In bed at midnight, I stare at the ceiling. Please, God. Please, Amy, let us find you. Show us … I finally fall asleep with the light still on. At 0230 the phone rings. I jump up, my heart pounding, and mutter a garbled “Hello?”
“Ho, ho, ho, it's Bob O.” Lieutenant Bob Ridge, the John Wayne incarnate of the Portland PD.
“What's going on?”
“Listen, you up with me?” Words I hear all the time in the dark. “Joe, we had another stabbing. Asian male victim up at the hospital, bad guy is another Asian. We got him upstairs and he's 46 [arrested]. The wounds are deep but not life threatening. He's gonna make it. Look, we got drunks and shitheads all over to interview and the crime scene locked up good although it's on Wharf Street outside. We need CID …”
I mutter the usual expletives. “We've got that search tomorrow, Bob. I'm down on people. Alright. I'll get some guys rolling.” As if we had a choice and could say, “String up some crime scene tape and we'll come do it on Monday.”
I call Tommy, like always. His wife, Alison, moans, “Oh, no.” I tell him we got a stabbing. “Christ,” he says, “you gotta be shittin’ me.”
After the calls I'm awake, staring at the clock, watching the numbers tumble and click. Tumble and click. Eventually, I sleep awhile. At 0530, coffee going, I jump in the shower, pushing the sand from my eyes. Dressing for a press conference. Dressing for outdoors. It's another weekend with no weekend. This better work today. We've started catching breaks now and this is the big break everyone needs. Please, let us bring Amy home.
Chapter Eleven
On Saturday, December 8, over a hundred people, including the wardens’ Overhead Team, state and Portland police detectives, wardens, and about forty-five MASAR volunteers from units throughout the state, some of whom had slept Friday night in the gym at the Portland police station, assembled at a state Department of Transportation depot and state police headquarters off the Maine Turnpike just south of Portland known as Crosby Farm.
It's 0630. Crosby Farm is swarming with police cars and other vehicles. It's a brisk morning. Nice sky but cloudy. Snow's predicted for later. A big smile from Lieutenant Dorian lifts my spirits. We've got a lot riding on this, but so does he. This is his baby. I go up to the command post and situation room on the second floor. These guys are organized and it's an elaborate operation. The computer search program is set up and one of the wardens is explaining how it will coordinate the areas and maps.
Through the window, I see people gathering. News teams are starting to show up. Tom, Matt, Scott, Danny, Dorian, Guay, and others cram into the room to go over the plan. Everyone is focused, hopeful, as Dorian goes over the procedures. Matt looks weary and, as always, serious.
“Hey, Sarge.” I slap his back. “We're gonna do it today. Let's get ready for the news.” Diane and her good friend Lucille are climbing out of cars. Lucille has been such a supportive friend. Diane looks tired and painfully sad. It's so hard for her to keep going through this, but she's incredible, the way she holds up. We bring them inside and offer coffee and bagels. And yeah, there are donuts, too.
The news crews are waiting. Sergeant Stewart, Lieutenant Dorian, Diane, and I stand before the cameras in a final appeal to the public to help us find Amy. It's cold, and I start off nervous, so much to remember. Always a tightrope to walk with the media. Trying to ensure I include everyone and not compromise the operation.
“Today we are conducting a massive ground search with PPD, MSP, warden service, and MASAR in the hopes of finding Amy St. Laurent. There is an air wing up along with a helicopter thanks to Mr. Sam Hamill of TCI Aircraft.” We've scripted this, I know it, but it sounds stilted. I continue, trying to stave off the incoming inquiry. “Based on our studies, we believe Amy could be in an area we have triangulated with the help of the warden service. We are not discussing any criteria concerning the selection of the sites and one should not conclude that these are the only sites.”
Each time I pause, I see their mouths get ready to jump. “In addition, we have up to ten K9 dogs helping in this intensive effort to find Amy.”
I turn it over to Diane. She pleads for any help or information. Her voice strong but cracking at times from emotion. She has such grace. Such dignity. We all want, more than anything, to ease some of her pain by finding her daughter. Amy has been gone for seven weeks.
Sergeant Stewart's speech is clear and succinct. Finally, Lieutenant Dorian steps up to explain the wardens’ perspective. I close with a final appeal for help and information about Amy. The questions flood us.
“Are you looking for a body?”
“Is this guy who said he dropped her off connected to the search?”
“Should the public be looking for a car or some item?”
We field the questions carefully. Finally, the reporters, cameras, and crew break away and pan the search groups as they move into a giant maintenance shed for briefing and assignments.
Thorpe and Dumas catch my eye and roll theirs like this is crazy. I close my eyes a moment and pray.
Cops, wardens, and SAR teams were packed into a big DOT garage as the wardens’ Overhead Team told them what they should be looking for. Searchers were given the information about Gorman's borrowing a shovel and alerted to the possibility that Amy might be buried. They were given copies of the flyer with Amy's picture, her description, and a description of what she was wearing the night she disappeared.
Searchers were instructed to keep their eyes open, look for clues, and ask questions. The wardens reminded them that anything could be valuable information. Bent twigs. Scraped tree trunks. A thread. A scrap of paper. Disturbed dirt or vegetation. Dirt mounded up or dirt caved in. Shovel marks. Piled brush that didn't look natural.
As they went through the briefing, Sergeant Joyce remembered thinking, “Everyone else is home with their families today and we're going to be out in the cold tromping through the woods.”
Getting things set up and ready to roll, the situation was best described as “controlled chaos,” something all the players—detectives, wardens, and SAR teams—were familiar and comfortable with. It's amazing how emergency workers come together quickly when they need to. It was a massive operation, about which Sergeant Stewart noted, “Normally, you have to pull hairs to get resources, but not this time. It really came together.”
Each team included state or Portland police and a warden, as well as the MASAR volunteers. Each team got a map, a detailed set of instructions for its search area, and a GPS device so that the teams could start and end the searches at established points and the Overhead Team could maintain a computer record of the areas searched. Things settled down as the teams rolled out the door to start their first round of searches.
Overhead, “Airwolf”—Sam Hamill—was up in his helicopter. With him were Portland detectives Mark Teceno and Don Krier, who would be conducting their own search from above.
Despite his optimism—and he had mentally assigned a 40 percent or better chance that they'd find Amy that day—Kevin Adam recognized that the information about Gorman's borrowing the shovel would make things harder. The grousing Portland detectives were right—it would not be like finding a needle in a haystack, but like finding a needle in a buried haystack. On his personal timeline, he thought that if they didn't find her by eleven, he'd start to worry.
To prevent information from leaking out to media monitoring the airwaves, the police and the wardens had chosen to use the phrase, “Code Blue” if a body was located.
Scott Harakles began every day with a prayer. He never asked God for help, because he believed God helps those who help themselves. But on this day, he got down on his knees and asked God for help in finding Amy. When he and Danny Young met up, Scott told Danny, “We're going to find her today.” Danny Young responded, “Yes, I know,” and even gave Scott a time. He told Scott he felt really good about the prospects. Very optimistic. They had so much help with the search, and all the areas they were searching were associated with Gorma
n.
Young and Harakles didn't join a search team but traveled together in a car, staying mobile and on call in case a body or associated evidence was found. Since they had the time, they asked each other, Okay, so where have you always wanted to look? Unable to stay still, they were independently searching the woods between the Westbrook arterial highway and the Bill Dodge auto dealership, which Gorman was familiar with because of his employment at Bill Dodge.
Since getting the case, the two primaries had been working steadily, days, nights, and even weekends. But it was the holiday season. Young had made plans with his wife for the next day, Sunday, and was looking forward to finally having a day off.
Throughout the morning, as the search teams worked through the sites on their maps, the dogs repeatedly hit on things. Each time, the search would halt to determine if the discovery was significant. The airwaves sang with reports that turned out to be false alarms. Dead animals. Bad smells. A floating tarp. Bones. Deer parts. All had to be taken seriously. Like an erratic EKG, the mood was episodic excitement followed by depression or downright hopelessness.
In the midst of the morning searches, the wardens discovered there had been a glitch in the morning's dog search of the area surrounding some small ponds on a narrow tote road off Route 22 not far from Gorman's mother's house. The wardens determined to send both a search group and some dogs back into that area as soon as a team became available.
After the teams went out, Diane and Lucille visited the wardens in their command center. Diane was asking questions about the techniques of the search and the mapping technology the wardens were using to track the search results. Pinned up on the wall was a large map of the search area, with significant sites such as Gorman's mother's house and the site of the 3:14 a.m. traffic stop prominently marked.
Lucille studied the map and asked about the significance of the Westbrook traffic-stop site. Knowing that the police were keeping this information secret, the wardens invented an explanation. Unsatisfied and still suspicious, she asked Lieutenant Loughlin about the mark on the map as well. But no one was ready to reveal this valuable piece of information. It was a card the police wanted to hold close to their chests.
It was well past the 11:00 a.m. deadline Kevin Adam had mentally assigned. They had had a series of false alarms. It was cold, and it was hard to keep the teams’ spirits up as they finished the lunch the Salvation Army food truck had provided and set out for their afternoon's assignments. It was also hard to balance the necessity of executing each search in a slow and methodical way with the sense of urgency imposed by the threat of approaching snow.
At approximately 1:00 p.m., a search team led by Warden Justin Fowlie and including Portland detective Gary Thorpe and members of the Mahoosic Mountain SAR team arrived to begin their search of an old, grown-up road extending approximately two hundred yards off Route 22. The road had been used to obtain the gravel needed to build I-295. Its surface was crumbling tar, and the road and surrounding woods were choked with trash, brush, and debris people had dumped there.
The road was bordered with scrub trees, thin birches, and small pines. At the end of the road, trails led off into the brush and circled around four small black ponds. It was an area popular with local hunters and fishermen. At its end, facing the road and peering through the trees like a lurking monster, was the carcass of a large abandoned truck. Scattered around it were the large white wooden forms contractors used for pouring foundations.
The Mahoosic team had come into the operation in a skeptical frame of mind, feeling that searching for a body wasn't part of their work. It wasn't what they were trained to do—the Mahoosic Mountain SAR always looked for live people. But inspired by Lieutenant Pat Dorian's enthusiasm and certainty that it would be a good thing to use their expertise to assist state and Portland police, they had joined the effort. They knew that everybody was looking for signs of a crime scene or a dumped, decomposing body, possibly hidden by brush or leaves. In the morning, they had also been instructed that there might be a grave.
Their team had already been out in the December cold for several hours. Now they gathered again to get their instructions for this site. Mindful of their instructions, their breath forming clouds in piercingly damp air that increasingly held the promise of snow, the searchers spread out in a line from the edge of Route 22 at approximately seven-foot intervals and began their slow, deliberate march along the left side of the old tote road through the tangle of underbrush and young trees. They were all aware that this afternoon's search would probably be the last chance to look for Amy St. Laurent until spring.
The team reached the end of the road, moved farther left, and made their way back out to Route 22. They then switched to the right side of the road. Slowly and deliberately, paying close attention to the woods around them and the ground beneath their feet, they paced their way from Route 22 back toward the ponds. At 1:30, just about twenty-five yards from the end of the road, they entered an area that alternated between open ground and pasture pines, pine trees with low branches that had spread widely at the bottom.
As he bent to go under a large branch, Landon Fake, an administrator with the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School, noticed that the soil just in front of him looked slightly depressed. Pine needles were scattered over ground that appeared to have been disturbed. He stopped, announced that he had found something, and knelt to examine the ground. When he looked more closely, he could see that one of the live branches of the pine tree was buried in the ground. It immediately made him stop and think, “Someone has been digging here recently.”
Fake's announcement immediately stopped the line. Everyone came over, looked, and agreed that he had found something. Closer examination revealed shovel marks and an area of disturbed ground approximately six to seven feet in diameter. The disturbed ground was topped by sod that had been cut into pieces at one time. Brown pine needles had been sprinkled over the dirt to mask the signs of digging.
Portland detective Gary Thorpe, who was with the search team, acknowledged that he wasn't an expert on outdoor crime scenes. “Put me in any building, any room at a crime scene,” he'd say, “and I know what's going on. Out here, I don't know a lot. But when I looked at what Fake was pointing out, even I knew that was wrong.” Thorpe looked at live green pine needles buried in the earth and thought, “Oh, yeah, you're gonna hear a Code Blue on this one!”
Thorpe called on his radio for dogs to search the area. A call was also made to Detectives Young and Harakles, summoning them to the site. When he got the call, Young told himself, “This is it!”
The Mahoosic Mountain SAR team was immediately moved out and sent to another site. As Landon Fake said, “They couldn't get us out of there fast enough … in two minutes, we were gone.” Out at the road, waiting to leave, they saw cars of senior police personnel arrive, along with the dog truck.
Warden Burnell and two volunteers brought in their dogs. The first dog didn't react well. The second dog reacted hard and began to dig. Warden Jacobs was called to bring in his dog. His dog also reacted and began to dig. At around 2:30, the wardens called warden Sergeant Roger Guay and his dog, Reba, to the site. Reba first focused on an area under some pine trees and then on the area of disturbed earth Fake had discovered.
A prickle of excitement went through the dozen men and women standing around in weeds and scrub on a cold, gray December afternoon. After a day of false alarms and seven weeks of high expectations but negative results, everyone was afraid to hope that this was finally it.
Young, who like Sergeant Joyce had begun his day thinking, “Hey, this sucks. It's colder than hell and here we are out in the woods,” had been working toward this moment since the night he first got the phone call about Amy's disappearance. Afraid to believe this might finally be what they had searched for for so long, the detectives asked if this was likely to be a body or might just be buried clothes or another dead animal. Sergeant Guay assured them that Reba's reaction meant they'd likely found a body.<
br />
Not wanting to call a Code Blue too soon, and knowing that they'd found many dead animal parts already, Detective Young returned to his car and got some tools from the trunk. He returned to the scene and pulled on gloves. On his knees, using a trowel, digging very carefully to avoid disturbing any evidence if it was Amy, he dug a small test hole about four to six inches wide, at the opposite end of the site from where Reba had been digging. Approximately two feet down, he hit something that felt different from the soil. He cleared the dirt, exposing a small expanse of gray material. He reached into the hole and touched it, confirming that it was sweatshirt fabric. Amy St. Laurent had been wearing a sweatshirt the night she disappeared.
At 2:40, Young called a Code Blue, and the site became a crime scene. At 2:41, the search teams were recalled to Crosby Farm.
As the search teams set out, Lieutenant Dorian shouts one final message: “If you discover anything, call out Code Blue over the radio so the news or scannerland doesn't pick up, and we'll get the dogs there. In a hospitable spirit, we also have food available.”
I plan to roam to various sites and check in at headquarters. Right now, I'm very glad to be inside where it's warm.
Within an hour, there's a hit in an area near where Gorman was stopped by Westbrook police. It makes sense, and I think, Oh, my God, what if it's her? But a short time later, they call in that it's a dead deer. A huge letdown. Time to get out there and poke around with the teams.
I watch one group probe the woods, moving in a line through the trees. There's another false alarm—a dead dog. A few more false alarms come in during the morning and into the afternoon. I go to 109 around 1300, have lunch, and update Deputy Chief Burton and the chief.
Tommy, Danny, and I have been on the phone, on and off, but I haven't heard from them for a while. Around 1430, I'm starting to lose faith. I head outbound on Congress toward Route 22, where I know they're starting to search near Gorman's mother's house. Suddenly, my pager starts beeping like crazy. It's Tommy. I think he must want food for the guys. It beeps again. Okay, Tommy, okay!
Finding Amy Page 14
