Past Perfect

by Richard Stockford

  When the room had cleared, Zick took a seat and poured himself a cup of coffee, waiting patiently for his own instructions.

  That night, Clipper showed Ann White’s letter to Janice after supper, saying only that he had come across it in an old file and thought she might be interested. He wasn’t ready to talk about the possibility of Jimmy Lindquist’s involvement.

  “Annie would be Montgomery Gaylord’s sister, Ann White, and Eleanor was his wife, of course. She disappeared back in the seventies. I saw some old newspaper clippings in Eleanor’s desk that talked about her disappearance from the house in 1975, I think.” Janice handed the letter back. “I’m meeting with Sebastian next week. I can ask him what he remembers about it if you want.”

  Clipper hesitated. “I think I’d rather keep it quiet until I’ve had a chance to look a little closer,” he said.

  Chapter 6

  Clipper’s nod to the weekend was to sleep in until six-thirty and amble into his office a half-hour later than his usual seven o’clock. He spent an hour clearing his desk of the overnight reports, marking a few for assignment, and another hour sorting through the credit union robbery updates, and then went down to the basement range for some quality time with his Kimber .45. Although he’d always enjoyed shooting, his single, live fire-fight the summer before had made him almost fanatical in his practice habits. He shot a fifty-round close-combat course twice, then thoroughly cleaned his weapon before leaving the range.

  By ten-thirty he was back in his truck thinking about finding some red cedar to line a blanket chest he was planning to build for Janice.

  It was five minutes to twelve when the nondescript Ford van rolled to a stop in front of the Hogan Road branch of the Maine Savings Bank in Bangor. The teller was just reaching out to lock the front door when the two men in ski masks stepped up from the side and burst through.

  “Down, down, down,” screamed Pauli, his pistol leveled at the two tellers still behind the cages. He shoved the one who had been about to lock the door to the floor, and swung his pistol back and forth to cover the bank manager standing beside the open vault and the single white-faced customer frozen in front of the far teller. “On the floor,” he yelled, finally settling his attention on the customer.

  Kashif Amini was raising his rifle to fire his warning shots into the ceiling when he noticed the manager edging closer to the open vault door. Without pause, he swept the muzzle down and triggered a short burst into the man’s chest, killing him instantly and leaving a fine red spatter on the off-white wall behind him.

  “Shit,” screamed Pauli, “you…”

  Kashif fired again, this time a long burst into the ceiling. “Move,” he yelled, exhilaration bringing a twisted smile to his lips beneath the mask. To Pauli, “Finish it!”

  Pauli vaulted over the chest-high counter and into the teller cages. He raked the cash out of the vault, not bothering to make the tellers open their drawers. Forty-five seconds later, he sprinted out the front door, followed by Kashif moving deliberately backward, sweeping the muzzle of his AK-47 across the room in silent warning. At the door, he paused. “Allahu Akbar,” he screamed. “Death to the infidels.”

  In the van, Pauli ripped off his mask and lunged at Kashif. “You killed him, you crazy bastard,” he screamed. “You fucking killed him.”

  Kashif pushed the larger man back. “He was going for a gun,” he lied.

  “No! He …he”

  “You didn’t control him. You looked away and he was going for a gun, so I did what had to be done,” Kashif said calmly. “Nothing’s changed. We’re still clean.”

  Jennifer spoke from behind the wheel. “You two shut up and watch for cops. We can deal with it later.”

  Clipper stared down at the crumpled body. The bank manager had been a fleshy, middle-aged man by the name of Stanley Miles. He’d been wearing wire frame glasses, which now hung from one ear, and a short-sleeved white shirt with a plastic pocket protector full of pens. One of the AK-47 rounds had made a neat hole in the pocket, and a thin string of bright blue ink tinged the blood oozing from the wound, lending a surreal look to the corpse. His body had been left in place, awaiting the crime-scene team, but the tellers and lone customer had been transported to the station where Randy Bissonette and Allen Oaks were taking their statements.

  One of the first responding officers had located three witnesses from the bank parking lot, all of whom described an older Ford van with Maine plates as the getaway vehicle. They also agreed that the van had a blonde female driver, and they got a good look at her face. Those witnesses were also at the police station working with Ellen Davis, who doubled as the department’s sketch artist, and every law enforcement agency in the county had been advised of the van’s description. Leaving John Peters in charge of the scene, Clipper drove to the station to make the necessary notifications and deal with the press. His first call to Chief Norris went about as he expected.

  “One dead?” the chief screamed. “You need to get this solved, right now. The manager’s going to explode, and we’ll look like asses in the press. I told you before, I want you in front of the cameras, and you better find a way to control this.”

  Clipper sighed. “Chief, I can’t control the press or the manager. We’ve got some leads to work, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll put together a press conference with Lieutenant Preston, but this is news, and they’re going to run with it no matter what we say.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. Chief Norris was a relative newcomer to the department, and Clipper had little time for his bureaucratic eccentricities. After last summer’s multiple murders related to the search for a fortune in stolen gems, their relationship had settled into one of mutual dislike tempered with the grudging respect produced by Norris’s skill at keeping the political world at bay and the strong clearance rates of Clipper’s investigative unit.

  By three o’clock, Clipper had refined statements from all the witnesses in hand as well as Identa-kit sketches of one female and two male suspects. The Identa-kit used numerous thin plastic overlays printed with individual facial features to make remarkably accurate composite drawings of suspects. Two of the parking lot witnesses had seen two males running from the bank, taking their masks off as they got into the van. Under Ellen Davis’ patient guidance, they had produced sketches of two young men, one looking to be of mid-eastern descent and a young woman with long blonde hair who had been identified as the driver. Clipper made copies of the sketches and tracked down Lieutenant Preston, the department public affairs officer, to schedule a five o’clock press conference.

  By four-thirty, the conference area in the station lobby was packed with representatives of Bangor’s four television stations, as well as reporters from three newspapers and several radio stations. Clipper, Lieutenant Preston and Cameron Shibles stood at the front of the room.

  At five, Lieutenant Preston read a prepared statement detailing the basics of the most recent robbery and murder, and then deferred to Clipper to handle the shouted follow-up questions.

  Carol Murphy, a smart young Channel Two reporter, was the loudest. “Is this the same gang that hit the credit unions?” she demanded.

  “We have evidence that may link this robbery with the two East Coast Credit Union robberies,” said Clipper, “and we are working with that possibility in mind. With the help of witnesses to today’s robbery, we have developed some composite sketches of three suspects and a written description of their vehicle which we would ask that you show to your audiences. In your packets, you will also find our tip line number, and we would appreciate all the print and air time you can give it.”

  “How much did they get?” asked a Kennebec Journal stringer.

  “We are not going to discuss case specifics at this time,” said Clipper, “but the amount was significant.”

  “Have you called in the FBI?” yelled a News reporter.

  Shibles stepped forward. “I’m Cameron Shibles, Special Agent in Charge of the Bangor office of the FBI
,” he said. “We have been actively working with Bangor PD and surrounding departments since the first robbery on Wednesday. In cases such as this, our role is largely one of laboratory support, communications, coordination and prosecutorial efforts, and we will extend all possible cooperation for as long as necessary.”

  “When are you going to make it illegal for people like this to have machine guns?” demanded an older female stringer from the Penobscot Journal.

  Clipper grinned in spite of himself. “We don’t make the laws, ma’am,” he said, “but, just to be clear, the weapon used in these robberies is a fully automatic assault rifle, and as such is already illegal to possess without a federal tax stamp. Regardless of the weapon used, we will be prosecuting the perpetrators for murder.”

  When the press conference broke up, Clipper and Shibles went up to the third floor detective area and sat down with Clipper’s squad.

  John Peters brought them up to date. “First, we’ve got two more serial number lists to get out,” he said, glancing at Shibles. “They got away with $17,347... and managed to avoid three dye packs in the tellers’ drawers. The van hasn’t been spotted yet; it looks like they jumped right on the Interstate, so it’ll probably turn up a few miles out. S.O. and S.P. are looking hard.” He glanced down at his notes. “Still no latents or trace evidence on the scene other than the AK-47 brass, gloves again; but we got some good witnesses this time. The tip line’s already ringing off the hook, and dispatch called in some extra people to man it.”

  Clipper stood as Peters wound down. “We’re dealing with young people here,” he said. “Ken, Randy, I want you guys to get these composites in front of every high school principal college registrar and coach in the area. Make a list and track ‘em down at home tonight and tomorrow. The rest of you, hit your snitches hard, and don’t be afraid to offer a little cash for good info. John will evaluate the tip line info and assign the follow-ups. Other than that, everyone’s on call for the rest of the weekend. Stay home and get rested up, ‘cause Monday morning, we’re going to babysit every bank in town. We’ll stage here at six a.m., and I’ll have some patrol guys to pair up with us.”

  Chapter 7

  Clipper spent most of Sunday morning in his office on the phone, coordinating stakeout efforts with the State Police, several sheriff’s offices and all of the towns with East Coast Credit Union branches. At noon, he left to prowl Bangor’s downtown area, stopping at a small family deli for lunch and speaking to people he knew. He showed the composite witness drawings to old folks in the park and kids at the basketball courts, and left them on every bulletin board he could find.

  As he strolled out of Founder’s Park, Clipper looked with distaste on a pair of camo fatigue-clad men lounging in front of the library. They wore well-shined, black, combat-style boots, and their uniforms were neat enough, but their longish hair and ragged beards marked them as local survivalist militia. Usually hanging in groups of two or three, they had become a common sight on Bangor’s streets over the past year. Clipper approached and let them see his badge before fanning the sketches in front of them.

  “Have either of you gentlemen seen these people?” he asked evenly.

  Both men shook their heads slowly, staring hard at Clipper, not bothering to look at the sketches. “Ain’t seen nobody,” one of them drawled insolently.

  Suddenly infuriated, Clipper pushed the sketches into the man’s face. “Haven’t seen them,” he said, “or just too stupid to remember?”

  The man face suffused with red and he balled his fists. “What did you say?” he growled, taking a step forward. Behind him, the other man issued a nervous, high-pitched giggle, and stepped up as well. Clipper dropped the sketches and raised his hands with a wolfish grin.

  “He said, ‘get the hell off my sidewalk’, stupid,” rumbled a familiar voice from Clipper’s left. He glanced around to see Caleb Cross who, at six feet six, two hundred and eighty pounds, was Bangor’s biggest patrol officer and, Clipper thought, quite possibly the largest cop in the world. Cross had turned to law enforcement when a knee injury sidelined a promising NFL career, but his continuing addiction to the weight room was clearly evidenced by his bodybuilder physique.

  The militiamen’s attitude quickly turned deferential, and Clipper’s anger slowly abated as he and Cross checked their ID’s and then kicked them loose.

  “Thanks,” Clipper said sheepishly to Cross when the men were gone. “Guess I lost it for a minute, there.”

  The younger man smiled. “Don’t mention it,” he said, “but you know, you looked so eager that I almost didn’t say anything.”

  Randy Thomas and Ken Bissonette checked in just after one, reporting no success in identifying the suspects through school officials, and the tip line was producing little in the way of plausible information, so by two o’clock Clipper was back at home slashing at a long neglected back-yard brush pile in a fit of angry frustration. When Janice got home at four o’clock, he was more than ready for the cold beer she brought from the house. Sipping a beer of her own, she led him to the back deck. “I collected everything I could find on Eleanor Gaylord’s disappearance,” she said, laying a stack of folders and papers on a table. “Somebody, I think Annie White, saved all the newspaper articles and some police reports in a cardboard box. It’s fascinating; the woman just disappeared without a trace.” Janice had spent a large part of the afternoon reading the old accounts of Eleanor’s disappearance and was becoming caught up in the mystery. “I bet you could solve it if you took a look.”

  Clipper glanced at the papers and snorted. “Right now, bank robberies trump forty-year old disappearances,” he said, getting up to find another beer. He didn’t notice the troubled look on Janice’s face as she gathered up the papers.

  At five forty-five the next morning, Clipper was just finishing writing partner assignments on the white board in the conference room. Along with himself and John Peters, Clipper would have eight detectives and twelve plainclothes patrolmen for a total of twenty-two officers to stake out the city’s banks. He paired each detective with a patrolman and assigned them to an area within the city and back-up responsibilities in adjoining jurisdictions. Clipper and his detectives each carried courtesy Penobscot County Sheriff credentials which allowed them to operate legally outside of Bangor city limits. He tried to spread out the sniper-qualified officers, men and women who were State-trained and certified to carry high power rifles on duty, and made sure there would be a shotgun, binoculars and suspect composites in each car.

  By six o’clock, the room was full, and Clipper called the yawning troops together.

  “This is a simple moving stake-out,” he said. “We cover every bank and credit union in town, and call in patrol to stop any vehicle you see with two men and one woman in it. Spread out, cover as many banks and credit unions as possible, stay inconspicuous and monitor the S.P. TAC channel,” he said, pointing over his shoulder at the frequency written on the board. “Be ready to move to block escape routes or assist the surrounding towns. The S.P. and S.O. will cover the Interstate and Routes one, two, nine and fifteen.”

  A patrolman raised his hand. “How long do we stay out?” he asked.

  “We’ll go until ten o’clock, and then probably wrap it up,” Clipper said. “We’ll cover closing times this afternoon with division people and marked units, and then make a decision about tomorrow. Last thing, stay focused. Remember, these guys are armed with at least one automatic weapon.”

  As the troops filed out, Clipper went back to his office trailed by Dave Adams, whom he had assigned as his own partner. After some calls to make sure the other agencies and departments were up and running, Clipper and Adams went to Clipper’s truck and drove to an area near the Interstate that was thick with small branch banks. They grabbed coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts, and Clipper parked in a lot where they could see the approaches to three of the bank lots.

  “Did you get anywhere with that research we talked about?” asked Clipper, settling back
in his seat.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Adams. “Turns out there was a disappearance from the old Gaylord place back in 1975. Eleanor Gaylord was supposed to leave on October thirty-first to visit her brother in Chicago. She was last seen by her sister-in-law at the mansion that morning, but she never showed in Chicago and was never seen again. Apparently, she was alone in the house for most of the day, and her luggage was gone, but there was no record of her plane ticket being used. From what I can tell, there was nothing to go on, and eventually they decided she probably just took off to get away from her old man. He was a State Senator then, and I guess they didn’t get along all that well.”

  Clipper nodded. “Did another woman die?”

  “Yep. The sister-in-law, Ann White, died the following March. Some kind of aneurism or hemorrhage, I haven’t got the autopsy report yet.” It was typical of Adams that he did not need to refer to any notes as he recounted his findings.

  Clipper thought. “That’s a long time back, but it would have been a big deal. I’d appreciate it if you’d see if you can find the reports down in storage.”

  “Is this something we’re going to work?” asked Adams with a gleam in this eye.

  “Maybe, but I’ve still got some checking to do, and we really need to catch some bank robbers, first.” Adams’s chuckle was cut short by a voice, hoarse with suppressed excitement, on the State Police TAC channel.

  ‘Bangor 756. We got three mokes cruising the United Bank at Brewer Plaza. Old blue Chevy Caprice, no front plates; Woman driver, two guys in back. Now they’re headed back out on Wilson Street. Maine reg. 337- AMK. They’re headed south on Wilson.’

  Almost immediately, another voice was heard. ‘Penobscot 412. I’m on ‘em. Let me just get a little closer.’

  Clipper tensed in the ensuing seconds of radio silence, scanning a mental map of the area. He was considering a move closer to the river when the deputy came back on the air, his voice thick with adrenalin and disappointment, ‘This ain’t them. There’s no one in this car younger than sixty.’