“Have you had much of a problem with trespassers on that property?” Stevens asked Hopkins.
“Every once in a while. Sometimes during bad weather some of the street bums will take shelter in one of the lumber drying sheds.”
“Is that what that structure is, where you found the body? A drying shed?”
“Yeah. At first, I thought it was somebody who’d set up camp there. But then I got a closer look. Not a camper.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No, ma’am. I watch those cop shows on TV. As soon as I saw what it was, I stepped out and called my dispatcher.”
“Tell me about the damage to the fence on the Maple Street side of the lot. How long has it been like that?”
“Awhile. The owners of the property contract with a maintenance company. They keep repairing it with wire, but it doesn’t last. The kids keep cutting through it.”
“Kids?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sometimes the teenagers go in there to drink and—fool around.”
“Have you caught many kids in there?”
“A few. Only a couple of times, though.”
“Can you remember when the last time was?”
“Maybe a month or so. You could call S.I.,” he said, reaching inside his uniform shirt pocket. “Here’s my business card. That’s the number to the main office in Westbrook. Would you like my cell?”
Stevens ignored the question. “When you found the body had you driven in, or did you walk?”
“I parked on Maple Street then walked in through that damaged section of fencing. Same one you guys came through.”
“Do you have a key to the gates?” she asked, knowing that they would need access to remove the body.
“I do.” Hopkins pulled up the collection of keys hanging from his belt by a wire retractor and searched until he located the correct one. “Here it is.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Ellis said, shooing away several flies that had lighted on the body.
“What is, Doc?” Byron asked as he looked up from his notes.
“One of the vertebrae has been cut. Not just the spinal cord, but actual bone.”
“Any idea what kind of instrument the killer used?” Pelligrosso asked.
“Wasn’t a surgical instrument, I can tell you that. The cut isn’t fine enough.” He pointed to the skin where the neck had been severed. “See how ragged the dermis is around the edge here?”
“Then what?” Byron asked.
“Don’t know. Not a circular type of saw either. I’m thinking reciprocating. More akin to something you might carve a turkey with.”
“Was that the cause of death?” Pelligrosso asked.
“I wouldn’t think so. This cut appears to have been made postmortem.”
“Any estimate on time of death?” Byron asked.
Ellis stood up and regarded the body. He was about to scratch his nose with his gloved hand when he caught himself and used the back of his forearm instead. “Rigor is long past. There’s some minor decomp, along with a bit of skin slippage. Couple of days, at least. But she can’t have been here that long.”
“What makes you say that?” Byron asked.
“Well, with the heat we’ve been having . . .” Ellis paused for a moment to survey the general area. “And rodents and birds likely would have been at her, too.”
Byron nodded and made a notation in his notebook to have Dustin Tran check recent missing-persons reports. If this woman was local, and had been in the wind for several days, someone should have been looking for her.
“Best guess?” Ellis said.
“You are the expert, Doc,” Byron said.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sergeant, but as you know time of death is anything but a science. Far too many unknowns and variables, I’m afraid.”
Byron grinned. He had heard Ellis deliver the same canned speech numerous times on the stand, particularly whenever some overzealous defense attorney attempted to pin him down in order to benefit his or her client. “Best you can do then.”
“I’d say we are probably looking at sometime Sunday morning.” Ellis studied the body for a bit. “And I’d also say that the doer of the dastardly deed may have kept the body someplace chilly after dispatching her.”
“Like?” Pelligrosso asked.
Ellis turned toward Pelligrosso and gave a Groucho-esque eyebrow wiggle. “Who knows. Might be the same place her head is at.”
After completing the interview, Detective Stevens transported Craig Hopkins from 109 Middle Street back to the scene. Byron had decided that they would remove the body via the Maple Street gate, avoiding the more heavily traveled Commercial Street thoroughfare. Drawing attention to the hearse would only garner additional public attention, which would lead to media scrutiny, which of course they didn’t need. A freshly waxed black funeral home transport was already backed up to the locked gate as Stevens pulled up and parked.
“I don’t understand it,” Hopkins said after fumbling about for several moments. “I’m positive that this is the key that opens all of these locks.”
Stevens watched Hopkins try several other keys on the ring before returning to the one he claimed should have worked.
“Could someone have installed a new lock?” Stevens asked, trying to be helpful.
“I guess,” Hopkins said. “But this key worked the last time I tried it.”
“When was that?”
“Beginning of last week.”
“What’s up?” Nugent said as he and Bernie Robbins approached them on foot from inside the fence.
“We can’t get the lock open,” Stevens said.
“Well, we gotta get the body out,” Nugent said. “Cut the chain.”
“I don’t have anything to cut it with,” Hopkins said.
“I do,” Stevens said. “Be right back.”
Byron, Nugent, Robbins, and Stevens stood watching as Pelligrosso and a pair of funeral home attendants zipped the partial remains into a maroon body bag. The three men then hoisted it onto a rolling stretcher.
Byron couldn’t help noticing the strong resemblance the attendants bore to the comedy duo of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, one tall and beanpole thin, the other short and stout. The only thing missing were the black derbies. He didn’t mention it.
For now, they would refer to the victim as Jane Doe. Neither the detectives nor Pelligrosso had located the woman’s identification anywhere on scene and, aside from the matching underwear, there was no clothing on her person. Byron telephoned Detective Dustin Tran in the department’s computer lab, requesting that he check all the local active missing-persons cases for Caucasian women between the ages of twenty and thirty. Byron knew Pelligrosso would be able to obtain the victim’s prints following the post, but right now it was more important to bag the hands to try and preserve any evidence that might lead them to the killer. In cases where the victim fought their attacker, skin, blood, fibers, and other foreign materials were often recoverable from under the fingernails. And in the age of DNA trace evidence had become even more important.
“Who would have changed the lock?” Byron asked.
“Hopkins doesn’t know,” Stevens replied. “Said it worked fine when he opened it a week or so ago.”
“How does he seem?” Byron asked, casting a glance toward the open gate where the guard stood talking with the uniformed officer.
“Hopkins? Okay, I guess. Nothing hinky about him. He’s just a bit of a flirt.”
Nugent laughed. “He flirted with you? Did you tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree?”
Stevens slugged Nugent hard on the shoulder. “You jealous?” She readdressed Byron. “Truthfully, he seems harmless. I think finding the body kinda weirded him out.”
After securing Jane onto the stretcher, Laurel and Hardy each grabbed an end and lifted, raising the wheeled transport to its full height and locking the stainless-steel legs in place.
“Almost ready to head out, Sarge,” Pelligrosso
said. “I’m gonna follow the transport up to Augusta.”
“Okay, Gabe. Mel and I will head up within the hour.”
“What do you want me to do about securing the scene?” Pelligrosso asked.
“Let’s get our own locks on all the gates,” Byron said. “Do you have enough?”
“I do. But that still leaves one big-ass hole in the fence.” They all turned to look at it.
Byron approached the young uniformed officer maintaining the crime scene log. His brand-spanking-new name tag read: E. Gallant. Below that was an equally shiny Serving Since pin engraved with the year 2017, or what Nugent would have referred to as a Serving Since Tuesday pin.
“What does the E stand for, officer?” Byron asked.
“It’s Evan, sir.”
Byron recognized the face, but not the name that accompanied it. “Have we met before, Evan?”
“Yes, sir. I used to work down at DiMillo’s.”
“The restaurant?”
“No, sir. The marina. You and Detective Joyner interviewed me about the murdered attorney, Paul Ramsey, a couple of years ago. Ramsey kept his boat there.”
“You were a dockhand, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you been working the street?”
“Six months. I just got off probation.”
“What time did you start your shift last night?”
“Twenty-one hundred hours, sir.”
Byron nodded. “We’re gonna need you to guard the scene awhile longer. You up for that? If not, I’ll contact the day class shift commander and have them assign someone to relieve you.”
“No, sir. I’m here as long as you need me.”
“Good. One more thing. The news media will be poking around before too long. They’ll likely be asking questions. What are you going to tell them?”
“Nothing. If they want information, they have to speak to you.”
Byron grinned. “Better yet, why don’t you point them in the direction of Lieutenant Martin LeRoyer.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant.”
Byron began to walk away then paused a moment and turned back. “Welcome to the show, Officer Gallant.”
Pelligrosso accompanied the attendants as they rolled the remains toward the livery. The detectives followed.
Byron addressed Detective Stevens. “Let’s contact the property owners and get them to do another repair on that fence. And find out if they changed the lock for some reason. Maybe they just forgot to tell the security company.”
“You got it, boss.”
Byron looked down the street where several people were seated at an outside patio connected to the Courtyard Marriott. Each of the hotel’s patrons had strategically positioned their chairs so that they were all facing in the same direction, allowing for a better view of the festivities while they enjoyed their lattes. He turned his attention to Nugent and Robbins. “Grab a couple of uniforms and canvass the area. Check for surveillance cameras, witnesses, anything that might help us. With any luck somebody coming or going from the hotel may have seen something.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Nugent said.
“Also, let’s record and check every vehicle parked in the area. I want to know if the victim may have initially come here under her own power or if this was only a dump site. There might be some relevance to this particular location.”
Robbins turned to look at Commercial Street. “Jesus, Sarge. There must be forty cars parked in front of this property alone.”
“And?” Byron said.
“And, I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter 4
Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.,
July 12, 2017
Byron drove directly to 109, hoping to get a quick glimpse at the day’s cases before making the trek to Augusta. With any luck he would locate a report of the missing young woman. He found a stack of reports from the overnight left on his desk by property crimes Detective Sergeant Peterson under a handwritten note that read, I won’t miss this. Love, G. Byron didn’t imagine the soon-to-be-retiring sergeant would.
“Chief wants to see you before you head up to Augusta,” LeRoyer said without fanfare from the doorway to Byron’s office.
Byron looked up, choosing his words carefully. “Really, Marty? She’s been here what, a month? And she chooses this very moment to have a sit-down with me? Probably has nothing to do with the case we just caught, right?”
LeRoyer frowned. “I’m curious, do you live just to make my life difficult? I get enough of that at home from Jenny and the kids. I don’t need it from you, too.”
“Bet Lynds doesn’t even know my name,” Byron said.
“Actually, Sergeant, she does.” The lieutenant tapped the face of his watch. “And she’s expecting you.” LeRoyer disappeared down the hallway before Byron could mount a further protest.
“Goddammit,” Byron mumbled to himself. “And it’s detective sergeant.”
As if in answer to his blasphemy, the desk phone rang. The electronic display read: P. Milliken. The P stood for Patricia. Milliken was the chief’s executive secretary. During Byron’s twenty odd years at 109 the PD’s top cops had come and gone, but Milliken had remained.
Byron grabbed the receiver. “Morning, Pat.”
“Oh good, you’re in,” she said with her usual inflection of condescension. “The Queen Mum has requested an audience with you, Detective Sergeant Byron.”
Byron laughed out loud at the moniker.
“When should we expect you?” Milliken asked.
“Don’t suppose never is an option?”
“I’ll let her know you’re on the way.”
Byron hung up, then pulled his cell from the pocket of his suit coat. He texted Pelligrosso: He and Stevens would be delayed getting to Augusta.
The previous month Pamela Lynds had been named Portland’s first female police chief. The announcement followed a nationwide search to permanently replace former Chief Michael Stanton, who had moved on to greener pastures. Much to Byron’s delight, former Acting Chief Danny Rumsfeld, or Rumpswab as he was more commonly known by the rank and file, had been passed over, mainly due to his botched handling of a police shooting involving a Portland High School student. Describing it as a debacle would have been a dramatic understatement. Most everyone at 109 assumed that Rumsfeld, now relegated to second banana, was likely on borrowed time.
The door to Lynds’s office stood open. She was seated behind her desk, in full uniform, sans duty belt, studying an open file folder.
Byron knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”
“Sergeant Byron,” Lynds said as she removed her reading glasses and rose to greet him. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
“Not at all,” Byron said, unaware that he’d had a choice.
He stepped into the room. Lynds greeted him warmly with a firm dry handshake and good eye contact.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the half circle of visitor’s chairs located in front of her desk.
The office was in disarray. A dozen cardboard boxes stood stacked in a corner farthest away from her desk. The walls were bare, the nail holes filled, and the surfaces repainted pale blue. There were no awards hung nor photos of Lynds glad-handing celebrities, at least not yet.
Byron took a seat in one of the burgundy-colored faux leather chairs closest to the window wall, allowing him to face the office door, which Lynds was closing to give them some privacy. Even within the confines of the chief’s office, Byron had learned the prudence of keeping his back to the wall. Or perhaps especially in the chief’s office.
Byron estimated Lynds to be in her late fifties, somewhere between five and ten years his senior. She was attractive, wore no jewelry, save for the gold four-star clusters pinned to each side of the collar on her short-sleeved uniform shirt, and only the faintest traces of makeup. Her auburn hair was shoulder length, curled under, and parted in the middle. She was average height, appeared
fit, and carried herself in a way that exuded self-confidence. Word from Connecticut, where she had previously held the rank of patrol captain, was that Lynds wasn’t afraid to assert herself lest anyone mistakenly think she was a pushover. While Byron hadn’t had an actual conversation with the freshly minted chief, he had observed her handling of the Old Guard and was duly impressed. Rumsfeld had dutifully fallen in line in his new role as the assistant chief, at least publicly. Byron was confident that falling in line had more to do with Lynds’s expectations than Rumpswab’s desire to play nice. Byron wondered how long it would be before she followed the command playbook and cut the Ass Chief loose.
“I apologize for not having made time for this sooner,” Lynds said as she settled into a chair across from him.
“No worries, Chief. We both have hectic schedules.”
“I know you are in the middle of a murder investigation, so I won’t keep you.”
Byron nodded but said nothing. Her smile remained pleasant, but her eyes were all business. She, too, was sizing him up.
“I’ve been reading up on your homicide case history, Sergeant. Impressive clearance rate.”
“It’s a small city. We don’t get as many homicides as you’re probably used to.”
“Still. I see you’re a second-generation badge, too.”
“My father worked these streets for many years.” He paused. “You said, ‘too’.”
“My uncle was on the job in Jersey. And both of my brothers are still on in Baltimore.”
Byron forced a polite smile, wondering when Lynds might dispense with the pleasantries and move the conversation forward.
“Your investigative skills reflect positively on this department, which of course, assuming they continue, will reflect positively on me.”
And there it is, Byron thought. Like every chief he had ever known, Lynds was already angling to take credit.
Her pleasant expression hardened. “Conversely, any negative behavior from my lead homicide investigator would be a poor reflection on my ability to lead.”
“Agreed,” Byron said, realizing that this wasn’t a discussion.
Within Plain Sight Page 2