Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Did we find anything resembling a note?” Byron asked.

  “Nothing yet. Nuge is going through the other rooms.”

  “How about the M.E.?”

  “Still waiting on the call.”

  Byron noticed several window screens were open. “Were the screens like this when you got here, Gabe?

  “Nope, that was me, Sarge. Had a few too many flies in here. Figured I’d let them out before they screwed up my pictures. Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I could use some help with this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, I’ll call in one of the new E.T.s.”

  “Actually, I was hoping for someone more experienced, like Mel. This spatter thing is still new to me.”

  Byron knew what he was referring to. The lab had been decimated by two retirements in the past year. The replacements were good officers but still new at evidence collection. Detective Melissa Stevens had worked in the lab for years before moving upstairs to CID. She was to blood spatter analysis what Pelligrosso was to fingerprints. On more than one occasion, Byron had been confused by what looked like conflicting physical evidence at a scene only to have Stevens recreate the event to perfection in the lab.

  “I’ll get her out here.” Byron pulled out his notebook as Nugent came in from another room. “Hey, Mike, we get a name yet?”

  “Yup, found an ID in the bedroom.” Nugent read from his notepad. “Cleophus Riordan.”

  Byron stopped in mid scribble. “Cleo?”

  “Name ring a bell?”

  Byron remembered Riordan had a daughter named Amy. Rubio must have been her married name.

  “Sarge? You know him?” Nugent asked again.

  “Sergeant Cleophus Riordan worked for the fucking department too.” When Byron’s father Reece was still alive.

  “That would explain the pictures I saw,” Nugent said.

  “What pictures?”

  “In the den,” Nugent said. “There’s pictures of this guy in Vietnam. Army.”

  “Which would explain the Browning,” Pelligrosso said.

  “How so?” Byron asked.

  “Army Special Forces, the Browning nine was standard issue in Vietnam.”

  “I also found an old Portland Police SRT photo,” Nugent said.

  Byron entered the den. Hanging on the wall above a cluttered desk was the very same framed black-­and-­white print of Portland’s SRT displayed in the Byron home when he was a boy. The same one Diane found at O’Halloran’s. Byron lifted the picture off of its hanger and held it in his hands. He ran his hand over the glass, removing a thin layer of dust. Ten members of the SRT, four kneeling in front and six standing in the rear, among them were Riordan, Reece Byron, and, standing in the center of the frame, Lieutenant James O’Halloran. Each of the men were dressed in dark-­colored fatigues, several holding rifles; and, with the exception of O’Halloran, they were each sporting a mustache. Byron recalled how his mother had disapproved of Reece’s facial hair. It wasn’t the only thing she’d disapproved of when it came to his father.

  Byron pulled out his cell and called LeRoyer.

  “Lieu, it’s John.”

  “Dispatch told me you’re out at a 10–63. I thought you’d be at O’Halloran’s reception by now?”

  “Not really in the mood for either.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. What does that mean?”

  “It means we just lost another retired Portland cop. Cleo Riordan.”

  “Jesus. How?”

  “Handgun.”

  “We sure it’s a suicide?”

  “At this point, I’m not sure of anything. I’ve got Pelligrosso and Nugent here, and I’m bringing Stevens in to give them a hand.”

  “You want me out there?”

  Byron knew LeRoyer was only trying to be helpful, and they both knew there was little he would’ve been able to offer at the scene. “No, I’ve got this covered. You can do me a favor, though.”

  “Name it.”

  “I need a heads-­up in case the press gets wind of this.”

  “I’ll downplay anything and let you know.”

  He disconnected the call and pressed the speed dial for Stevens.

  DAVIS BILLINGSLEA STARED into the lunchroom fridge. There was something unappealing about leftover pizza in a Ziploc®. No matter that the slices contained therein were his favorite Otto’s Pizzeria offering, mashed potato. The clear plastic had already taken on a slight opacity due to the moisture forming on the inside of the bag. He scanned the other shelves, his eyes stopping on a blue container.

  Shit, he thought. Last week’s lasagna. I’d forgotten all about that.

  “Hey, Billingslea,” Will Draper said.

  He turned to face his assistant editor. “Yeah, Will.”

  “You finished at court?”

  “Just got back. Not much happening over there. Thinking about lunch.”

  “Well, think about it on the way to Osgood Street. The PD’s got something on. They’ve sent a ­couple of detectives and the crime scene van out there.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “If I did, wouldn’t need you, would I?”

  BYRON HAD WALKED down the street to speak with Rubio. He was standing on the front walkway as Diane stepped outside to meet him.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Not too good at the moment,” Diane said. “Pretty shaken up after seeing her dad like this. Did you know he was on the job in Portland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I sure as hell hope so. Advocate still in there?”

  “Yup. You want to speak with Rubio?”

  “Yes, but I’d prefer to do it alone.”

  “I’ll get the advocate out of there so you can.” Diane led him inside to the home’s kitchen. He couldn’t help but think of the irony.

  “Mrs. Rubio, this is Detective Sergeant John Byron.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Rubio,” Byron said.

  Rubio looked up through grieving eyes, reaching out instinctively to shake his hand. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Byron nodded to Diane and waited as she led the advocate out of the room. “Mrs. Rubio, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Do we have to do this right now?”

  “It’s important.”

  She sighed. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “When did you see your father last?”

  “Last Tuesday, at his house. But I spoke with him by phone on Friday.”

  “Did he seem depressed?”

  “No. And he wasn’t taking any pills either. Cleo . . . How do I say this? He self-­medicated.”

  Byron could certainly relate. “Alcohol?”

  “Yes. For as long as I can remember.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Five years.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Remarried. She lives in Connecticut.”

  “How did you happen to stop by today?”

  “I make it a point to visit him at least once a week. Or I did.”

  Realizing she wouldn’t be attending to him anymore, she started to cry. Byron waited for her wave of grief to pass. He was familiar with the various stages of grieving. It was a lot like suffering from a serious illness, sometimes the pain was bearable, but at other times it left the griever unable to function.

  She slowly pulled herself together. “I’m sorry, Detective. What were we talking about?”

  “You said you visited him weekly.”

  “Yes. I tried to make sure he ate healthy and that he was getting more into him than just booze.”

  “I didn’t notice a car in the yard. He didn’t drive?”

  “No, he drove. Sometimes
when he shouldn’t. He was a regular at the AMVETS, the one near the highway on Washington Avenue. Most likely you’ll find his Buick parked up there.”

  Byron made a note to check with the AMVETS about whether they might have called him a cab or if he’d gotten someone to drive him home. “Was he up there every night?”

  “Not every night. But he was up there a lot. I can’t believe he’s gone.” She broke down again and began to cry, loudly enough that Diane poked her head around the corner. Byron gave her a nod and rose from his chair. He placed his hand gently on her back as Diane and the advocate returned. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rubio.”

  Diane followed him outside. “Was she any help?”

  “A little. I’m gonna follow up with the AMVETS, where he was a regular. Think you can try and get her written statement?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  BYRON RETURNED TO the scene. The black livery-­ser­vice hearse was parked in the driveway, its rear door stood open like something waiting to be fed. He saw Haggerty talking with someone on the street in front of the home. Billingslea.

  “Hey, Sergeant,” Billingslea said. “You have a minute?”

  “Not for you,” Byron said. “Hags, give us a hand inside.”

  “You got it,” Haggerty said.

  “Beat it, Davis,” Byron said.

  “You have a lot of help out here, Sergeant,” Billingslea said. “Must be something suspicious about this death, right?”

  Byron stopped walking and turned to face the young reporter. “Davis, I get that you have a job to do. But you being in the way just makes my job harder. Capisce?”

  “Well, if you won’t tell me what is going on, maybe I can find a family member to speak to.”

  Byron felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he stepped into Billingslea’s personal space. “Listen, you little shit. You’ll do no such thing. This guy’s daughter is upset enough without you sticking your nose in. Leave it alone.”

  “Yeah, Davis,” Haggerty added. “Have a little respect, huh?” The guy was a cop for chrissakes.”

  “Another dead cop, Sergeant?” Billingslea said.

  Byron glanced over a Haggerty. “Hags, why don’t you head in. I’ll meet you there.”

  Haggerty turned and walked toward the house.

  Byron turned back to Billingslea, leaning in until their noses nearly touched. “I’m warning you, Davis. You either get the fuck out of here on your own, or I’ll help you.”

  Byron stood his ground until Billingslea backed away and began walking toward his car.

  “The public has a right to know, Sergeant,” Billingslea called out over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just see what your lieutenant has to say about this.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” Byron said under his breath, already knowing whose side LeRoyer would take.

  He walked up to the house, slipped into clean booties, and headed inside. Riordan’s remains, already zipped into a body bag, were being lifted onto the gurney by the attendants, assisted by Stevens, Pelligrosso, and Nugent.

  Haggerty looked at him sheepishly. “Sorry, Sarge.”

  “No worries.”

  “Look, Sarge, Mel’s got her lab hat on today,” Nugent said.

  Stevens waited until they’d finished getting the wheels of the stretcher down before punching him in the shoulder. Normally Nugent’s partner on cases, the scrappy detective with the spiky blond hair and the smoker’s voice didn’t take crap from anyone, especially Mike Nugent.

  “Did you see that, Sarge? She’s hostile.”

  “I’ll show you hostile.”

  “She just misses working with you, Nuge,” Pelligrosso said.

  “I guess that’s a no on the M.E.,” Byron said.

  “I spoke with Ellis,” Nugent said. “They’re right out straight, but I explained our concerns and he said he’ll do the exam tomorrow morning.”

  They rolled Riordan out to the station wagon and loaded him inside. The driver handed a custody form to Pelligrosso, which he signed.

  They stood in the driveway watching as the livery drove away. Byron turned to Pelligrosso and Stevens. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

  “We’ll seal up the house and head in to 109 to tag some of this stuff into evidence,” Stevens said. “We’ll come back as it gets dark. I wanna hit the scene with luminol and get some more pictures using an alternative light source.”

  “Mel and I will attend the autopsy tomorrow,” Nugent said.

  “Good. Diane’s getting a statement from the daughter, and I’ll follow up on what she told me,” Byron said.

  “Do you want me to post someone on the house?” Stevens asked.

  Byron considered it. He looked at Haggerty. “You mind staying late?”

  “Whatever you need, Sarge.”

  “Hags will stay here, at least until you both get back; then we can install our own locks and tape it up. Let’s treat this like a murder until we’ve proven it isn’t.” He hoped.

  Chapter Ten

  BYRON DROVE SLOWLY past the AMVETS on Washington Avenue but didn’t see a Buick parked on either side of the road. He made a U-­turn and pulled into the dirt lot across the street from the hall. Parked near the middle of the lot was a gray LeSabre. He radioed the registration number to dispatch and they confirmed it was Riordan’s car.

  He walked up to the car and tried the door. Locked. He looked inside through the side windows. Seeing nothing unusual, he headed across the street.

  The lounge with its dingy maroon-­colored linoleum floor and long wooden bar comprised the majority of the building’s main floor. A dozen wooden tables were scattered about the room, the accompanying chairs stacked upside down on each. A large window overlooking Portland’s skyline dominated the far wall. Byron approached the bar where a lone middle-­aged male was washing glasses.

  “We’re not open yet,” the man said.

  “I’m not here for a drink,” Byron said, producing his identification.

  “Nice to meet you, Sergeant Byron,” Carr said with a tone that didn’t sound at all genuine.

  “And you are?”

  “Melvin Carr, bartender.”

  “Well, Melvin Carr, bartender, would you happen to know Cleophus Riordan?”

  “Yeah, I know Cleo. He’s a regular,” Carr said as he rinsed another glass, setting it up on the bar to dry with the others.

  “Remember the last time you saw him?” Byron asked.

  “Sometime last week, I guess. He definitely would have been in Sunday night, though.”

  “Did you see him Sunday?”

  “No. I was off last weekend.”

  “So how do you know he was in?”

  “Because he always comes in on Sunday,” Carr said. “Why are you asking all these questions about Cleo? He in some kind of trouble?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Carr’s head snapped up. He nearly dropped a glass on the floor. “He’s dead?”

  “Yeah,” Byron said, taking a certain satisfaction in having deflated Carr’s surly attitude.

  “How?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Who tended bar Sunday night?”

  “That would’ve been Ralph. Ralph Polowski,” Carr said, suddenly much more helpful. “If you wanna talk to him, he’ll be in tomorrow afternoon, ’round three.”

  “Any chance you’ve got his number?”

  “I don’t. But I can check the sign-­in book for you.”

  “Sign-­in book? For Polowski?”

  “No, for Riordan. All our members gotta sign in. Club rules.” Carr pulled the black leather-­bound book out from under the counter. It looked to Byron like an accounting ledger. “Here he is, right here,” he said, pointing to Riordan’s signature.

  “Can you tell if he was here with someone?”

 
“No. All the signatures are stand-­alone. You’d have to speak with Ralph.”

  “You happen to know where he lives?”

  BYRON GOT POLOWSKI’S Morning Street address from Carr and drove up Congress Street to Munjoy Hill. He climbed up a common stairwell to the second floor. The flowered carpet runner was so tattered it was nonexistent on some of the steps. He skirted several boxes of returnables and one large green trash bag before knocking on the door to apartment three. The smell of burnt food permeated the hallway. He’d knocked several times and was about to give up and leave his card when the door opened.

  “Ya,” Polowski said. He looked like he’d just woken up, standing there unshaven in a grubby T-­shirt and underwear, scratching his greasy head.

  “Ralph Polowski?”

  “Ya. What do you want?”

  “Mr. Polowski, I’m Detective Sergeant Byron, Portland Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a case I’m working on. Would you mind if I came in, so we can talk?”

  “Nope. Come on in.” Polowski stepped back, allowing Byron to enter. The small apartment was cluttered and dark. Blankets had been hung over the windows, presumably to make it easier for Polowski to sleep during daylight hours. Byron followed him into the kitchen and pulled out his notepad.

  “Coffee?” Polowski asked.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “You sure? I gotta make some anyway.”

  Coffee at the hands of the great unwashed was the last thing he wanted, but he didn’t want to offend his ticket to information about Riordan’s last hours. “Sure, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “No trouble.” Polowski pressed the brew button, then sat down at the kitchen table across from Byron. “So, you said something about a case.”

  “I need to confirm your employment,” Byron said as he flipped to a fresh page.

  “Got two jobs. I tend bar at the AMVETS two or three nights a week and work at Vinnie’s Variety on Congress Street the others.

  “Where did you work Sunday night?”

  “The AMVETS. From one till about midnight.”

  “How long have you worked there?”

  “I don’t know. Ten years maybe.”

  “Do you know Cleophus Riordan?”

  “Cleo? Sure I know him. He’s one of our regulars.”