, Lieutenant. I can't.” I know he's right but I say, “Try to get some rest, Dan. Try.” We hear him in the bathroom, throwing up. Running a fever and sick as a dog. He looks like hell but he won't go home.

  “Whiskey, Bravo, Tom 179er, changing course to …” I'm back to Airwolf and we're winding down. We fly Back Bay, which is crystal clear—it's almost tropical in the warmth of the chopper—and head back to the terminal. All the while, the Wolf chatters. What about this? How about that? How come? Lance and I catch a glance and we know.

  Out of the wash on the helipad we shake hands with the Wolf. I am grateful for the man's generosity. He's a good man, if quirky. I get into my car, dreading what awaits me when I return to the office. My message bank will be maxed, my e-mails maxed. People will be waiting.

  On the way in I'm stopped by Penny Diaz, my assistant, who must work diligently through all the chaos and personalities and who does a great job. But right now, Penny's not feeling patient. “Call this person now,”she says, “and I am really sick of Tommy. You have to do something.”

  “Penny. Not now! Who called?” I am handed a stack of pink messages and I see Tommy is waiting for me about some news. “Give me a minute, Tommy. Just a minute!”

  I see Detective Rick Swift, wide eyed, trying to catch my eye through the sea of detectives. The Swift One, as we call him, is not aggressive but I know he wants to talk to me now.

  “Lieutenant, you wouldn't believe what happened on the Coast Guard boat today.” I sweep him into my office and let him talk.

  What happened was that they spotted a girl, fully dressed and in a heavy coat, a hundred yards out in the cold November ocean, trying to commit suicide in the forty-eight-degree water. As the boat approached, she turned and headed back toward shore, where officers and Medcu personnel they had called were waiting and took her to the Maine Medical Center. If they hadn't been out looking for Amy, they never would have seen her and she wouldn't have been save
d. Many believed that Amy had led them to this girl.

  To increase the pressure on Gorman, police decided to go public with a detail that had previously been kept under wraps—the fact that their investigation showed that Gorman never dropped Amy off at the Pavilion. Gorman had told police that there were people milling around in front of the Pavilion when he dropped her off around 1:45 a.m., yet it was well known that at that hour there were not many people around. The few people on the street would have noticed Amy St. Laurent. The investigation that disproved Gorman's lie had been vast. Everyone the detectives had spoken with, from every walk of life—bums, bouncers, bystanders, bartenders, customers returning to the Pavilion on other nights, and police professionals in the area—confirmed that neither Gorman nor Amy, nor Gorman's car, had been seen at the time he claimed to have dropped her off.

  “Yeah, I agree, Tom. Dan. It's time to turn up the burners on this.” I explain the plan to Chief Chitwood and he agrees with our strategy.

  Tuesday, November 27, 2001, we decide to go public with the fact that Amy was never dropped off at the Pavilion nightclub. We won't mention Gorman, but he and his friends will know what we mean.

  I contact David Hench of the Portland Press Herald. Of all the media personnel I work with, I have established the most trust with him.

  The next day it's front-page news, with Amy's lovely photo smiling at us again. I'm quoted as saying, “We've substantiated Amy was last seen leaving a Brighton Avenue address with a male. There is no evidence to suggest she was dropped off. After extensive interviews and research we have not been able to isolate that as a fact.” The article reports that we have shifted our focus somewhat. I never identify Russ Gorman as the male … but it's out.

  When the media ask about “the male,” I respond, “He's one of many people we're looking at.”

  So now it's out and we're hoping that Gorman will start a tailspin. We shall see.

  Suspicion about Gorman's involvement had been growing over the weeks since Amy disappeared. Increasingly, when he went out in the Old Port, he found himself not the center of an admiring and friendly crowd but the object of questions and hostile behavior. When newspaper articles suggested that this “male” was the primary focus of the investigation, the revelation confirmed in the minds of many of Gorman's friends and acquaintances what they had suspected.

  At one point, he was assaulted in the Old Port by members of a gang called FSU who demanded to know, “What did you do to that girl?” Getting beaten up really shook him. Friends reported that he was drinking heavily and using more drugs. He was jittery, aggressive, and unstable, his conversation frequently rambling and incoherent.

  As life in the Portland area grew more uncomfortable for Gorman, the detectives learned that he was planning to leave the state. Where he was going was uncertain. He'd mentioned Alabama and Florida, where he still had friends and relatives, but also California and Mexico. He'd talked of making some quick money growing mushrooms and selling club drugs. Gorman planned to travel south with a friend named Sean Littlefield, using Littlefield's car.

  The detectives believed that if he got away from Portland to a place where he felt more comfortable, he was likely to let down his guard and confide in someone about his crime. They expected that Gorman would stay in touch with his mother and that Littlefield would be in touch with friends and family in Maine so they probably wouldn't lose sight of Gorman. And, because he was on probation and required to report regularly to his probation officer, he needed Probation's permission to leave the state. Leaving without permission would be a probation violation and make him subject to arrest. Therefore, they could always arrest him and return him to Maine. Still, they were considering letting their prime suspect, a dangerous man and one they believed had committed a murder, out of their sight. It was not an idea they were comfortable with.

  “Well … shit, Tom! You know the consequences as well as I do. What if this freak hurts someone? It will be me being asked in some federal lawsuit, Who was in charge of day-to-day ops? Can you hear it?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I hear it, but it's worth the risk. He's nervous. Hot. And he knows it. He will talk. We both know that. We gotta let the line out.”

  “Tom, will ya just sit for a minute and stop pacing! You're making me dizzy.”

  “Joe, he's already saying stuff. You know he'll open to relatives down in Alabama and to this kid, Sean.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What about Matt [Stewart]?”

  “He's worried. It's risky.”

  I look at the wall, at a painting of Back Bay, and think for a minute.

  Tommy doesn't stop talking. “Do you want this guy?”

  I look at Tom's piercing blue eyes, glaring under his unruly dark hair. We lock eyes. “Okay,” I sigh. “Let the line out, Tom. Let him go. Keep it tight ’til I tell the chief the plan in the a.m.”

  Like a kid who's gotten his way, Tommy flies out of my room, the door vibrating off the wall.

  The detectives knew that if they did let Gorman run, they could always bring him back on a probation violation. But arresting him for a probation violation would only put him in jail temporarily, and when he got out it might trigger him to run farther away. What they all wanted was for Gorman to be in jail on a murder charge. But they needed more than they had so far.

  Before he left, Gorman had a conversation with a friend named Brent Plummer that Plummer recorded, using the message function on his cell phone and laying it casually on the table as they talked.

  GORMAN: I don't want to leave on bad terms, and I do want you to know and I want everyone to know, no matter what the outcome is, I've got letters typed up at my house, at Mom's house, but I can't go back there right now. Uh …

  PLUMMER: You've got letters typed to who? What kind of letters?

  GORMAN: Explaining everything.

  PLUMMER: Why everything?

  GORMAN: Well, why I'm leaving, um, also saying that you, all you people know, Dude, all you fuckin’ people that I know, my parents, everyone, know that I love my little girl and I couldn't possibly imagine my little girl twenty-five years old and disappearing or not knowing what happened to her. So that right there should just show something. Dude, I do, I do have fucked-up mental problems. I do, but I'm not that kind of person, Dude.

  Shortly before Thanksgiving, Gorman and Sean Littlefield left Maine in Littlefield's small red Neon and drove to Troy, Alabama.

  Chapter Ten

  In early December, a state police lieutenant received a call from a man who identified himself as Lieutenant Pat Dorian from the Maine Warden Service.1 Lieutenant Dorian had been in the warden service for twenty-six years and had been head of search and rescue since 1986. Since the warden service dealt with over three hundred lost people each year, Dorian and his officers were very familiar with the challenges of conducting searches in wooded areas. Although Lieutenant Dorian lived far from Portland, like so many people in Maine he had been following the St. Laurent case from the beginning and had been increasingly perturbed by the failure to find Amy St. Laurent's body and the distress he knew this was causing to police agencies and to her family.

  Dorian regretted that he hadn't called sooner, but he was stationed up in Greenville, nearly five hours northwest of Portland on the shores of Moosehead Lake. It had been foliage season and hunting season in Maine, and between hunting violations and hunters and hikers getting lost in the woods, the duties of his job had consumed all his time. Lieutenant Dorian said he might be able to help with the investigation and asked to be put in touch with the case detectives.

  Dorian knew he was making a radical suggestion. It was a totally new idea for a conservation law enforcement agency to be working with criminal divisions on a criminal investigation. He risked running into the natural territorialism of both the MSP and the Portland Police Department as well as the skepticism of the police for outsiders, even outsiders in another branch of law enforcement. But Dorian was focused on the central issue in the case: finding Amy St. Lau
rent. He had been to seminars at national search and rescue (SAR) conferences on searching for abducted victims. He'd studied the statistics showing where bodies and evidence might be. He had a professional Incident Command Team that knew how to organize and manage major outdoor search and rescue operations. He believed that the warden service could help.

  When he was connected with Sergeant Stewart, Dorian said he'd been thinking of ways that the warden service, utilizing experienced Maine Association of Search and Rescue (MASAR) teams, might be able to help them find Amy's body. He said that in 1999 he had been at an SAR conference and heard a talk by a Michael St. John, out of Oregon, reviewing a ten-year Department of Justice (DOJ) study on child abductions, which had established some parameters for searching for bodies.2 In that talk, the presenter had raised the question: How do you use the expertise of search and rescue as a resource for law enforcement agencies?

  Dorian knew that the wardens had an area of expertise detectives might lack, especially in the area of finding people who were lost in the woods, because wardens were attuned to subtle changes—broken twigs, disturbed dirt, leaves, or needles, things that don't fit in a natural environment—that a police officer might miss. He and some of his officers were also trained in managing large-scale search operations and outdoor crime scenes. He offered to bring some of his wardens down to sit with the case detectives, do an assessment of the case, and develop a methodology for conducting a search for Amy's body.

  By the time they got Dorian's call, Danny Young and the other detectives had been working the case nonstop for six weeks. They had lost none of their fervor to find Amy and to give her family at least some closure and a chance for a decent burial, but they were exhausted. The pressure was particularly intense with the holidays coming. It was difficult to take pleasure in their own family holidays with visions of Amy and her family in their minds.