Past Perfect

by Richard Stockford

  Back in Bangor an hour later, Clipper was briefing his chief on the robberies. “We’re going to need to do this by committee, I’m afraid,” Clipper said after describing the basics of the robberies. He was well known for his willingness to share and cooperate with neighboring departments, but he generally hated anything resembling joint control of an investigation. In this case however, his gut was telling him that they were only getting started.

  A bureaucrat through and through, Chief Albert Norris had been hired away from a West Coast department on the strength of a twenty-five year law enforcement history and a great oral interview. He saw the department’s media relations and public visibility as its most important priorities, and he loved the thought of a high-visibility, multi-agency task force operating out of Bangor. “I’ll talk to the area chiefs, and we’ll see if the News wants to embed a feature reporter,” he said. “Why don’t you drop a hint to the feds? If they think it’s their idea, maybe they’ll fund it.”

  “They won’t even participate if they see the press involved,” Clipper said drily, turning for the door. “Let me see what I can put together informally.”

  “I want you in front of the cameras, on this one,” the chief said. “They like you, and I want the public to see us in a proactive mode.”

  Clipper knew he couldn’t fight the Chief’s fanatical passion for seeing the department lauded in the headlines so, with a muttered, “Ok, I’m on it,” he left the office. Slipping behind his own desk, Clipper thought, ‘as usual, we’ll get it done in spite of him,’ as he reached for his private directory. Within moments, he was talking to the State Police Troop E commander, Lieutenant Scott Ellis. “Hey, Scott,” Clipper said, “I’m putting together a little meeting this afternoon. I think we need to coordinate some on these credit union robberies, and I wondered if you’d drop by.”

  Scott Ellis had started his law enforcement career on a small municipal department, and he was one who remembered his roots. “Sure,” he said. “What time?”

  In twenty minutes, Clipper had lined up representatives of four nearby police departments, three county sheriff’s offices and Cameron Shibles for a four p.m. meeting. After a little thought, he called East Coast Credit Union in Belfast and invited Darren Barcliff as well. He spent twenty minutes putting together an information packet on the two robberies and gave it to Paula Sellers, the detective division secretary, to duplicate for the meeting.

  Kashif Amini stacked the money in neat piles on the kitchen table. After the robbery, he’d dropped Pauli and Jennifer at their car a couple of miles from the credit union, and then drove the stolen Buick up route one to a big roadside flea market in Searsport and left it in the back of the hay-field parking lot. By the time he’d walked out to the road, Jennifer was just pulling up. They had then driven to Bucksport and on up the other side of the river to Bangor.

  “With the first one, we have almost eleven thousand, five hundred,” he said, laughing inwardly at the expression of greed on Pauli’s face.

  “When are we going to trade it for good money?” asked Pauli without taking his eyes off the stacks of bills.

  “When we’re done. I only want to do it once.” Kashif swept the money back into the gym bag they’d used to transport it and fixed Pauli with a hard glare. “I have told you something of our struggle,” he said. “My people are kept in perpetual poverty and fear by our leaders who grow fat with power and greed. Islam is profaned and the blood of our children stains the sand. The money we lose in the trade and my share of our profits will help right this injustice, but,” he lowered his voice, “I have not been entirely honest with you,” he said, looking from Pauli to Jennifer. “My family did not send me to this country for an education. My emir sent me here to raise money for the struggle. I am a soldier,” he said, “a warrior of Islam.”

  “Ok, let’s get started.” Clipper stood at the front of the conference room while John Peters passed out the information packets. “I’d like to introduce Darren Barcliff,” he said pointing to the banker. “Darren’s the regional manager of East Coast Credit Union, and he’s here to help.” Clipper outlined the two robberies and the sparse information gleaned from the scenes. “In your packets, you’ll find the stills from the videos, lists of what serial numbers we have and maps of the East Coast Credit Union locations. I think we have to assume that they’re going to hit again, and I think we can also assume that they’re based in or near Bangor. The plates on the getaway car in the first robbery were stolen in Bangor, and Waldo S.O. just recovered a car in Searsport that was reported stolen in Bangor, probably sometime last night. It had stolen plates also. We’ll be on the street, working the vehicles and plates, but someone needs to cover the rest of the East Coast sites.” Clipper turned to the large map taped to the white board at his back. “Besides Bangor and Belfast, they’ve got branches in Bucksport, Ellsworth, Machias and Camden.”

  Darren Barcliff raised his hand. “The Camden branch is right on Main Street, very congested with people and traffic.”

  “Good point,” said Clipper. “They’ve been hitting remote locations when there aren’t many people around. Which other places look like that?”

  “Both Bucksport and Ellsworth are standalone branches,” replied Barcliff, “out of the downtown areas.”

  Scott Ellis raised his hand. “Has your credit union had any problems in the past with Muslim extremists?” he asked.

  Barcliff shook his head. “We’re a family credit union,” he said. “We haven’t had any problems with anybody.”

  Dave Adams ambled into the room and took a seat. At Clipper’s inquiring look, he got back up and faced the room. “’We don’t have much more than we had yesterday,” he started, “but the gun’s a match for both robberies, and the prints on the steering wheels and door handles of both getaway cars are smeared, like the occupants were wearing gloves. Oh, on the Chevy, the convertible, the VIN plate has been removed. We’re working on the secondary numbers. One interesting thing, the stolen plates on both vehicles are registered to people on Pearl Street in Bangor. We’ve got what seems to be the same clothing, ski masks, and gloves in the two videos, so I guess we can say it’s the same people, but that’s about it.”

  “Ok,” Clipper said, “Anything else?”

  Dave Barcliff raised his hand. “We’ve notified all our people to check the parking lots before they open up and call in anything suspicious, and we’ve got dye packs in every drawer.”

  Clipper smiled, thinking of the dye pack exploding in some punk’s face. “Good,” he said. “We’ll check to see if there are any other plates missing from Pearl Street, and we’ll be at the Bangor Branch when they open tomorrow. Can you guys cover Belfast, Bucksport and Ellsworth?”

  With arrangements made for the next day, the meeting broke up and Clipper went back to his office to tackle the pile of everyday paperwork on his desk. It was seven o’clock when he finally went home.

  Chapter 5

  At seven-thirty the next morning, Clipper and John Peters were cruising past Bangor’s East Coast Credit Union for the third time. They were in John’s red Jeep Cherokee, with Second Chance vests under their shirts and a pair of loaded shotguns within easy reach. A police radio was tuned to the State Police tactical channel designated as the group’s primary. Although he really didn’t expect the robbers to hit in Bangor again, Clipper had two marked units waiting about a minute out from either side of the credit union, and Detective Ellen Davis was loitering with a baby stroller within sight at a nearby bus stop.

  Eight o’clock came and went and all the branches of the East Coast Credit Union opened without incident. By nine o’clock, the surveillances had all dissolved back into normal work days, and Clipper was back in his office reading incident reports and making case assignments.

  Clipper’s early start had prompted Janice Owens to start her day early as well. She’d left the house when he did, driving to Cleo’s Diner for coffee and a cinnamon roll to go before heading to the Gaylord Est
ate. Today she planned to start inventorying the books and papers in the second floor sitting room that had apparently been used as a den by Montgomery Smith Gaylord’s wife, Eleanor, before her death in 1975 and after by her sister-in-law, Ann White. The bright, sunny room was Janice’s favorite spot in the huge mansion. It had the preserved look of a fine museum display, but held a curiously expectant air, as though its former occupants were just about to appear.

  Sitting again at the writing desk, Janice began sifting through the room’s contents, separating the personal from the generic, scanning documents and fingering objects, gradually building a picture of the owner in her mind. When she came to the small bound and locked diary, she set it aside as a personal item for the family.

  By eleven-thirty, Clipper was caught up and thinking about lunch when the Chief stuck his head into his office.

  “I got a call from the hospital,” Norris said. “Jimmy Lindquist is asking to see you.”

  “Me?” asked Clipper.

  “Yes, you specifically.” Norris looked at Clipper sharply. “I don’t know what he wants, but find out what he was doing in that cruiser while you’re talking to him, and make damn sure he understands that we’re not responsible for his injuries. Get a statement from his kid, too, and include a disciplinary recommendation in your report. I want to wrap this mess up before the press gets wind of it.”

  Clipper was still shaking his head as he left for the hospital to see Jimmy Lindquist. Jimmy had retired several years before Clipper started on the department, but Clipper knew him as the cop on the beat from his childhood, and had always liked the placid old patrolman.

  When Clipper poked his head into the private room, he was immediately struck by how much Lindquist had aged since he’d last seen him. The face on the pillow, once full and ruddy, was slack and pale. A mottled pink scalp showed through wispy blond hair hanging lank and sparse over washed out blue eyes, and the body beneath the sheets hardly made a lump on the bed. Clipper might have turned and left, but the old cop started and lifted a weary hand in greeting.

  “Thomas,” he said, “I need to talk to you. Come in and shut the door.”

  Clipper let the door swing closed and went to the chair beside the bed. “How’re you making it, Jimmy?” he asked.

  Lindquist shook his head. “Doc says I’ll be ok,” he said, “but it was too close. I been laying here thinking… I coulda died. I’m getting old, and there’s something I don’t want to take with me when it happens.”

  Clipper leaned forward. “What is it, Jimmy? Did you recognize someone?”

  Lindquist shook his head. “No, no,” he mumbled, “it’s not… listen, I gotta get this off my chest.” Lindquist struggled to sit up, wincing in pain. “I never told anyone, but I need to tell you…”

  Alarmed, Clipper touched the older man’s arm. “Jimmy,” he said, “There’s plenty of time. Why don’t you rest a bit and I’ll stop by later.”

  “No! No! You gotta listen. I killed a woman in 1976 and I need to make it right before I die.”

  Clipper leaned back in the chair. “Go on,” he said quietly, wondering how much painkiller the old man had on board.

  Lindquist relaxed slightly, sinking back into the bed. “Back in 1976,” he said tonelessly, “I was working the desk, when a woman came into the station with a letter for Chief Thomas. He had retired and moved out of state, and the woman wanted me to find his new address and send it to him. I took the letter and told her I’d get it in the mail the next day, and I was going to, but that night old man Gaylord came to my house. He said the woman was his sister and she was crazy - thought she had proof his wife had been murdered. Being a Senator and all, he didn’t want her stirring things up, so he gave me money, five hundred bucks, to destroy the letter and asked me to go see her and convince her not to push it. You know, tell her we were working on it and she’d get in trouble for interfering, something like that. I went to their house later that night and tried, but she didn’t believe me, told me to get out and started screaming and slapping at me.” Lindquist blinked back tears. “I panicked,” he said, “hit her and ran. I heard the next day she was found dead in bed.”

  Clipper was stunned. “Jimmy,” he said, “How do you know…There must have been an investigation...”

  Lindquist shook his head. “I know,” he said. “They said it was some kind of natural causes, a hemorrhage or something, but I know.” He looked at Clipper, rheumy eyes turning hard. “I’ve had to live with what I did, but I don’t want to die with it. That letter is in a cigar box in my bedroom closet. Take my keys. Get it. Help me make it right,” he said sinking back onto the pillow, spent.

  Clipper got to his feet. “You rest, Jimmy,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Jimmy Lindquist lived in a small tract house on Bangor’s north end. Built as military housing for the Air Force in the fifties, the two-bedroom ranch slumped tiredly on its slab, faded asbestos siding half hidden by drooping willows and overgrown shrubbery, mid-way down a row of identical, dilapidated houses. Clipper let himself in the side door, nose wrinkling at the damp smell of old food, stale air and incipient rot, and made his way through the outdated kitchen and down a narrow hall to Jimmy’s bedroom. He found a taped-up old cigar box on the back corner of the closet shelf. It contained a tarnished Bangor Police badge, a leather sap, a handful of corroded .38 spl. rounds, a couple of old automobile registrations, some faded photographs of a much younger Jimmy and his family and, folded in a plain sheet of white paper in the bottom of the box, a creased and stained envelope bearing only the handwritten name of Chief Avery Thomas and an old postage stamp. Happy to escape the dismal atmosphere, Clipper left Jimmy’s house and drove to Cleo’s Diner, where he ordered a hamburger plate and settled down to read the letter over lunch.

  December 18, 1976

  Dearest Avery,

  Oh, how I wish you were still here in Bangor. My worst fears have come true, and I’m not sure I can face the future alone.

  I am taking this letter to the Police station tomorrow and will ask them to forward it to you as they will probably not release your current address to me. What I would ask of you is a letter of introduction to the new chief. If I were to go to him as a stranger, I’m sure he would consider me a mad-woman. With your aid, I’m in hopes of a fair hearing and a resurrection of the investigation into Eleanor’s murder. And yes, I now have the proof that she was murdered, and I know who did it.

  Avery, I have always valued our friendship, but if you will take this last step with me, you will have my undying gratitude and love. Thank you.

  Affectionately,

  Annie

  After some thought Clipper drove to the station and went directly to the basement lab area in search of Dave Adams. He found him peering at fingerprint samples on a large flat screen monitor and slurping Diet Coke from a can.

  “Hey, LT,” said Adams. “What’s up?”

  Clipper perched on the edge of the desk. “I’ve got a special little project for you,” he said with a grin. “First, around 1975, a woman named Eleanor Gaylord apparently vanished from the old Gaylord Estate. I don’t know her DOB or when she disappeared, but I need you to find out all you can about the incident and also about a woman named Annie who died there the next year. Second, find out all you can about Avery Thomas who was the Chief here around that time.”

  Adams had been taking notes as Clipper talked. “You in a hurry?” he asked.

  “Not especially. This is just a little historical puzzle I’d work on myself, if I had a little more time, but it could turn out to be an interesting cold case.”

  “Yeah,” Adams said with a grin, “very cold. Ok, I’ll see what I can find.”

  While Clipper was pondering how to handle Jimmy Lindquist’s bombshell, across town Billy Zick deftly balanced a tray laden with coffee and muffins as he held the library door for Sebastian Gaylord. A wiry, five-foot-eight, athletic looking man in his mid-thirties with pale blue eyes under a shock of wheat-yel
low hair, Billy occupied a permanent position in Gaylord’s retinue as chief of security and special problem solver. He was called, though not generally to his face, ‘Billy the Blade’ by associates who both feared and respected his considerable skill with a throwing knife.

  Gaylord had recognized the man’s potential when, as a young lawyer, he had successfully defended Zick against accusations of rape. He had become Zick’s private sponsor, benefactor, and eventual employer, and Zick had evolved into a polished and utterly faithful confidant who could be trusted with the most delicate of tasks. Entering the room in his usual, unobtrusive manner, he placed the tray on a table and stepped back to take his habitual stance behind Gaylord’s chair.

  Sitting back with a cup of coffee, Gaylord addressed his staff members already gathered in the room. This was the inner group of his campaign workers. “Ok,” he said, looking from face to face. “I want to be out of here by noon on Sunday. We’ve got two days in Portland, back here Wednesday and Thursday, and then Houlton and Presque Isle on Sunday. Campaign progress meeting back here on the twenty-second.” He speared his administrative assistant, Missy Truman, with a flat stare. “It’ll be you and I and two of Billy’s guys. Fix the rooms and double check all the appointment times.” Without waiting for a reply, he rapidly worked his way around the room, assigning weekend duties, demanding information and finally dismissing the group with a brusque, “Alright, get to it.”