I would gather what information I could through the sheriff’s department. I had been granted full clearance and entry into the department’s computer, which provided access to every bit of electronic information available—local, state, and federal—and had used it to research rap sheets for the many drug-related crime investigations that had filled my days. Because of my background and high security clearance, I had access to CODIS and NDIS files. And laws requiring search warrants for police searches of electronic information had not been instituted in Maine, so anything was fair game. I had learned more from suspects’ and victims’ social media sites than I had in the federal restricted electronic files. All of this at the tip of my fingers that itched to get surfing; I stepped on the Duster’s gas pedal a little harder. Assuming that the state’s pathologist would continue to expedite his work, I would be returning to Acadia Island soon. This time I would be in my element. Criminal investigation was my comfort zone. And now that it was clear that a murder had been committed, Jane Bunker would snap into action. I would ditch the camera bag, trading it for my trusty sidearm. No more Mister Nice Guy, I thought as I sped along Ellsworth’s busy main thoroughfare, weaving in and out of two lanes. I was on a mission.
Upon my arrival at Hancock County Sheriff’s Department, I was greeted by the sheriff himself. He agreed that I would singlehandedly strategize, organize, and conduct the Kohl investigation as I had more experience in “such things” than anyone in the department, or even the Maine State Police. He would provide whatever assistance I needed, but assumed that would be minimal. He guaranteed full access to any information as it became available. I did not feel put upon in the least. On the contrary, I preferred working alone on cases and had made that clear from the onset of my being deputized. I explained to the sheriff that I was in possession of Mrs. Kohl’s cell phone, and that I would start there. He and Deloris, the dispatcher, had spent the morning setting up a small office for me. I had resisted this space in the past, preferring to be in the field. But now that I had the need for private space with a computer, desk, file cabinet, and landline, I was appreciative of their efforts. “And Deloris will be happy to help you in any way possible,” the sheriff vowed.
I wondered how much help Deloris could provide, as I knew her as a constant complainer and whiner. She meant well, but according to her, she was “misunderstood.” She was extremely paranoid, which was not a bad trait to possess when working on things that needed to be kept confidential. She had aspired to be an officer in the Maine State Police. Unable to complete the required number of chin-ups to meet the physical test, she had taken the job as dispatcher for the HCSD as a default position. Upon our initial introduction several months ago, Deloris had made it clear that Maine was one of only two states that do not allow female recruits to do a modified chin-up. Of course Florida was not the other one. Although Deloris was fanatic about working out, she just could not gain the upper body strength needed to pull her chin to the bar ten times. Her dashed dreams were what accounted for her somewhat sour disposition, I thought.
As there was little dispatch needed, Deloris had lots of time on her hands to diagnose every problem in Hancock County without offering a single solution. And she followed every complaint with “but that’s just me.” This disclaimer allowed her to be quite free with berating everyone and everything in casual conversation. A badge and gun were all she ever wanted. And as they were unattainable, she lived a life unfulfilled. The prospect of helping me with a murder investigation seemed to delight her. There was no question for whom the second chair in the office was intended.
The sheriff left “to make rounds,” which I had learned included a stop at Martha’s Diner for a bite to eat. He would also visit the lab where he would have the box of chemicals tested and ID’d before returning to the office. The Kohl investigation would require my full attention, I thought as he reminded me of the probable drug arrest that would be imminent once we knew that the white powder in the pouches I had confiscated was indeed what we suspected. That opened the door for me to give Deloris something to do that would be helpful. I put her in charge of gathering information on the two men from whom I had taken the large stash while I began going through Midge Kohl’s phone for clues. “Everything is important,” I advised Deloris. “Dig deep. They had enough powder to wipe out every addict in the county!”
Deloris responded with a hearty, “Aye, aye,” and took a seat in front of a laptop computer. The bottled redhead was quite an imposing figure, and not at all what one might expect to see as a dispatcher. She took pride in her figure, wearing clothes that emphasized her muscles, which I recognized as the result of her many hours spent in the gym. Deloris was so boisterously negative about all of life, that I had secretly dubbed her Dubious.
“The sheriff has not been using me to my full potential,” she started. “All I do here is answer the phone and make coffee. And let me tell you, I could run this place. I have lots of training, but was sabotaged before I earned my badge. You want the dirt on these goons? I’ll serve it up.” She began typing with much more force than needed, which I found slightly annoying. “It’s about time someone recognized my ability. The sheriff is not the best leader. And not the brightest bulb either. But that’s just me.” She rapped on the keyboard as I got comfortable in my chair with Mrs. Kohl’s cell phone and a yellow legal pad on which to make notes. Although I needed help, I wasn’t confident that Deloris was the gal for the job.
Within thirty minutes Deloris was declaring she needed to make a road trip. “Both of these losers live and work on The Peninsula. Facebook pages list employment with Empire Seafood. I’ll go check with the boss at Empire and ask a few questions.” I knew “The Peninsula” as the chain of islands connected by a series of bridges to Ellsworth on its eastern border. Most of what I had heard about the area was that it was notorious for fencing stolen goods. Hot outboard motors and electronics could be purchased for short cash on The Peninsula, and summer homes were not safe from winter breakins and robberies. And what I had heard was immediately confirmed by the overzealous Deloris.
“Most of the people who call The Peninsula home are self-employed clam diggers, worm diggers, or seaweed and moss rakers. And as clams, worms, kelp, and sea moss are all found along the shore, thieving harvesters have easy access to frontal properties,” Deloris said. She was certainly opinionated, I thought. “What do you say to a little visit to Empire Seafood?”
“Maybe I had better stay here and work on the Kohl case,” I said. “You go ahead, though.” I would be glad to be rid of her for a while, so I offered no resistance to her taking the lead in getting some firsthand scoop that could come in handy in convicting the drug runners.
“You haven’t been here long enough to know about The Peninsula. But there are some very bad hombres over there. I have never met anyone east of the Sullivan Bridge who could be trusted. But that’s me.”
“Thank you for your insight,” I said. “It’s nice to have the local knowledge.”
“Of course I’ll need a gun,” Deloris mentioned, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yeah, I’ll run that up the flagpole and let you know.” I was confident that my tone dismissed the request without my words doing so. Deloris shrugged and muttered something derogatory as she donned her coat and left the office.
Alone with Mrs. Kohl’s cell phone, it didn’t take long for me to discern her preferred mode of communication. There were a couple of missed calls, no voice messages, and tens of thousands of text messages. Most of the contacts in her list were a combination of a first name and company name, like “Dave—Eastern Seafoods.” The texts to the seafood companies were all business, mostly about orders, pricing, and shipping details.
But a few of the lengthy text threads were denoted only as a phone number with no name or other identifying info attached. And the majority of these were unpleasant exchanges. Many of the nasty notes were complaints about incomplete or late shipments of lobster products. There was one text
chain that I found disturbing and of great interest. Mrs. Kohl’s end of the first week of sporadic communication was a repeated, “Who is this?” Or a nonresponse, which elicited the worst from the ignored text messenger. The thread began on January 1 with “Happy New Year Lard Ass,” and went downhill from there.
I scrolled through the thread and continued all the way to a long string that had been sent the day before yesterday, the day of Mrs. Kohl’s murder. The tone in the messages went from anger to absolutely incoherent rages. I highlighted and forwarded specific exchanges that I found most telling to my own phone.
“Your world will come crashing in if SHIPMENTS do not stop.”
“I don’t know who this is, or what you want.”
“But I know you. And I know what you are doing.”
“Stop harassing me.”
“Ha! Going to the police? We both know that will never happen.”
The person texting Mrs. Kohl, from the looks of other exchanges, seemed to be completely unstable, and possibly in a serious state of deteriorating mental health. There was name calling and even some physical threatening from the mystery person. Mrs. Kohl’s responses later in the thread ranged from defensive to promising to get law enforcement involved if the verbal abuse and threatening persisted.
“You are a capitalist pig. You are a complete sow.”
“Can we meet and talk about your issues with me?”
“Time for talk has passed. I warned you. Dirty pig!”
“Who is this? Only a coward hides behind anonymity.”
“This coward will take you to slaughter. First I’m going to make you sweat like the pig you are.”
“If I take this to the cops, you’ll be arrested for criminal threatening.”
“Go ahead. Stinking, bitch sow!”
*
I wondered if Mrs. Kohl had at the very least alerted any officials—or even her husband—to what could be called harassment. I would check into that, I thought as I jotted a note on the legal pad.
I researched the cell number from which the text originated, only to find that it was a prepaid and thus not able to be pinned to an owner. I called the number and got an immediate computer-generated message about the number being no longer in service. If the nasty texts had escalated to action, then the murderer had been wise enough to throw the phone filled with evidence into the ocean, I surmised. I read through the messages again, slowly this time, searching for clues to the sender’s identity. Anyone who watches crime shows on television knows enough about forensics, research, investigation, and how to evade detection. And anyone who knows how to use Google can really fine-tune their criminal activity, I knew. Hell, if terrorists can learn to build bombs using materials found at their corner neighborhood market, then any average Joe can learn how to place nontraceable calls and text messages. Law enforcement these days was mostly about staying ahead of the criminals, who often know more about new technology than the crime fighters do.
I found it noteworthy that the texts were mostly fully and properly punctuated. There were no emoticons or shortening of words. Grammatically, the messages read well, which was an odd juxtaposition with the content. I assumed the sender was educated. Some of the messages were more bullying than threatening, while others were accusatory. It was not clear exactly what enraged the texter, only that Mrs. Kohl had been warned about some activity and had not stopped and would face consequences. There seemed to be some underlying principle that had been treaded upon by Mrs. Kohl. While there was relatively little vulgarity, there were certainly some very derogatory accusations and statements.
One common term throughout the thread was “Capitalist Pig.” There were a lot of accusations of cheating, and I got the sense that this was business-related rather than personal or marital. I wondered if this was a disgruntled employee. That was certainly a possibility, and one that I would check into.
“The only thing lower than a pig is a snake in the grass.”
“Who are you?”
“Slither under another rock. Bite the hand that feeds you. You are completely detestable.”
“Trust me. I will find out who you are.”
“Trust? You are the picture of deceit. Lying, cheating pig!”
I knew that my investigation would include speaking with many of the ex-convicts working at ALP. Likely there were a number of employees at ALP who had been educated prior to being convicted of whatever crimes they had committed.
It finally became clear that some texts were copied and sent over and over again. One that was sent twice in one day and then again nearly every day was:
“Well, you have created quite a circus, haven’t you? You have ruined everything I have ever cared about, and things will never return to normal.”
Interestingly, this particular text never elicited a response from Mrs. Kohl. I got the sense that this was in reference to the island itself. From what I had learned from Joan Proctor, this sentiment was shared by many year-round residents and summer folk alike. Summer people who had sold their family estates for pennies on the dollar thanks to the ex-con presence would certainly be plenty angry with Midge Kohl and her group of ALP investors. And locals who had been raised on this quaint and pristine paradise would be sick about the changing population and would fear for their children among the new inhabitants, many of whom were convicted for gruesome acts of violence. Could that drive a parent to a violent and murderous rage, I wondered?
I was stuck on one text. “Your daily actions are inhumane. You are nothing but a cold-blooded killer. Your outward civility is cracking and barbarism is oozing from within.” Even among all of the nasty insults, this one stuck out as different and more meaningful. But I wasn’t sure why. Although the texts were incriminating, they were not helping me with a suspect list. If anything, they created a longer list than what would be useful. Employees, summer residents who sold out, year-round people who held Mrs. Kohl responsible for irreversible change, parents, customers, or business associates … The possibilities were plentiful at this point. I had been mulling over and through text messages for two hours when I realized that I should be looking at Mrs. Kohl’s emails as well.
Fortunately, Mrs. Kohl’s email on her phone was not password protected, allowing me entry into what I assumed was her only account, as it contained both business and personal correspondence. The majority of what remained in her inbox was ALP related, and was mostly complaints about a missing, late, or incomplete order. It was clear that her associates within the seafood industry only reached out when there were problems. There was no small talk, or light-hearted notes. Even the personal emails that had been sent from what I assumed were family members or friends were very detail-oriented about dates of events or notices of deaths or weddings or baby showers.
I scrolled through the contact list, and found nothing unusual or eyebrow raising. I looked through sent mail, and found the same—nothing that looked threatening in any way. I opened up the recently deleted and trash files, and found an email with an attachment that was sent to Mrs. Kohl from [email protected]. The phone struggled to open the attachment. I was getting antsy, so I forwarded the email to myself so I could open it on my laptop. It was taking forever to send. It finally went out with a “ding.” I watched anxiously for it to appear in my inbox. Suddenly, I became aware of some hushed voices in the outer office area. I thought I had been left alone, and now wondered who was with me. Deloris would have made a grand and noisy entrance. And if the sheriff was here, who was he speaking with, and why in whispers?
I quietly closed my laptop, and slowly stood up from the chair. Walking deliberately and without making a sound, I crept to the side of the open door and peered down a short hallway to the main lobby of the department. Although I could hear a slight rustling of clothing and padded footsteps, I could not see who had come in. Whoever had entered had done so sneakily. Normally, Deloris would have greeted anyone who came through the front door. In her absence, someone had taken great liberty, I thought. I
stepped into the hall as I heard a door close. I hustled to the lobby. Papers that had been stacked neatly on Deloris’s desk were now strewn haphazardly. Two large file cabinet drawers had been left open. The only doors that I could not see from my office were the restrooms and the storage room. Assuming that whoever had entered did not do so to use a bathroom, I tiptoed over to the storage room door. Before I twisted the knob, I felt for my revolver and recalled that I hadn’t donned my holster this morning as my mission did not require a gun.
I hesitated, and looked out the window into the parking area. Sure enough, the only vehicle other than mine was the same pickup truck that had nearly T-boned me this morning. The same vehicle occupied by the two drug addicts from whom I had confiscated a large box of illicit substance sat indiscreetly front and center. Pressing my ear closer to the door, I could hear low voices and the shuffling of cardboard boxes. The guys were here to collect their “shipment,” I knew. Now that I understood who had sneaked in, and what their intention was, I flung the door open with some gusto and walked into the storage room to chase the pests away. As quickly as I entered, I found myself staring down the barrel of a .38 Special gripped in the shaky hand of the thug who had been the passenger this morning. Putting my hands up, I backed away from the gun slowly and said, “Whoa. You shippers take your work seriously.”
Shiver Hitch Page 9
