Only vaguely aware of the occasional passing car and the thundering exhaust of one particularly loud motorcycle headed outbound on West Commercial toward the Veteran’s Bridge, Byron’s focus was elsewhere. A cacophony of crickets shrilled nearby, like tinnitus effectively drowning out most of the other night sounds. He turned and looked across the street toward the Courtyard Portland Marriott. Many of the rooms were alight, affording him a view inside through undrawn shades. He saw the flicker of flat-screen televisions and hotel guests moving about, each completely unaware of his presence.
This is what it must have been like, he thought. This is what the killer would have seen once inside the yard. A deadly voyeur, hidden within plain sight. Had the killer been searching for his next victim? Or had he, or she, been all business, thinking only of the job at hand. Ridding themselves of a decaying body and positioning it as yet another cryptic message to the police. Giving them yet another riddle to solve.
Byron felt an electric chill run up his back. Was this like the excitement the killer felt as they stood here watching the city pass by? The city and its inhabitants all oblivious to the danger lurking within? He was nearly overcome by a sudden urge to take a drink. Just one to settle his nerves. But he knew he couldn’t. In his world there was no such thing as just one. Can’t have just one. Hadn’t there been a potato chip company who had used that as their marketing catch phrase? He slid his hand inside his pants pocket and closed his fingers around the coin Shaun Miller had given him. The coolness and weight of the medallion was oddly comforting, providing a much-needed anchor.
Byron turned away from the hotel. Slowly he surveyed the remaining area. Things always appeared different shrouded in the darkness of night. Senses were easily fooled. A dry leaf skittering across the pavement might just as easily be a rat. What had seemed an ill-contrived location to discard a body during daylight hours now seemed far better suited to the killer’s modus operandi. Better suited to whatever statement he, or she, was trying to make. That they could live and kill and walk among us, and no one would ever see them. Never suspect them. Never recognize them for what they really were. A thing born of mist in the shape of a human. Soulless, cunning, and deadly, wearing a human mask. Toying with the police, daring them to catch him. Daring Byron to catch him. The Horseman? Maybe.
Byron caught the subtle whiff of marijuana burning nearby but couldn’t identify its source. So very different than the familiar burning leaf scent of his college days, this odor was about as pleasurable as a dead skunk. He scanned the area again until he caught the faintest silhouette of a person. Someone was standing just outside the rear of one of the commercial buildings on York Street, holding a joint, perhaps. He continued to watch as the figure tossed something large into one of the dumpsters then closed the lid with a loud bang. A cleaner, Byron thought. And another potential witness to the dumping of Danica Faherty’s body. He wondered which of the detectives had interviewed them. He would check with Mel. Evidentially finished with the smoke break, Doobie re-entered the building.
Byron’s cell vibrated with an incoming call, startling him. He removed it from his pocket and pressed Accept. “Byron.”
“John, it’s Pepin.”
Patrol Sergeant Andy Pepin worked the early out shift. 4:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., the craziest time of day for policing. As such, Pepin and Byron frequently crossed paths. Pepin was one of the good ones. Dedicated.
“What’s up, Andy?”
“I’m in the booking room at the county jail with an arrest. A guy drunk off his ass.”
“And?”
“He’s adamant that he needs to speak with you.”
“Adamant?”
“Yeah. So much so that I think he intentionally got himself arrested. He was raving in the middle of Congress Street. When I told him to get his ass back onto the sidewalk, he started pounding on the hood of my cruiser, so I hooked him up.”
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Erwin Glantz. Says he knows you.”
Winn. Byron started toward the car. “Give me five minutes, Andy. I’ll meet you in the booking room.”
Byron had a long history with Erwin Glantz, a homeless army veteran who went by the nickname Winn. Winn had served his country honorably during the first Gulf War but, like many combat soldiers, he had returned to the States unable to cope with everyday life. Alienated from his family in California, Winn had moved to Maine and taken to the bottle to ward off his own demons. Byron first met him years before while working uniformed patrol on the late out which, before the department went to four ten-hour shifts, had been midnight to 8:00 a.m. Winn had been preparing to commit a burglary at a local business. Instead of busting him, Byron drove him to a nearby restaurant and bought him a hot meal. Winn had gone on to become one of Byron’s best informants during his years as a junior detective in CID. Byron knew that Winn wouldn’t intentionally get himself arrested unless something was very wrong.
Byron pulled the Taurus into the Cumberland County Jail’s sally port just as the Phillies tied it up at three in the sixth on a fielder’s choice. He parked in one of the diagonal spaces on the right. Byron had already exited the car and was in the process of securing his sidearm in a locker when the heavy corrugated steel entry door finished trundling down on its tracks.
Sergeant Pepin met Byron in booking, just inside the second set of security doors.
“Where’s Winn?” Byron asked.
“They tossed his ass in the drunk tank,” Pepin said.
“How bad is he?”
“Blistered.”
Byron and Pepin followed one of the turnkeys to the holding tank in which Winn was being held. Even through the unbreakable glass viewing window Byron could see the state his friend was in. Pepin hadn’t exaggerated.
“What do you want to do?” the jail guard asked.
“Nothing for now,” Byron said. “Whatever he wanted to tell me will keep until morning.” He turned to Pepin. “What did you charge him with?”
“Obstructing a public way, disorderly conduct.”
“Criminal mischief?”
“Nah. No damage to the cruiser, he was just being a nuisance.”
Byron knew that two misdemeanor charges most likely meant a fine and or time served for Winn, assuming the magistrate didn’t just dismiss the charges outright. The bail he would need to post would be low but, unless his homeless friend had a rain day fund that Byron was unaware of, and with tomorrow being a court holiday, Winn wouldn’t be getting out until Monday at the earliest. He addressed the guard again. “What time do visiting hours begin on Friday?”
“For you? Assuming he’s sober enough to finish processing, you’ll be able to sit down with him by nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be here by 8:45.”
Chapter 14
Friday, 9:15 a.m.,
July 14, 2017
Byron sat at a scuffed steel table in one of the stark concrete block interview rooms at the Cumberland County Jail. He was reviewing his case notes while trying to choke down coffee that tasted as if it had been brewed using laundry rinse water. An opaque film floating across the top of the dark liquid caught his eye, and he couldn’t help wondering if the trustee who’d made it had known it was for him. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he pushed the Styrofoam cup aside and returned to his notes.
Winn was late. According to the jail shift supervisor, they’d been on their way to the interview room with him but had to divert for a shower and clean clothing after Winn vomited all over himself. Byron heard the loud clank of the security lock followed by the sound of the heavy steel door being opened at the far end of the hallway. A moment later Erwin Glantz shuffled into view. Freshly showered and dressed in clean inmate garb, matching bright orange shirt and pants, Winn looked as haggard as Byron had ever seen him. The guard waited until Winn was seated directly across the table from Byron before departing.
“Tough night?” Byron said.
Winn ignored the question and eyed the coffee.
“You mind?”
“Knock yourself out,” Byron said, sliding the beverage toward him.
Winn grabbed the cup and took several sips before gingerly placing it back on the table. “Jesus, that’s horrible.”
“Why am I here, Winn?” Byron asked without fanfare. “According to Sergeant Pepin, you went and got yourself arrested just so you could talk to me.”
Winn stared back at him from the dark hollows of his bloodshot eyes. “You gotta get me out of here, Sarge.”
“Why would I do that?”
“’Cause, I got something to show ya. Something important.”
Byron studied Winn’s face. There was no humor in it. Winn looked scared.
It was nearly ten-thirty by the time Byron finally sprung Winn from CCJ. After signing all the appropriate forms and posting bail, Byron waited while Winn changed back into his street clothes. Neither man had eaten breakfast, so Byron drove directly to the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru on St. John Street. He slid the unmarked into the drive-thru lane then ordered two large coffees and three sausage, egg, and cheese croissant sandwiches, one for himself and two for his charge. As an afterthought Byron had the clerk add an order of hash browns for Winn. Byron looked on with concern as Winn gobbled his first sandwich in what appeared to be two bites.
“You’d better not get sick inside this car,” Byron cautioned. “I swear to God. I’ll take you right back to jail.”
Winn managed a weak smile, crumbs stuck to his beard like Velcro.
“I’m serious,” Byron said. “And I don’t have all day. I’m in the middle of a case. Where is this thing you need to show me?”
Winn’s smile vanished. “Drive down to Commercial. I’ll show you where to go.”
Twenty minutes later Byron stood on the side of an overgrown hill, not far from the Casco Bay Bridge, watching Winn, who was down on all fours vomiting up the breakfast sandwich he had just eaten. During a lull in the action, Byron carefully surveyed the area. The dark green garbage bag was right where Winn said it would be, but it appeared to have been ripped open. Or perhaps clawed open was a more accurate description, Byron thought. The bag had been shredded into pieces; its contents, including a woman’s purse and clothing, were strewn about in the dirt.
“This is what you got yourself arrested for and dragged me out here to see?” Byron said. “Stolen property?”
“That ain’t it,” Winn said. He stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he scanned the area. “Something’s missing.”
Byron waited while Winn looked around for whatever it was.
“Oh, shit,” Winn said. He was visibly shaking. Byron had never seen the man like this.
“What?”
Winn pointed to an item lying in the weeds about twenty or so feet from where they stood. “That.”
Byron stood staring at the object Winn had pointed to. Lying in among the detritus was a badly decomposed human skull. The skull was positioned on its side partially hidden by weeds. Only one glaring eye socket was visible. It was obvious from the claw marks and denuded bone that an animal, or perhaps more than one, had been at it. Any hope at making a visual identification of Faherty, if it was Faherty, would be impossible. Byron removed his cellphone from the inside pocket of his blazer and began dialing the medical examiner’s office. Winn vomited again.
Byron remained at the scene making sure all the necessary players were in place. He contacted Police Dispatch by radio and requested two uniformed officers, one to guard the scene and another to transport his sickly witness to 109 for further questioning. Following that, he spent the next twenty minutes making phone calls to Pelligrosso, Stevens, Nugent, LeRoyer, and Ellis. As soon as he had a team en route, Byron retrieved a bright yellow roll of crime scene tape from the trunk of his Taurus and strung a crude but wide border around the evidence. Paying particular attention to where he stepped, Byron included a much larger area than he probably needed, but experience had taught him it was better to preserve a scene that went well beyond what was required. The area to be searched could always be consolidated, but overlooking evidence because the scene had been made too small was unforgivable.
Forty-five minutes later, Byron stood beside Nugent, looking on as Dr. Ellis and Evidence Technician Pelligrosso both knelt beside the remains.
“What do you think, Doc?” Byron asked.
Ellis slapped loudly at the mosquito feeding on the back of his neck. “I think I don’t ever remember Portland being quite so tropical.”
Byron frowned. “About the body.”
“Well, Sergeant, that’s another subject entirely,” Ellis said as he stood upright and mopped his brow with his forearm.
Byron noted the way the M.E.’s belly stretched tightly at the black fabric of his Highway to Hell concert T-shirt. Sweat stains were already forming under his arms.
“At first glance, I’d say that both the remains and the saw marks on the vertebra look similar enough that this is probably the missing piece of the Faherty woman puzzle. Of course, it goes without saying that we won’t know for sure until we compare her dental records.”
“Beats the alternative,” Nugent said.
“I’ll bite,” Pelligrosso said for all of them. “What’s the alternative?”
“That there’s another body out here, missing its head.”
Byron glared at Nugent. He was tired and hot, as they all were, and in no mood for his senior detective’s comedy routine, nor the possibility he was raising, however unlikely.
“How exactly did this Glantz fellow happen upon this site?” Ellis asked. “This wouldn’t seem to be a normal travel route.”
“It isn’t,” Byron said. “Hiding the bag and its contents here was his handiwork. Says he was passed out in a dumpster a few nights ago when someone tossed in a garbage bag and drove away.”
“Do you know where the dumpster is located?” Ellis asked.
“Somewhere in the Old Port is all we know. I’ve got uniforms looking for it now. Why?”
“After nothing more than a cursory look, I’d say it’s highly likely that the murder weapon was either the claw end of a hammer or a pry tool of some sort.”
“So, the gun theory is off the table?” Byron asked.
“Yes,” Ellis said. “And unless you manage to locate the tool or the saw around here, you’ll want to check the dumpster.”
Byron turned to Pelligrosso. “You finished with photos?”
“Almost. Then I need to measure this out. After that I’ll start collecting and searching further.”
Byron turned to Ellis. “How soon can you post?”
Ellis checked his watch. “It’s almost noon now. How’s five o’clock?”
“This afternoon?” Byron asked, surprised at the doctor’s generous offer.
“Well, I figure you’ll need answers sooner than later, and I can’t do it tomorrow. If I don’t do it now, you’ll have to wait until Monday.”
Byron looked at Pelligrosso. “That good for you?”
“Sure, if you call in Murph to assist me.”
“This afternoon it is,” Byron said. He turned to Nugent. “You good to assist Gabe with this until I can get Murphy in here?”
“I’ll be right here, assuming the bugs don’t eat all of me,” Nugent said. “You going somewhere?”
“109. It’s time to get the rest of Winn’s story.”
Byron and Stevens sat across from Erwin “Winn” Glantz in CID Interview Room One. Winn squirmed uncomfortably. Byron had intentionally given him a chair that was missing a leg caster, an old interrogator’s trick designed to keep the witness off balance and uncomfortable. It appeared to be working.
“Why didn’t you come to me right away, Winn?” Byron said. “I thought you and I had a history.”
“I don’t know,” Winn said. “I was scared, I guess. Not thinking straight.”
“Kinda like last night, huh?” Byron said.
Winn traced a filthy fingernail along a split in the round oak tab
letop. “I panicked, okay? I mean, my prints were all over the bag by the time I realized what was inside it.”
“And?” Byron asked, knowing Winn was still holding back.
Winn looked sheepishly at Stevens before continuing. “And I had already gone through her purse.”
Melissa Stevens fixed him with a look of disgust.
“I was strapped for cash, okay? I swear, I didn’t know there was a—what else was in the bag.”
“Tell us again what you remember about the person or persons who discarded the bag,” Byron said.
Winn shook his head in frustration. “I didn’t get a good look. I told you, just a shadow. I think it was only one person.”
“Male, female, tall, short?” Byron asked.
“It happened too quick, and I was drunk.”
Byron wondered if it really was intoxication hampering Winn’s recall, or perhaps it was something else.
“Tell us what you heard,” Stevens said.
“About what?”
“That night, Winn. What exactly did you hear?”
Winn exhaled loudly in exasperation. “I don’t know.”
Byron jumped in again. “You said the shadowy figure who tossed the bag into the dumpster drove up. How do you know that? Was it the sound of the vehicle that woke you? What did it sound like? Was it a quiet car or loud? Engine noise? Exhaust? Footsteps? Come on, Winn. This is important. Focus.”
“Okay, okay. Give me a minute to think.” Winn closed his eyes.
Byron exchanged a wordless glance with Stevens.
After a moment Winn said, “It sounded big.”
“Big?” Byron asked.
“Yeah. Not a car. Like maybe a van, or a truck. Something with some horsepower under the hood.”
Within Plain Sight Page 13