“Why don’t you just write me a speeding ticket?” the driver asked with a voice that cracked in a near cry.
“Oh, we are way beyond that,” I replied and confirmed that we would be seeing one another again very soon. “Until then, slow down.” I returned to the Duster. The men were smart to let me pull back onto the road before them, and I watched in my rearview mirror as they pulled out slowly and headed in the opposite direction. I figured that now that they had been relieved of their possession, they had no destination, no schedule, and no plan other than relaying the bad news to others who might be working with them, and bracing themselves for the arrest that would surely follow. I had busted so many smugglers and dealers of fentanyl in Miami that I had lost count.
These two Mainers were low-enders, as I call them, and not at all in charge of anything. Best-case scenario is that they would lead me to someone higher up in the drug organization, I thought. And I knew all too well about chemicals coming from China. Designer drugs like W-18 and U-4700 are smuggled into the US, and have yet to be outlawed. The chemists are able to stay one step ahead of the FDA and DEA by tweaking the chemical composition of any banned substance. The box I had confiscated might certainly be found to contain a substance that is not dangerous and totally legal to possess in the US. However, when combined in certain proportions, they become the lethal injectable, ingestible, and inhalable illicit drugs that were now running rampant in Down East Maine, bolstering addiction until its users overdosed. It is unclear how many deaths can be attributed to these designer drugs as most overdoses are reported to be heroin. So the prevalence of synthetic opiates could be grossly underreported. We had the same issues in Miami, only on a much larger scale. If I could help find the party smuggling the chemicals, we could snuff synthetic opiates at the source.
The state of Maine was presently at a tipping point of sorts in reference to drugs. There was a thirty-one percent increase in overdose deaths in 2015, and the governor had just vetoed a bill that would have allowed pharmacists to dispense overdose antidotes without a prescription. Although I understood the importance of saving the lives of addicts, I sided with the governor in his opinion that making Narcan and other overdose antidotes readily available was in essence prolonging the agony for many junkies who would eventually die of overdose or other associated causes. The governor preferred addressing the root of the problem by stopping trafficking into Maine, expanding education and prevention efforts, and pushing doctors to be vigilant about tightening their prescription pads for the painkillers that so often lead to heroin use. The growing epidemic had been well timed with my arrival from Miami, I thought.
Fortunately, both of my destinations for this morning—the sheriff’s office and the home of Marine Safety Consultants—are within a few miles of one another in Ellsworth. For the sake of expedience, I dropped the box of chemicals and the mini meth lab off to the sheriff, and asked that he transport it to the lab for ID, which he graciously agreed to do. I gave him the notebook page on which I had copied the license and registration information of the men, I explained, who had almost run me off the road, which led to the confiscation of evidence. The sheriff seemed delighted that I had stumbled upon what would likely lead to another chink in the drug cartel’s ambitions and intentions. Every ounce of illegal substance that we could stop from being shot into an addict’s veins was definitely worth the pound of cure. The naïve people of Down East Maine were still in the stage of disbelief when learning of the record numbers of overdoses, drug-related crime, arrests, and convictions. Somehow that worked to the advantage of law enforcement, I thought. Smugglers, dealers, and users were not advanced in avoidance techniques, making my job a bit easier.
Before I left the Hancock County Sheriff Station, the sheriff confirmed that he expected preliminary findings from Mrs. Kohl’s autopsy by late afternoon, and promised to call me with results. We both concurred that money offered by her husband had certainly sped up the process, as we were accustomed to waiting up to a week for “lesser” victims.
“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” I commented.
“It’s actually not who you know, but who knows you, that matters most,” the sheriff chuckled. “Well, I expect that we’ll learn nothing that we don’t already know. And between the autopsy and the fire investigation, we can put this to bed right away and get on with the business of fighting crime.” That sounded good to me. The only thing an autopsy would provide me was peace of mind that Mrs. Kohl had indeed succumbed to smoke inhalation. Mr. Kohl would find a bit of comfort in knowing that his wife had not suffered the excruciatingly painful death that burning alive would have been.
Entering the office of Marine Safety Consultants, I was greeted by a very happy Mr. Dubois. Not that he isn’t always friendly, but today he was buoyant beyond his usual good nature. “The underwriters are very happy with us. And by us, I mean you!” Mr. Dubois exclaimed. “Believe me, we need all the goodwill we can get. Insurance is getting more and more competitive, and I can’t always get coverage for some of our clients who have homes on these remote outposts.”
“Why would they be happy about a total loss?” I asked.
“Don’t you read the paper? The fire has been deemed suspicious thanks to you!”
“But my findings support accidental fire, no arson suspected,” I said.
“Really, no need to be modest, Jane. The sample of diesel fuel you sent to the lab is compelling evidence to the contrary. The Kohls heat their house with propane and wood pellets. Diesel fuel should not have been on the premises.” I was perplexed, and this must have shown on my face.
Mr. Dubois noticed and asked, “You thought the sample was blood, didn’t you?” I nodded silently. “It was diesel fuel. I assume that the smell was masked by smoke and fumes at the scene. That is logical. And the color, well, diesel used off-road is dyed red and not subject to road tax. So guys use it in boats, tractors, anything that requires diesel fuel but that doesn’t drive on the state highways.”
“Wow. That makes sense. No wonder the house was burned so thoroughly. Now the question is why, right?”
“Yes, but that’s not my concern as the insurance broker. When you go back to Acadia, which I assume you will be doing pronto, you can gather whatever evidence you need to support the fact that the Kohl fire was intentionally set. I don’t care why or by whom—just that it wasn’t incidental or accidental is good enough for our immediate purposes. Then we can let the law authorities take it from there.” Mr. Dubois was apparently quite relieved with the prospect of arson, and I suspected that the Kohls’ house was insured for quite a sum that would not need to be paid out by the underwriters if foul play could be proven.
Mr. Dubois explained that he had just received the report from the lab identifying the sample of red liquid as diesel fuel, so the sheriff had not been notified. We agreed that the state fire marshal and police would naturally get involved as soon as the sheriff was in the loop. I handed Mr. Dubois the small storage card from my digital camera, and promised to do more investigating when I got back to the scene, which I imagined I would be doing wearing my deputy sheriff hat. I explained that I would be speaking with the sheriff later, and said goodbye.
Well, I thought, the Kohl fire was certainly now more interesting. The questions mounted: Who set the fire and why? Was Mrs. Kohl’s death suspicious? Or was her presence in the house unknown to the arsonist? Did Mrs. Kohl set the fire herself to collect the insurance and accidentally kill herself? Did Mr. Kohl want his wife dead? Or was there an explanation for the diesel fuel that negated the incendiary theory that Mr. Dubois was pushing? Oh yes, I would be heading back to Acadia soon, I thought. I now had some real investigative work to do. I would have to wait for the autopsy report and other forensics to be complete before forming any schedule and strategy for the full investigation. And that left me with some time to look for options for Wally’s living situation, which is what I planned to do while waiting to hear from the sheriff.
&
nbsp; I had done a bit of research into housing opportunities when I first moved to Green Haven, and there were a couple of what sounded like good options for Wally. I had always been aware of the probability that my separation from Wally would trigger changes in his behavior. Anxiety, withdrawal, and even dementia can occur as a reaction to certain stressors such as separation from or loss of a key attachment figure in adults with Down syndrome. But the fact that upheaval might be worse kept me from dragging him along when my relocation became inevitable.
Once I got settled in and busy with two jobs, my quest to have my brother here in Maine fizzled. Any pangs of guilt were subdued by reasoning that I shouldn’t disrupt his life just because I wanted to start a new one for myself. And this reasoning was bolstered by weekly phone calls that always found Wally thriving and surrounded by people who knew, understood, and loved him; something that I had never experienced myself. To be truthful, I had not given any serious thought to moving Wally to be nearer to me until I learned that he was soon to be homeless in Miami. And now that I understood that his present care facility relied on federal funding, I had to question the credibility of the reports from his caregivers of his happiness after I left. Funding was need-based, and calculated per resident.
Because I am a habitual list and note maker, I still had the page on which I had recorded, months ago, addresses of two assisted living facilities in Ellsworth. My thought at the time, and it had not changed, was that Ellsworth was just far enough away from Green Haven to allow Wally the independence that he needed. Again, I had to check my selfishness quotient. Although I had not looked for a place in Green Haven for my brother, I could honestly say that I was not aware of any. Had I inquired? No. And wasn’t Ellsworth a good step for Wally, coming from an eighteen-hundred-mile distance away from me and shortening that to thirty? Had I considered sharing a place with him? Yes, I had. But only briefly. His independence was top priority. Or was it my privacy that topped the list? What single, middle-aged woman wants to live with her brother? Not me. I pushed all of this from my mind as I walked through the entrance of Sunset Assisted Living.
Nope, I thought, and did a quick U-turn in the lobby. Two old folks in wheelchairs was all I needed to see to know that this was not the right place. The problem with assisted living is that most of it is geared toward seniors. Not that I have anything against senior citizens, but Wally needed to be with people of all ages, as he is prone to attach himself to and emulate those with whom he spends time. This is one reason why everyone who gets to know him loves him so much, I realized. Within a few hours of being with someone, Wally imitates speech patterns, expressions, accents, attitudes, and body language. It’s like having a clone of yourself without the facial features and physique. Most people take this as a huge compliment. But a few find it annoying, and even think that Wally is mocking them. The best situation for Wally, I thought, would be that which mirrored real life: living among people of all ages.
The next place on my short list of prospective housing for Wally was Anderson Ridge, which came highly recommended. I had looked online, and had made an appointment to get a tour of the facility. If it was everything the website promised, it was grand. I wouldn’t be able to see the outside activities today, as they were venues for seasonal sports and leisure events. But I would tour the indoor swimming pool, art center, library, music hall, and game room. They even had an indoor shooting range, which I was undecided about. When I questioned the safety of the range on the phone, I had learned that only “airsoft” guns were allowed and that every shooter had a fully trained staff member with them. The woman on the phone had assured me that the rules of the range were strict. But Wally had always been intrigued with my guns, and to my knowledge had never fired a gun of any kind. Not even a BB gun. Although I would prefer that he play chess or shuffleboard, I was in favor of affording him the opportunity to learn about gun safety and the basics of target shooting.
As I pulled into the parking area for Anderson Ridge, I was startled by the ringing of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” from within my bag. Jesus, I thought, I had inadvertently dropped the late Mrs. Kohl’s phone into my camera bag. I let it ring and go to voice mail, then dug it out of the bottom of my bag and placed it in the glovebox for safe keeping. I locked the Duster and headed for the front entrance of the main building. My possession of the phone, although an honest mistake, haunted me a bit. I had absentmindedly dropped it into my bag after using it on the island, and would turn it in to the sheriff to return to Mr. Kohl. I should have paid more attention, I thought. Now I would be embarrassed to admit that I had it, and have to explain why. Maybe it would be better to simply return the phone to the Kohls’ vehicle on my return trip to Acadia to investigate the fire, I thought.
The surroundings of Anderson Ridge were beautiful. A pristine blanket of snow on slight slopes that looked like swells on a white ocean gave the area a peaceful calm. Cross-country skiers circled the perimeter of the open fields, trekking along the edge of a thick forest of mature spruce that towered like sentinels. In the distance loomed great hills linked at their waists to one another, forming the ridge for which the facility was named. Before I opened the door under a sign that read “Visitors and Guests Welcome,” my phone beeped with a new text message. I flipped the phone open and read the message from the sheriff: “Call me ASAP. Urgent.” Seeing this as a reminder that I should turn off my phone for the tour, I did so, knowing that I would call the sheriff when I returned to the Duster. Experience with the sheriff to date had taught me that his sense of urgency was over the top. And after having witnessed his texting skills (or lack of), I knew that if this had been a true emergency, he would have called.
A perky and pleasant young woman greeted me inside the door. After a short chat, the tour began. I was very impressed with the facility, and knew it was right for my brother. When we sat down in her office, the woman quickly got to the business end of things. “Full residency with access to all of the wonderful staff and amenities is five thousand dollars per month,” she stated.
Wow, I thought. This was way out of my reach. No private insurance, no long-term care insurance, no Medicare, no estate from which to draw a plan from, and no substantial savings or investments left me with a sinking feeling. My silence prodded the woman to continue. “There are modified plans that include access to the facility, events, and staff during weekdays, if that is better suited for your budget.”
“Transportation to and from might be an issue,” I said, relieved to have an excuse other than my budget.
“Is your brother a ward of the state?” she asked. “If so, there are other places.” This was my exit sign. I thanked the woman for her time and left feeling defeated. I wanted the very best living situation and care available for Wally. But this I couldn’t afford. I would have to move to plan B, I thought as I climbed back into the Duster and turned my phone back on to call the sheriff.
“Hi, Sheriff. Jane here. What’s up?”
“This is very preliminary, but I just got a heads-up from the state’s lead pathologist. Mrs. Kohl was dead before she was burned.”
FIVE
After I caught my breath, I told the sheriff that I would be back in his office right away to discuss what he wanted me to do in light of this dramatic development. Within the past two hours, the case had changed course a full one hundred and eighty degrees. An incidental fire and accidental death had suddenly and shockingly been revealed as murder and arson. I was fuming at myself for not being more vigilant about questioning, and perhaps doing more investigating, yesterday while I was at what was now a crime scene on Acadia Island. Having made what I had always considered to be a rookie mistake—assuming that I already knew what had transpired—was now resulting in a mild case of self-loathing. I had only seen the evidence that pointed in the direction of what I was looking for.
At the top of my game, I would have left no stone unturned. I would have assumed the worst possible scenario. Now, because I had been too comfortable and over
confident in the theory of “nothing suspicious,” I had to retrace steps. I had allowed myself to lapse into a lackadaisical attitude that I attributed to my association with the local law enforcement community as a whole. Yesterday, I had been more concerned with not missing the boat off the island than I had been in digging deep into what may have been right in front of me.
The more time that elapses after the events, the fewer witnesses and people there are who actually know something, the more people who know nothing will speculate and share theories, and the greater chance of evidence disappearing or being contaminated. And once news of murder and the arson to cover it up spreads through Acadia, the more tight-lipped residents will become, in hopes of protecting the island’s reputation, I assumed. Most people would form their own theories, and have their own suspicions shaped by prior prejudices; looking at things through unbiased eyes would just get more difficult as the days went on.
As soon as I had a plan and strategy to execute, I would contact Joan and Clark Proctor. Because of their relationship with the Kohls, and the fact that they are the only people I had met on Acadia, they would be invaluable with helping to connect dots of evidence that I accumulated. As lifelong residents and caretakers for summer people, they knew everyone and understood the nuances that would be invaluable in solving the whos, hows, and whys of Mrs. Kohl’s death. The Proctors would accommodate me with a ride and help with names and locations of others I would need to question, starting with who was the last person to see and speak with Mrs. Kohl, I thought. I had already established a tentative rapport with Joan, and would work to strengthen that. Although we hadn’t had much time together, there’s something about handling a dead body with someone that forms an odd, yet poignant bond. Joan understood the intricacies of relationships—both good and bad—inherent in a very small community. And Clark was very involved in the working community. They were exactly what I needed to help with this case. They were islanders.
Shiver Hitch Page 8
