Within Plain Sight

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Yeah, and we’re gonna need an addendum to the warrant,” Byron said as he pulled his cell to call Gardiner.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Gardiner said. “How’s the search going?”

  “Where are you?” Byron asked.

  “Still sitting on Petri’s car. He hasn’t been back to it. You still want me to sit tight?”

  “No, forget the car for now. Grab a couple of uniforms and head directly to Alessandro’s. I want you to take Petri into custody for the murder of Danica Faherty.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Twenty minutes later, Byron was giving LeRoyer an update by telephone when his cell beeped with an incoming call from Gardiner.

  “Marty, I got a call coming in from Luke,” Byron said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll give Lynds the update. Keep me in the loop, John.”

  Byron switched calls. “You got him?”

  “He isn’t here,” Gardiner said.

  “What?” Byron said. “What do you mean he isn’t there? Where the hell is he?”

  “One of the kitchen staff said he left about ten minutes ago. Told them he accidentally locked his keys in his car. Asked if he could borrow theirs.”

  Shit. Had Petri figured out they were onto him? Had he made Gardiner’s tail?

  “Did they say where he was heading?” Byron asked.

  “They don’t know. Told them he had to pick someone up and that he didn’t know when he’d be back.”

  Byron felt the hairs stand erect on the back of his neck.

  “What do you want me to do, Sarge?” Gardiner asked.

  “Text me the details on the car he borrowed then have Dispatch put out a statewide ATL. I want him picked up before he hurts anyone else.”

  “Any idea where he might be headed?”

  Byron looked back at the twisted diorama displayed inside Petri’s closet. “I’m afraid I do.”

  Byron ended the call and rushed from the bedroom, nearly running into Nugent as he did.

  “We lost Petri,” Byron said. “I think he’s going to try and grab Deborah.”

  “You want me to come with you, boss?”

  “No. I need you stay here and oversee the remainder of the search.”

  “Be careful, Sarge,” Nugent said, holding up an empty handgun case. “This sick fuck is probably armed.”

  Byron hurried to his car. He pulled out his cell again and dialed Deborah’s cell. The call went directly to voicemail. Byron hung up and dialed Lina Stavros’s number. After several rings it also went to voicemail. “Lina, it’s John Byron. Listen, I’m calling because I think Deborah might be in danger. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  “Fuck,” he said, ending the call. They had finally uncovered who Petri truly was only to watch the plan to take him into custody unravel before their eyes.

  Byron had activated the strobes on his unmarked and was using the siren intermittently as he navigated his way through traffic, weaving around and passing other vehicles. He grabbed his cell and dialed Portland Police Dispatch.

  “Dispatch, Brad speaking.”

  “Brad, it’s John Byron,” he said, shouting to be heard above the siren.

  “Hey, Sarge, what’s up?”

  “I’m on my way to Scarborough to try and stop a possible kidnapping in progress.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “Contact Scarborough PD and tell them I’m en route to Angelina Stavros’s on Prouts Neck. If I’m right, Petri is heading there from Portland to pick up Deborah Stavros. I have reason to believe he’s planning to kidnap her, or worse.”

  “This the dark green Camry that Gardiner just called about?”

  “Yes. Make sure Scarborough gets that information along with the plate number. Tell them we believe he may be armed with a handgun.”

  “I’m on it, Sarge.”

  Byron was making good time, considering the traffic. He had just entered South Portland when his cell rang. He punched the speaker button and shouted, “Byron.”

  “This is Lina Stavros,” the actress said. “Why are you bothering me again?”

  “Where is Deborah?”

  “What business is it of yours where my daughter-in-law is?”

  “She may be in grave danger, Lina. Is she with you?”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “Tell me where she is, Lina!”

  “If you must know, she just left here with Petri. He’s taking her to the airport.”

  Byron felt his skin crawl. He didn’t know what Petri’s intentions were, but he was pretty sure they didn’t include taking Deborah to the Portland International Jetport. Whatever sick game Petri was playing at was nearing its conclusion. “Where are the children?”

  “What?”

  “Your grandkids, Lina! Where are they?”

  “They left yesterday. They’re already in New York with their au pair. What is this all about?”

  Byron disconnected the call with Lina. It was obvious that she was in complete denial, allowing her anger over the incarceration of Alex to cloud her common sense. He needed to concentrate on driving, or he would never make it to save Deborah. Racing inbound on Ocean House Road, he struggled, trying to outmaneuver Petri. Where would he go? Assuming Petri didn’t know about the search of his house yet, it was logical to think he might try and take her there. And Highland Avenue would be the most direct route for Petri to take. Byron made the sharp left turn onto Highland Avenue, narrowly avoiding a small SUV, the tires of his unmarked squealing on the pavement in protest.

  He had traveled about a half mile beyond Evans Street, racing toward the Scarborough town line, when he noticed a dark green sedan traveling toward him from the other direction. He tensed up inside. Byron knew it was Petri. As they approached Byron clearly saw Deborah silhouetted in the passenger seat. He stomped on the brake and cut the wheel hard to the left as Petri passed by. Byron jammed the shift lever into Reverse and mashed the accelerator to the floor, cutting the steering wheel hard right and causing the Ford’s front end to slingshot to the left. He hit the brake to stop the spin then dropped the transmission back into Drive. He could see that Petri had reacted to him by accelerating.

  “720 to Dispatch,” Byron yelled into the microphone, trying to be heard over the noise of his siren.

  “Go ahead 720,” Dispatcher Mary O’Connell said.

  “I’m in pursuit of the green Camry from the ATL. South Portland traveling inbound on Highland. Petri has Deborah Stavros. Give me a signal.”

  “Ten-four, 720.” O’Connell sounded the emergency radio tone, giving Byron priority. “All units a signal 1000 is now in effect for 720.”

  A signal 1000 is a priority code put into effect whenever a unit or units are in a life-or-death situation and need the radio airwaves to be kept clear.

  “720, what is your location now?” O’Connell asked.

  Byron just caught the flash of a street sign as he made the turn. “Nutter Street from Highland, toward Evans.”

  “Ten-four, 720. South Portland units are en route to intercept.”

  “200,” the shift commander called out. “What does 720 have?”

  “Possible kidnapping, Lieutenant. The driver is wanted in connection with a 10-49.”

  The large commercial oil tanks were a blur as the chase continued. Byron was having a difficult time keeping pace with the much faster Toyota, especially with Petri driving so recklessly. Byron knew, given Petri’s infatuation, that losing them might well mean a death sentence for Deborah.

  “Right on Evans,” Byron said.

  “Ten-four, right on Evans.”

  Traffic was backed up from the intersection where Evans met Broadway. Byron could see the blue lights and flashing headlights coming from the other direction as one of the South Portland cruisers closed in. Petri saw the cruiser, too, and the Camry shot up Hill Street. Byron followed.

  “720,” Byron said. “Right on Hill.”

  “Copy, right on Hill Street,” O’Connell sai
d.

  “Lieutenant,” Diane called from the doorway to LeRoyer’s office. “Have you been listening to the radio?”

  “No, why? What’s up?”

  “John is involved in a vehicle pursuit in South Portland.”

  “What? I just talked to him on the phone. He was searching a house in Cape. Who the hell is he chasing?”

  “Petri Stavros. He just grabbed Alex’s wife, Deborah. He’s got her in the car.”

  LeRoyer jumped out of his chair. “Let’s go!”

  The six-cylinder roared as Byron pinned the accelerator to the floor, trying to get every ounce of horsepower out of the Taurus.

  The Camry’s brake lights flashed as it reached Broadway. Petri turned hard left, violently sideswiping a car traveling in the opposite direction before continuing.

  Byron keyed the mic again. “10-55 with another motorist. Suspect vehicle fled, now outbound on Broadway, back toward Evans.”

  “Ten-four, 720.”

  As the chase continued, traffic was slow to move over for Petri’s Camry, allowing Byron to gain on him. Byron watched in horror as Petri recklessly moved into the oncoming travel lane, forcing cars to swerve to the right side of the road to avoid a collision. Byron, who had lost sight of the South Portland unit, was confident that Petri was headed toward the Interstate. He knew that if Petri made it onto the highway, they might lose him, and in the process lose Deborah for good. Byron couldn’t let that happen.

  Byron guessed that Petri would likely turn right onto Lincoln Street, giving him a direct shot at I-295, but in order to make the sharp turn the Camry would have to slow down. Byron would only get one shot at what he was planning. He prayed that Deborah had her seat belt on. The Camry’s brake lights lit up again. Byron, who was right behind them, swerved to the right and stomped on the accelerator, pulling partially up beside them. Petri saw what Byron was attempting and shifted to the right to try and squeeze him off the roadway. Byron felt the passenger side tires of the Taurus briefly contact the curb. Byron matched Petri’s speed and position. As both vehicles neared the intersection with Lincoln, Petri slowed and started into the turn. Byron jerked the steering wheel hard left and accelerated, executing a PIT maneuver. The unmarked Taurus collided with the right rear quarter panel of the Camry just as Petri was entering the turn. The Camry’s tires squealed loudly as it spun out into the oncoming lane, up and over the sidewalk, striking a utility pole.

  Byron stood on the brake pedal, feeling the pulse of the anti-lock mechanism, but the Taurus was traveling too fast to stop. The front wheels hit the curb, bouncing up and over the sidewalk, and jarring him forward in his seat. The Ford’s momentum carried it across the small parking lot toward the cinder block façade of a vacant business. Byron braced for impact and the car passed right through the display window and into an empty showroom, setting off the airbags and filling the passenger compartment with smoke.

  Amid the shattered glass and debris and deflated airbags, Byron struggled to free himself from the heavily damaged Taurus. He had to get to Deborah. Byron heard sirens approaching as he hurried out of the building toward the wrecked, smoking Camry, his gun drawn. The driver’s door was standing open. Petri was gone. Byron lowered his weapon and looked through the open door. Deborah was bloodied and pinned against the seat back, but she was alive.

  “Are you all right?” Byron said.

  “I don’t—I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. He told me that he killed Dani Faherty to get Alex out of the way, so we could be together. He’s got a gun, John. He’s crazy.”

  “Just hang on, okay? Help is coming.” He quickly scanned the area, just managing to catch a glimpse of a figure running down Lincoln Street. Byron knew it was Petri and knew exactly where he was headed.

  A black South Portland cruiser skidded into the parking lot and a uniformed officer jumped out. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Byron flashed his badge. “Get this woman medical help, now! I’m going after the driver. He’s on foot and armed with a handgun. Get me some backup.”

  “You’ve got it, Sarge.”

  Byron didn’t hear the officer’s response; he was already running down Lincoln Street toward the cemetery.

  Chapter 36

  Tuesday, 5:35 p.m.,

  July 25, 2017

  Forest City Cemetery is large, nearly one hundred acres. Bordered by Lincoln Street, Broadway, and the Fore River, it is split down the middle by Clark Road. The cemetery, one of the oldest in Greater Portland, is comprised of thirty thousand monuments, which, combined with the many mausoleums, hedges, and trees, afforded Petri Stavros excellent cover and concealment.

  Byron knew the odds were not in his favor. He had some serious disadvantages to overcome, not the least of which was that he was wearing plainclothes and might easily be mistaken for Petri by an overzealous officer, a scenario dreaded by all law enforcement officers. While he certainly did not welcome the prospect of being shot by one of his own, neither did he want to be the reason that an officer hesitated, exposing them to being shot by Petri. Regardless of the outcome, Byron knew that he couldn’t risk Petri escaping, not after he had kidnapped Deborah. And after seeing what the psychotic restaurateur had done to Danica Faherty and how he’d set up his own brother for the crime. Byron had witnessed firsthand the consequences of Petri’s infatuation with Deborah. The monster either had to be caught or put down.

  Byron knew he would be most vulnerable at the cemetery entrance where there was nothing but an expanse of open lawn. If he could reach the gravestones before being seen, Petri’s advantage would be mitigated. He stuck close to the row of trees bordering the right side of the cemetery.

  It took several minutes but Byron reached the stones without incident. Kneeling behind a large marker, he paused to catch his breath and survey the area ahead of him. There was no movement and no sign of Petri Stavros.

  He heard the sirens and rapid acceleration of other police vehicles arriving on the scene, both behind him and on the far side of the cemetery near Broadway. Things were escalating quickly. He knew that South Portland and probably Portland officers were surrounding the entire area. He was also aware that his risk of being misidentified as a threat was increasing exponentially. This was a gun call and adrenaline was coursing through the veins of everyone involved. To the responding uniformed officers Byron was just another civilian waving a gun around. He removed the badge from his belt and clipped it to the outside breast pocket of his suit coat attempting to make himself more identifiable. He prayed it would be enough.

  Byron remained in a low crouch as he began moving forward from stone to stone, slowly and carefully making his way toward the center of the cemetery. He looked toward the brook and to his horror saw something he hadn’t considered: a small group of people gathered for a graveside service.

  Veteran South Portland Officer Dick Moulton had just finished taking a burglary report at a sporting goods store near the Maine Mall when he heard the dispatcher put out a 10-74, officer needs assistance call.

  “Any unit in the vicinity of Lincoln Street, please respond. A Portland detective is in foot pursuit of a kidnapping and possible murder suspect in the area of Forest City Cemetery. The suspect, Petri Stavros, is believed to be armed with a ten thirty-two handgun. Units acknowledge.”

  “Car 20, responding code 3 from Maine Mall Road,” Moulton said, referring to lights and siren.

  “Ten-four, unit 20.”

  By the time Moulton arrived in the area he had received additional information from Dispatch by phone as well as Petri’s photo by computer. Moulton took the Broadway side of the cemetery, parking at the end of Latham Street. He unlocked the shotgun from its rack and entered the property on foot.

  Compounding Byron’s problems was the fact that he had left his portable radio somewhere inside the wrecked Taurus. Carefully, he scanned the graveside service for Stavros. Satisfied that Petri was not standing among them, he
moved on, each time repeating the process of taking cover behind a large stone, then slowly scanning everything around him.

  “I know you’re here, you son of a bitch,” Byron whispered. “Show yourself.”

  Byron began to worry. He hadn’t caught sight of Petri since entering the cemetery. What if he managed to slip out before they cordoned off the area? He fought to suppress the thought. The police were on top of this. Petri couldn’t have escaped undetected.

  Byron moved up behind yet another stone.

  Moulton was sweating profusely in his dark-colored uniform. He held the shotgun in both hands at the low ready, finger outside the trigger guard, safety off, one round chambered. Slowly and deliberately, he walked toward the Lincoln Street side of the cemetery, eyes scanning left to right and then back again. Moulton was rounding a large oak when he noticed a man kneeling in front of a grave marker. Cautiously, he approached the man. When he got close enough, he whispered, “Hey, you.”

  The kneeling man turned slightly to his left. “Who, me?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You haven’t seen a guy running around here with a gun have ya?” Moulton asked as he lowered his weapon slightly.

  The man’s eyes widened and he shook his head from side to side. “No. No, I haven’t.” The man stood and turned to face Moulton. “What’s he look like?”

  “He looks like—Oh, shit.” Moulton realized his mistake a split second too late. Petri raised his pistol and fired twice, striking Moulton in the thigh and the stomach.

  Moulton squeezed the trigger on the shotgun just as he felt his legs go out from under him.

  Byron heard gunshots coming from his left, in the direction of Fore River, two quick pops from what sounded like a handgun immediately followed by the distinctive booming report of a 12-gauge shotgun. The shooters were close. Maybe fifty yards. Byron hurried toward the sounds, gun held at the low ready, staying in a low crouch, moving in a serpentine fashion around the many grave markers.