Past Perfect

by Richard Stockford

  Janice’s knock was answered by an attractive blonde woman dressed in business attire. “Hi, I’m Missy Truman,” the blond said, swinging the door wide. “You must be Janice from the Historical Society. Please come in; Mister Gaylord’s expecting you in the library.”

  Janice followed Missy down a central hallway and through double doors on the right, beyond which lay a room richly appointed in leather and dark wood. Bookshelves covered virtually all of the wall space, and a gigantic, leather-inlaid desk dominated one end of the room.

  Sebastian Gaylord was a barrel-chested man in his early fifties with the broad shoulders and flat stomach of a working man, wrapped in the well-cut suit of a successful businessman and topped with the polished smile of a politician. He rose from behind the desk and strode to meet Janice in the center of the room, hand extended. “Good morning, Ms. Owens,” he said in a well-modulated baritone. “Thank you for meeting me here. As you can imagine, my time is pretty tight right now.”

  “And I’ll try not to take too much of it.” Janice looked around as Gaylord led her to a pair of deep leather armchairs. “You have a beautiful home,” she said. “I can understand your choosing not to live at the mansion.”

  Gaylord smiled easily. “Actually, that was an easy choice,” he said. “That house was my father’s domain. Pauline and I have very few fond memories of our time there.”

  “Well,” said Janice, a little surprised by his frankness, “the lawyers have finished identifying your father’s papers for the University, and I think we’ve sorted out everything that looks like it might be personal or family related for you and Pauline to inspect.”

  Gaylord waved his hand. “I’m sure we trust your judgment,” he said airily. “I doubt that there is anything my sister or I would wish to have, but I’ll send someone to pick up whatever you want removed. You can co-ordinate all of that and anything else you might need with my assistant, Miss Truman.” Gaylord glanced at his watch. “As much as I wouldn’t want to live there anymore,” he said, “I do applaud your efforts in bringing that old house back to life. It should make an interesting museum. Perhaps, when you’re ready, you’ll allow me to sponsor your grand opening event.”

  “That’s very generous, Mister Gaylord,” Janice said. “We would certainly welcome your participation.” She hesitated. “There is one other matter we should discuss,” she said. “Our museum will showcase not only Gaylord Mansion, but also the history of one of Bangor’s most prominent families. There will be inevitable questions about your mother’s disappearance, and we would like your guidance as to how we handle them.”

  Again, Gaylord waved his hand easily. “My father could be very…domineering. Not cruel, exactly, but very, very focused. I would suggest you treat my mother’s disappearance as you would have treated their divorce. I’m sure that’s what she intended it to be.”

  Janice chose her words carefully. “I’ve run across some indication that your aunt, Ann White, suspected that some sort of foul play was involved. She…”

  “My aunt suspected that my father killed my mother,” interrupted Gaylord with a frown, “and he thought she was a lunatic. They were both obsessed, but either way, they’re both dead, so we’ll never know.” He got to his feet and glanced at his watch again. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

  “Certainly,” said Janice rising from her chair. “I appreciate your time and I’ll keep you informed of our progress.” She turned for the door and stopped. “Oh,” she said, “I wanted to ask if you know how I could get in touch with your aunt’s husband and son. I know they moved out of the mansion shortly after her death.”

  Gaylord’s voice turned brusque. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen or heard from them since then,” he said shortly, turning to walk back to his desk as Missy Truman appeared at the doorway to escort Janice out. She was at the door when Gaylord spoke again. “I wouldn’t waste my time with old mysteries if I were you,” he said without looking in her direction. “The past may not be perfect, but it is usually better left alone.”

  When the front door closed behind her, Janice stood for a moment on the step trying to decide if she had just heard a threat.

  “I hope you’re satisfied, Lieutenant!”

  Clipper looked up from his desk as a newspaper was slapped down on top of the report he’d been reading. He saw Paula Sellers’ apologetic face in the doorway over Chief Norris’s shoulder. “What the hell am I going to tell the manager?” Norris roared.

  Clipper glanced down at the Bangor News editorial page he had read over his morning coffee, noting the letter-to-the-editor circled in red marker;

  The City of Bangor is currently undergoing a terrorist attack in the form of armed robberies carried out against our local financial institutions. These robberies are no less a danger to our way of life than would be roadside IED’s or suicide bombers.

  As a combat veteran who has dealt with Islamic terrorism, and is currently in command of an experienced group of men with similar skills, I have offered my services to the local authorities, only to be branded a mercenary and threatened with arrest.

  The citizens of Bangor should know that their Police Department is not equipped to handle these types of terrorist attacks, and should demand professional protection. They should also know that, despite local law enforcement’s disparaging attitude, my command, The Infidel Army, stands ready to assist.

  Major Kempton Dautry, U.S. Army, Retired

  “Tell the manager,” he said patiently, “that we chose not to accept the liability of having a bunch of half-baked, beer-drinking army wannabe’s with their combat boots, camo fatigues and tricky black berets strutting around, acting as our agents.” With that, Clipper picked up the newspaper and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  Chief Norris glared at Clipper for a long moment, jaws working soundlessly, then spun around and stalked out, slamming the office door behind him.

  Clipper was grinning and reaching for the next report when Paula opened the door and stuck her head in. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have time to warn you.”

  Clipper laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just the usual tempest in a teapot.” He was still chuckling when Dave Adams came in to tell him that Waldo S.O. had found Pauli Ennis.

  This time, Kashif Amini winced as Jennifer racked the action of his AK-47 and whirled to fire a long burst at a dozen empty beer cans they’d set against a sand bank. “Jesus,” he yelled, “take it off full auto. You’ll have the cops down here.”

  After leaving the quarry the day before, Kashif and Jennifer had driven to Waterville where they left the Jeep in a busy shopping center and then rented a car using Kashif’s credit card. They’d driven back to Bangor, intending to pick up their money and some clothes for Jennifer, but Kashif spotted the unmarked police car as soon as they entered the subdivision and pushed Jennifer down, out of sight in the seat. He made a slow pass through the neighborhood, and then got back on the Interstate and drove to Old Town, just north of the university, where they got a motel room with two double beds. Kashif found Jennifer attractive, and he was tempted, but he kept his distance, knowing instinctively that she would take offense, probably violent offense, to any advance. While sharing a delivered pizza, they planned how they would get back into Jennifer’s house to retrieve the money they’d left hidden in the laundry room.

  The next morning, they drove north on secondary roads to an abandoned gravel pit Kashif had used for target practice in the past. He found Jennifer to be an apt pupil, rapidly overcoming her initial awkwardness at handling the long gun and soon achieving acceptable off-hand accuracy out to about one hundred feet. They both fired a couple of shots from Pauli’s automatic, but Kashif would not allow more, wanting to save at least half of their only magazine.

  “We’re going to have to get some ammo,” he said. “Let’s drive up to Millinocket. I got room on my card, and there’s a gun shop there that should have everything we need. We’ll stop
and get some clothes and stuff, too.”

  Jennifer folded the stock on the AK. “We also need another car,” she said with an icy smile, “but after tonight we won’t need any more damn cards.”

  Clipper drove his truck down 1A to Frankfort and parked behind a state police cruiser on the quarry access road. He walked the trail to the pit’s edge and followed his nose through the light underbrush to where Cameron Shibles stood looking down at Pauli Ennis. The state crime scene techs had finished, and deputies were standing by with a body bag, ready to start the transport to the lab in Augusta for the autopsy. Although a day in the summer sun and some kind of hungry predator had not done Pauli any favors, the two bullet holes in the greenish, bloated flesh of his chest were still obvious.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that they’ll find one of that deputy’s slugs in there,” Clipper said, nodding at the corpse.

  “Looks like exit wounds in the back, but I think the deputy’s a safe bet.” Shibles sighed. “Two in the black. He did good, but it’s hard to compete with a machine gun.”

  “Crime scene guys find anything?”

  Shibles shook his head. “Just some tire tracks, and some dried blood on the ground here where they ended. They cast ‘em, but there’s nothing else. Couple of state detectives did a door-to-door down on 1A, but no one remembers anything unusual yesterday or last night.”

  Clipper called the station to find out who was on the stakeout duty and then used the cell phone again to call detective Evan Paul and let him know that Pauli was no longer in the game. “Watch for his sister, and probably still one other guy,” he said. “And don’t forget that damn AK.”

  Before leaving the scene, Clipper talked with the lead State Police investigator. “We can pretty well tie your vic to our bank robbery,” he said. “At least enough for a search warrant on his house.”

  Clipper promised to forward the information for the affidavit, and drove back to Bangor, stopping for lunch at Cleo’s. He was halfway through his hamburger when Carol Murphy slid into the empty chair across from him. “Hey, Clip,” she grinned, “care to respond to this morning’s scurrilous newspaper attack on the department?”

  Clipper grinned back. He liked the feisty television reporter and considered her one of the more professional media people in town. “You can tell your viewers we’re calling in air strikes,” he quipped. “It’ll be round-the-clock carpet bombing until the violence stops.”

  Murphy laughed. “Any progress you can tell me about with the robberies?”

  Clipper hesitated. “Nothing much, yet. Waldo S.O. just took a dead body out of the old quarry on Waldo Mountain that we’re pretty sure was one of the robbers.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Two bullets to the chest. It looks like it may be tied into the killing of the Waldo S.O. deputy in Winterport yesterday.”

  “Will you go on camera with the details?”

  Clipper shook his head. “It’s the State’s case,” he said, “but I’ll give you an interview with the background as it relates to our case when the time comes.”

  Murphy nodded. “Good enough,” she said rising from her chair. “Nice doing business with you.”

  Clipper finished his meal and drove back to his office.

  Chapter 13

  The plan was simple. Kashif and Jennifer had gone to Millinocket, where he’d stopped at The Bunker, a military surplus store he’d visited before. While Jennifer shopped for clothes for both of them and a two-gallon plastic gas can at a nearby Wal-Mart, Kashif bought three hundred rounds of surplus 7.62x39 ammo, one hundred rounds of 9 mm ball, and two used fifteen-round magazines for Pauli’s Sig for $200.00. He already had four thirty-round magazines for the AK-47. Kashif stopped at a gas station to fill the gas can, then a convenience store where he bought a six pack of Bud long necks and some donuts. He then drove back to Bangor with Jennifer in the back seat, grimly loading magazines. At the Bangor International Airport, Kashif rented a second car, and they drove both vehicles back to their motel room in Old Town, where they drank beer and waited impatiently for nightfall.

  Bangor PD’s patrol division worked ten hour shifts. The eight-man A.M. shift come to work at 8p.m. For the period of eight to midnight, they rode double with the P.M. shift which worked four to two, putting about sixteen officers on the street during the busy evening hours. That also meant that at around eight o’clock, nearly all cars converged on the station to pick up their riders.

  Kashif’s rented Ford Taurus idled quietly on a side street fifty feet above and some two-hundred yards from the side lot at the police-only entrance to the station. He was parked with the passenger door facing the station, sitting behind the wheel with the AK-47 muzzle resting in the open side window. He glanced at his watch and took a last nervous look around. The residential street was deserted. Kashif adjusted his ear protectors and, at exactly eight-oh-five p.m., squeezed the trigger.

  While Kashif was readying his diversion, Jennifer was idling her Chevy Sonic slowly into her sub-division. She pulled to the curb well back from where they had seen the stakeout vehicle the day before and slipped out of the car. In dark shirt and jeans, she quickly blended into the shadows as she made her was across back yards until she was crouched in the shrubbery at the rear of her house.

  The AK-47 is a mass produced, simple, dependable assault rifle, made for getting a lot of lead downrange in a hurry but, at two hundred yards, it’s about as accurate as a garden hose. Kashif held a little high and walked the front sight back and forth across the parking lot below, grinning at the instant mayhem that ensued. The 7.62 mm bullets kicked sparks off the brick building, and the night was filled with the chatter of the assault rifle and the sounds of shattering glass and the hollow ‘plonk’ sound a bullet makes when it strikes automotive sheet metal. Over that, Kashif could hear the panicked shouts of the officers as they hit the ground and tried to squirm under the cruisers. He fired three stuttering, ten-round bursts, then slapped in a new magazine and did it again. When the second mag ran dry, he reloaded with a third, dropped the rifle into the rear seat, tore off his ear protectors and pulled calmly away from the curb. He drove a hundred yards to an intersection, turned on his headlights and motored slowly away from the station, headed for the entrance to the Bangor-Brewer bridge. Once on the bridge, he put on his turn signal and pulled to the curb. Ignoring the light traffic passing by, he grabbed three beer-bottle Molotov Cocktails from the passenger side foot-well and, one at a time, lit the motel-towel wicks and tossed them through the open passenger side window, over the railing and down onto the buildings clustered on the river bank below. Without pausing to watch the results, Kashif pulled calmly back into traffic, crossed the bridge and turned left toward Old Town.

  After the distant, echoing distant gunshots ended, Jennifer waited a couple moments, until she heard the sound of the stake-out car peeling away from the curb, and then calmly walked to the house and let herself in through the back door. In three minutes, she had stuffed her makeup case and some jewelry into the gym bag o n top of the money, and was walking down the sidewalk towards her car.

  Clipper was sitting in his den, firming up the pencil sketch of a table he was planning to build when the cell phone in his pocket and the landline on the desk both went off.

  “We got shots fired on the station and fire alarms downtown,” yelled a harried sounding dispatcher when Clipper answered the cell.

  Clipper grabbed his Kimber and sprinted for the door, pausing only to yell to Janice in passing. “They got trouble at the station. Lock up behind me and I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I find out.” The year before, both Clipper and Janice had been targeted by a couple of killers intent on finding a fortune in stolen jewels, and Clipper still took their personal security very seriously. He ran to his truck and headed for the station, monitoring a confusing babble of radio calls en route.

  One City ambulance was just leaving the side lot as Clipper pulled up, and he saw a second pa
rked near the building, emergency lights flashing their stroboscopic frenzy over the scene. Uniformed officers stood warily by the few cruisers still in the lot, their hands on their guns. He left his truck in the outer lot and jogged over to the ambulance where he found John Peters talking to Lieutenant Crow, the PM shift commander.

  “Looks like one guy with an automatic weapon, up there,” Crow said nodding at a street to the north. “He fired fifty or sixty rounds and split. Most everyone was in for crew-change; we never even got a sniff.”

  “How bad?” asked Clipper.

  “Could have been a hell of a lot worse. Jefferson took a round in the leg, and Coy sprained his ankle,” said Crow.

  “Return fire?”

  “Couple guys saw muzzle flashes, got off a few rounds, but I don’t think we touched him.”

  Just then a patrolman came running out of the station, looking for the shift commander.

  “Guys off at the Sand Bar are saying the place was fire-bombed from the bridge,” he reported excitedly. “All they got so far is a small, dark car headed toward Brewer.” The Sand Bar was a popular pub-style restaurant located on the river beneath the Bangor-Brewer Bridge.

  With nothing to be done at the station, Clipper and Peters drove to the riverfront where they found the Fire Department battling a fire that raged over the Sand Bar Restaurant and the two smaller buildings to either side. Unable to get closer than the opposite sidewalk due to the blistering heat and frenzied activity of the firefighters, they picked their way through the smoky, fire-lit landscape until they found the Fire Captain in charge and confirmed that witnesses had indeed seen what appeared to be fire bombs thrown from the bridge.