Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Saturday night had been uneventful. Elmer Faherty hadn’t made an appearance at either of the Bates addresses. Despite the early hour, Byron had already checked in with Denise Faherty, but she’d had no further contact with her husband.

  Byron, Nugent, and Stevens sat crammed into a booth at the back of Becky’s Diner on Commercial Street. It was a working breakfast. Robbins had asked for the day off to attend some family thing. Byron, figuring Robbins would just mope about all day if he didn’t get the time, had readily agreed.

  “How’s Dee Dee?” Stevens asked Nugent.

  “Still pregnant,” Nugent growled. “Christ, after having been down this road twice already you’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t up at the hospital with her,” Byron said.

  “I had to get out of there. I was going stir crazy.”

  Stevens jumped in. “Um, Dee Dee’s the one who should be going nuts right now. She’s the one doing all the work, partner.”

  Byron was only half listening to the banter as he ran down case scenarios in his head.

  “I can see the wheels turning, Sarge,” Nugent said. “What’s going on up there?”

  “If you were going to decapitate someone, what would you use?”

  Stevens grimaced. “Not exactly breakfast conversation.”

  “I know, sorry,” Byron said. “I’m serious, though. Would you use a reciprocating saw?”

  Stevens thought for a moment. “If I had planned the killing? No, I guess I wouldn’t. A rotary saw, like the one Dr. Ellis uses, would be far easier.”

  Nugent piped up. “If I was going to go to all the trouble to cut a victim’s head off, I’d probably keep going.”

  “At the risk of looking too deep into that warped mind of yours, what do you mean?” Stevens asked.

  “Might as well remove the arms and legs, too, right? Smaller pieces would make it easier to dispose of the body.”

  The three of them sat silently for a moment, contemplating what Nugent had said.

  Stevens spoke up first, shoving her half-finished bacon and tomato omelet to one side. “Well, I just lost my appetite. Thanks, partner.”

  “He has a point, though,” Byron said.

  Nugent smiled proudly. “See?”

  “You mean in addition to the one on top of his head?” Stevens asked.

  “Hey,” Nugent said, pretending to be offended.

  “What are you thinking, Sarge?” Stevens asked. “The copycat angle?”

  “Sort of. Except I don’t think it’s an actual copycat killing. My gut tells me that this was either a planned killing designed to look like the Horseman or only an afterthought designed to throw us off.”

  Nugent took a swig of his coffee to wash down the food in his mouth. “What do you mean an afterthought, boss?”

  “What if the killing was just a spur-of-the-moment thing? Not planned. The killer snaps, kills Faherty, then needs to find a way to dispose of the body without it coming back on them.”

  “Someone close to Faherty,” Stevens said.

  “Someone we would obviously suspect,” Nugent said.

  “Or perhaps not so obvious,” Byron said. “An unplanned murder could explain the delay that Ellis described.”

  “What do you mean?” Stevens asked.

  “Ellis said that the body wasn’t immediately dumped at the outdoor site. There was a delay. Possibly a couple of days.”

  Nugent piped up again. “So, the killer commits the murder then says, ‘Shit, I gotta cover this up to cast suspicion on someone else.’”

  “Right,” Byron said. “They go to the news reports covering the Horseman, glean as much information as they can, then prepare and stage the body to match the MO.”

  “Or at least as much of the MO as they are aware of,” Nugent said.

  “Or it actually is the Horseman,” Stevens said.

  “We can’t rule it out,” Byron said.

  “Aren’t there still some differences between our case and the Boston cases?” Nugent said.

  “There are,” Byron said. “But there are also subtle differences even in their cases.”

  “Maybe the killer’s still honing their craft,” Stevens said. “Maybe they haven’t settled on an MO yet.”

  “Maybe,” Byron said. Troubling him the most, however, was the lack of a connection between the three victims. Neither Boston Homicide nor PPD’s own wizard of the Net, Dustin Tran, had been able to connect the cases. Either this was a single killer toying with them, or it was distinct murderers.

  Following breakfast, each of the detectives paid their bill at the front counter before heading out. As Byron was fumbling with the bills in his wallet a business card fell onto the floor. It was Deborah Stavros’s, with her personal cell number on the back.

  “Whatcha got there?” Nugent asked.

  “Maybe nothing,” Byron said. “But maybe another shot at Alex Stavros.”

  To Byron’s surprise Deborah readily agreed to meet up, raising two possibilities: either Alex hadn’t told her about his visits from Byron, nor about his lawyering up, for fear of betraying his infidelity; or he had, and Deborah was fishing for information.

  Byron, who wasn’t sure he could ingest any more caffeine, had already scored a table at the back of the Arabica Coffee House on the lower end of Commercial when Deborah walked in. She gave a friendly wave upon spotting him.

  After ordering, they returned to the table and began to catch up.

  “You don’t look any different,” Byron said, trying to break the ice with a compliment.

  Deborah laughed. “You’re still full of it, John Byron.”

  “So, what’s it like to be part of such a famous family?” Byron asked.

  “Ha. It’s hardly as glamorous as it sounds. Seems like all I do is run back and forth between Maine and New York.”

  “But you’ll be moving here eventually, right?”

  “Well, that’s the plan. Lina is planning to gift us her old house on Bowdoin. It needs some serious updating, though, before we can even think of moving in. I think she just wants her grandbabies within arm’s reach.”

  Byron nodded his understanding.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Married? Kids?”

  He held up his ringless left hand. “Nope, on both counts. Was married, almost twenty years.”

  “What happened? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. It didn’t take.”

  “Police work?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Anyone on the horizon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re blushing, John.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Usually is.”

  Byron figured it was as good a time as any to get to the point. “Things good with you and Alex?”

  Deborah grimaced slightly as if she’d gotten a sip of bitter coffee.

  “I’m sorry,” Byron said. “I shouldn’t pry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I started this line of inquiry, right?” Deborah took another sip of coffee. “Truthfully, we’ve had our difficulties. That’s one of the reasons our children spend so much time with their grandma. I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise. My career requires a lot of travel, and Alex, being a television personality, has women throwing themselves at him all the time.”

  “That doesn’t happen to you in the legal profession?” Byron asked.

  She smiled. “Hardly. It’s corporate law after all. Dry as a bone. Truth is, Alex and I split for a while. Part of the reason for opening the Portland restaurant was to give us some time apart.” She paused to look out the window. “Sometimes I feel like I married the wrong brother. Petri is so sweet. I can always talk to him.” She turned back to face Byron. “What is it they say about the bad boys?”

  “Don’t ask me. I made it a point to only date good girls.”

  Deborah paused and gave him a look he couldn’t quite read.

  “So,
where do you and Alex stand now?” he asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

  “We’ve both been to counseling and decided to give it another go. For the sake of our children anyway. Who knows? Maybe it will be different when we’re all living under one roof again.”

  Unlikely, Byron thought.

  After meeting with Deborah, Byron drove directly to Hadlock Field. He parked across the street from the Sea Dogs stadium on Park Avenue and headed to the ticket window.

  “Help you?” the teenaged boy said from behind the glass.

  “Yeah, I need two tickets for a Sea Dogs game.”

  “What date?”

  “Um, hang on,” Byron said as he pulled up his ongoing text thread with Katherine. “August 6th is the game, I guess.”

  “Okay, that’s a Sunday afternoon home game against the Bowie Baysox. One o’clock start.”

  “Perfect,” Byron said.

  “Where would you like to sit?”

  “I don’t know. Where are your best seats?”

  “Probably the box seats right behind home plate. Section 105.”

  “Okay, I’ll take two of those. Can these tickets be picked up the day of the game?”

  “Sure, the Will Call window. You want your name on the envelope?”

  “No, not mine. Katie—I mean—Ms. Katherine Whitehill. And can you write happy birthday on there, too.”

  “Of course. They’ll be waiting for her on game day.”

  Byron paid for the tickets then drove to 109 where another batch of reports awaited his attention.

  “Must be nice to spend a leisurely Sunday morning flitting about from coffeehouse to coffeehouse, huh?” LeRoyer said as he marched into Byron’s office and plopped down in one of the visitor’s chairs.

  “Actually, I hung out at the ballpark, too.”

  “That’s hilarious. Where are we on this case?”

  Byron’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out without checking the caller ID. “Byron,” he answered.

  “Sergeant Byron? It’s Denise Faherty.”

  Byron felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Something in her voice sounded different. “Yes, Mrs. Faherty.” He exchanged a look with LeRoyer. “Have you had any contact with Elmer?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. He’s come back.”

  “To the hotel?”

  “Yes, he’s standing right here. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Please.” Byron heard the phone being passed from one person to another.

  “Faherty?” LeRoyer mouthed the word.

  Byron nodded.

  “Sergeant Byron, Elmer Faherty here.”

  “Elmer, it’s good to hear from you. Your wife was worried about you. She said you left without telling her where you were going.”

  “I did, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cause anyone trouble. I just needed some time to think, you know?”

  “I do. Are you planning to stay in Portland for a while?”

  “No, we have to get back. We’re scheduled to fly home tomorrow evening. Dani’s remains will be transported to Virginia. We’ll be finalizing those details with the funeral home today.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. I’ll keep you informed of any developments in the case. Please let me know if either of you need anything from us.”

  “I will. We appreciate all your help, Sergeant. Again, I apologize if I made more work for you.”

  Byron had barely ended the call from Faherty before LeRoyer was up and out of his seat.

  “We can stand down then?” LeRoyer said. “False alarm?”

  “Yeah. Guess he just needed to sort himself out.”

  “That’s great news, John. I’m glad he came to his senses.”

  Byron knew what LeRoyer really meant was that he was glad there wouldn’t be any more overtime expended.

  “What’s next?” LeRoyer asked.

  Stevens appeared in the doorway to Byron’s office. “Sarge, they just called up from the front desk. We have a visitor. Asked for us specifically. Told the IO that they had information pertaining to the Faherty homicide.”

  Byron turned back to LeRoyer. “I guess that’s next.”

  Stevens went downstairs to fetch the walk-in while Byron set up Interview Room Two. The visitor identified himself as Graham Serfes, a forty-five-year-old stockbrokerage manager and Portland resident.

  After the three of them were seated in Interview Room Two, Byron began the questioning. “So, what can we do for you, Mr. Serfes?”

  “Before I speak with you, I need certain assurances,” Serfes said.

  Byron studied the man seated across the table. Serfes was neatly dressed in a tan suit, white dress shirt, and light blue tie. Clean shaven. His hair was parted on one side. He appeared nervous but determined.

  “Mr. Serfes, I’ve been at this job for more than two decades,” Byron began. “Normally, we like to hear what people have to say before we discuss assurances. Over the last week we’ve received more information, allegedly pertaining to this murder case, than you can possibly imagine. And most of what we have been given has been of little to no value. Why don’t you tell us what you came here to say?”

  Serfes was absently spinning the gold wedding band on his ring finger. His gaze shifted between Byron and Stevens. “It’s about Craig Hopkins.”

  “You’re shitting me,” LeRoyer said. “That’s the reason Hopkins wouldn’t tell you what he was doing inside the lumberyard?”

  “Hopkins is gay,” Stevens said. “He didn’t want us to find out because his lover, Graham Serfes, is married.”

  “Evidently, they were meeting up regularly during Hopkins’s overnight shift,” Byron said. “Serfes would tell his wife that he was working late or that he had to go in during the overnight to oversee some issue at the firm.”

  “So, Hopkins has nothing to do with Faherty’s body being dumped in the lot?” LeRoyer said.

  “No,” Byron said.

  “But what about the underage girl thing you found, Mel? I thought a complaint had been filed against Hopkins before he went into the service?”

  “I checked again with the prosecutor’s office,” Stevens said. “The complaint was withdrawn after it was discovered that the victim had lied about the sexual contact. The truth was that the girl found out Hopkins wasn’t into her because he was gay. She was pissed about being shunned and wanted to get even.”

  “This case is gonna give me an ulcer,” LeRoyer said as he made another finger pass through his hair, causing it to stand up worse than it had been. Byron knew the lieutenant would be full-blown Einstein if they didn’t catch a break soon.

  “Well, it is good news, Lieu,” Stevens said.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “We can cross one of our suspects off the board.”

  “Great. What’s that leave us with, an even dozen?”

  It was after five and Byron had sent Stevens and Nugent home to salvage at least one weekend evening with their families. He sat alone in the CID conference room contemplating Marty LeRoyer’s earlier question, “What’s next?” Byron didn’t know what was next. If Ellis was right and Faherty had been killed on Sunday morning, seven days had now passed since the murder and they were no closer to catching the person, or persons, responsible.

  A feeling was manifesting itself within Byron, one that he was all too familiar with, an uneasy feeling that always came at a certain point in every homicide investigation. It was the lowest point. The point at which darkness nearly overtook all of their investigative effort. Doubt would come creeping in. The feeling that perhaps he would fail. That he wouldn’t be able to solve the case and provide closure for the victim or their family. Humphrey had called it the deepest part of the forest.

  “We’re a long way from the beginning,” he would say. “But nowhere near the end of this thing. This is the time when we should redouble our efforts. Push even harder to get at the truth. Go back and examine everything if you n
eed to. Trust that nothing is as it appears.”

  The last part of Humphrey’s advice had always stuck with Byron. He knew from experience that as soon as any investigator allowed themselves to fall into the trap of trusting that things were the way they appeared, they began to go astray. At that point, the path to the truth falls by the wayside and the investigator stumbles. The investigation falters. It was also true that if the wrong path is trod long enough, the way back can become impossible to find.

  He stared at the whiteboard hanging on the wall. To anyone unfamiliar with the case it might have appeared to be nothing but a jumble of words, dates, names, times, and pictures. But to Byron, and the others working the case, it was a flowchart leading to the truth. Or at least it would eventually. The problem was that they didn’t know how it flowed together yet.

  As he looked at the pictures Pelligrosso had taken at the dump site he remembered smelling marijuana the other night while standing in the dark. He pulled out his cell and sent a quick text to Stevens. Hey Mel, do you know if we ever spoke with any overnight cleaners? Specifically, York Street businesses?

  Several minutes later Stevens replied. Not sure. I’ll check w Nuge and Bernie 2morrow.

  Thanks, he texted back.

  “Sarge, you got a sec?” a voice asked from the doorway.

  Byron looked up and saw Detective Gardiner, one of Sergeant Peterson’s property crime detectives, standing there. Gardiner had been the detective Byron had wanted assigned in the first place, before he—before they—had gotten stuck with Bernie Robbins.

  “Certainly, Luke,” Byron said.

  Gardiner entered the room tentatively, as if he had done something wrong, something that Byron might not approve of.

  “What’s up?” Byron said.

  “Well, I stopped by 109 yesterday trying to get a handle on my safe burglary cases.”