Bangor, ME
(Army)
date of separation, 22 Jul 1972
Cross, Caleb
84 Brewster Rd.
Glenburn, ME
(Marine)
date of separation, 11 Aug 2006
Franklin, Lawrence
97 Main Rd.
Liberty, ME
(Army)
date of separation, 5 Apr, 2010
Holland, Douglas
2499 Ohio St.
Bangor, ME
(Army)
date of separation, 9 Jan 1974
Weaver, Claude
6 Maine Street
Rumford, ME
(Army)
date of separation 27 May 2003
The information contained herein is supplied as interagency assistance and is not for further dissemination. There is no independent verification of the current accuracy or completeness of this data.
Clipper absorbed the information in silence and sat back in his chair. “I knew Doug Holland was a sniper in the Army,” he said after a moment, “but three of them right here in town and one in my own division?”
“Well, the good news is at least you know where you can find two of them.”
Clipper grimaced. “I know where to find all three,” he said. “Otis Conroy’s granddaughter was almost one of our sexual assault victims, and we’ve already had to take a rifle away from him once.”
Shibles’s eyebrows raised. “Sounds like a good place to start.”
“No, I gotta know about Cross first.”
Clipper picked up his phone and made a call to the patrol captain, then filled Shibles in on Maddy Mosier and her irascible grandfather as they waited for the return call. After it came, Clipper dialed once more, and a moment later Caleb Cross tapped on the door and entered the office.
“What’s up, LT?”
Clipper gestured to the chair beside Shibles. “Take a seat, Caleb. I know you know your rights. Now, even though this conversation is off the record, I need to ask you something, and I want you to keep those rights in mind when you answer.”
A look of concern flashed across Cross’s face as he sat. “Uh, okay, what is it?”
Clipper glanced at Shibles, the glance carrying an implicit invitation for Shibles to leave, to distance himself from what was to follow, but he wasn’t surprised at the slight smile that flickered across the agent’s face as he settled into his chair.
“Tell me what you did in the military.”
Cross’s normally affable features hardened, and his back stiffened as he came erect in the chair, the easy-going cop morphing into something far more deadly. “Sir, I was a Marine sniper.”
“Were you any good at it?”
“Yes, sir. I was very good at it.” Clipped, precise, toneless.
“Deployed?”
“Sir, I was in Afghanistan in 2004 and 2005.”
“Why did you quit?”
For the first time, Cross hesitated, the rigid military bearing relaxing just a bit. “I decided on the military out of high school,” he finally said quietly. “My dad always told me whatever I did, be the best. So I joined the Marines.” He grinned faintly. “Everyone knows that a Marine rifleman’s the best fighting man there is. But I wanted to be better.” He shrugged, head down. “So I put in for scout/sniper training.”
“And you were very good at it,” Clipper repeated, “so why did you quit?”
“I guess I decided that being real good at killing people wasn’t what I really wanted.” Cross looked up. “I was a good Marine, and I’m a good cop, but I’m not a sniper anymore.” He glanced at Shibles, his voice hardening again. “No matter what you think.”
Clipper sighed. “Caleb, nobody’s accusing you of anything. We asked the feds for the names of people in this area who were military snipers, and for the names of people that owned silencers. Your name came up on both lists. I had to ask.” He reached across his desk and handed Shibles’s list to Cross. “Captain Foster verified that you were down at the academy when that Henderson kid got shot in Orono last month, and I guess we’d have noticed if you’d have taken time off to shoot people since you’ve been in the division. The matter is closed, as far as I’m concerned. Now, do you recognize any of those names?”
Cross scanned the list and shook his head. I don’t know any of them, and I guess I understand your position, LT but all the same, I do have a sniper rifle, a built-up M-15 with a suppressor that I bought when I was still in the service. I haven’t shot it in a couple years, but I want to bring it in for comparisons to whatever evidence you’ve got.”
“Okay, bring it in. And while you’re at it, I want you to reread all the cases and write me a summary of all the shootings from a sniper’s perspective. Tell me what you see and what you think.”
“You took a bit of a chance there,” Shibles observed when Cross had left.
“Not really. Sometimes you just have to hang your hat on what you believe. He’s a good man.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Like hell you’ll take my guns. You get off my property right now or, by Jesus, I’ll show you guns!” Shaking with rage, Otis Conroy crumpled the search warrant he had been handed and threw it at Randy Bissonette.
Clipper had visited District Court Judge Hiram Buck at home, and with Conroy’s previous actions and threats that there would be no need to hunt down his granddaughter’s assailant if he got him in his sights, coupled with his past history as an Army sniper, he’d had no problem convincing him to issue a search warrant for the purpose of collecting and testing the old man’s guns, as well as any other evidence that might tie him to the sniper attacks.
Warrant in hand, he’d grabbed Bissonette and Ken Thomas, then driven to meet the beat officer at the dilapidated old farmhouse on the outskirts of Bangor.
Clipper knew that John Peters and Dave Adams were probably just hitting the Carpenter house with that warrant, and wondered briefly when was the last time they’d worked two search warrants in the same day.
They met the marked unit and pulled into the driveway just as Conroy and Maddy Mosier were finishing supper, and now Conroy stood, fists clenched, resolutely blocking his front doorway. Seeing Bissonette beginning to tense up, Clipper slid past him to face Conroy. He was a little tense, too, but he kept his voice reasonable.
“Mister Conroy, listen to me. You were an Army sniper, and right now we’ve got a sniper problem. We’re going to look in your house and check out your guns—either with your cooperation, or with you sitting in a jail cell while we do it. You pick it.”
Conroy’s jaw clenched and, for a moment, Clipper thought he would fight, but then Maddy was behind him, clutching his arm.
“Come on, Gramps. Let Mr. Clipper do his job.”
Clipper took advantage of the momentary waver in the old man’s determination. “Look, Mr. Conroy, we’re not here to steal your guns. You’ll get a written receipt for anything we seize and, if there’s no problems, we’ll just take a look and get them back to you within twenty-four hours.”
Maddy tugged on Conroy’s arm, and he took a grudging step back. “I earned the right to keep my guns, sonny.” He looked back at Maddy. “Go ahead, then. You’ll find ’em in the bedroom—along with my combat infantryman’s badge and my purple heart—and I damn well better get ’em back.”
Although a search warrant gives law enforcement an almost unlimited right to look any place the evidence described in the affidavit could reasonable be hidden—such as behind false walls, under floorboards, or buried in the back yard—and the execution of some warrants left buildings looking as if a demolition crew had visited, extreme measures were not Clipper’s style. Dave Adams and the uniformed officer went outside to check a ramshackle shed and sway-backed barn that were all that were left of a once-prosperous farm, while Clipper and Thomas moved methodically from room to room in the house, peering into closets and drawers, under beds and couch cushions. Conroy followed on their heels, face red with fury, lip
s tightly compressed, but he remained silent.
Maddy showed Clipper the cellar, dank and musty; and the attic, dark and dusty. He could see, even in the weak light of his flashlight, that the spaces were unused.
A simple wall rack in Conroy’s bedroom held the Winchester .30-.30 that Clipper had seen before, an old Remington 870 twelve-gauge, and two .22 rifles, one with a cheap scope. There was a drawer in the rack which contained a small amount of ammo for the weapons and some cleaning supplies, but a thorough cellar-to-attic search of the house turned up no evidence of a long-range rifle or suppressor, or any other shooting paraphernalia.
There was a small plaque on the wall beside the rack which held a framed picture of a much younger, hard-eyed Otis Conroy, bare-chested in faded fatigues pants and boonie hat, cradling a scoped rifle. Below the picture were affixed a double row of faded service ribbons, a 101st Airborne Division patch with Ranger tab, and the blue and silver combat infantryman’s badge.
As Adams and Thomas checked around the outside of the house, Clipper found Conroy and Maddy at the kitchen table.
“You satisfied, sonny?” Conroy was still mad, and Clipper glimpsed a gritty young soldier behind his clenched jaw and burning eyes. “All ya had to do was ask me. That sniping stuff was a long time ago ’n now my guns are just for huntin’ and protection.”
Clipper sighed. “We had to cross you off the list,” he said. “I don’t blame you for being pissed—I guess I would be, too—but now we can concentrate on the real killer.”
“LT, you’re gonna want to see this.” Dave Adams was at the back door, holding a dull green metal ammo can. “Found it in a trunk in the shed, hidden under a tarp. It’s full of match grade .308 and military .223.” The ammunition he held out in his hand was bright and shiny.
Conroy leapt to his feet, grabbing for the ammo can. “You leave that be, dammit; there ain’t no law against a man having ammo.”
When Adams turned to block his rush, Conroy whirled back to Clipper.
“You want to take them guns, fine,” he said jerking his head towards the bedroom. “Take ’em and to hell with you, but I want you out of here right now.”
Clipper stood. “Where are the rifles, Otis?”
“I got no more rifles. What I got are in the bedroom. Take ’em and get out.”
Clipper shook his head and looked past Conroy to Adams. “Dave, call down and get some portable lighting out here, and see if you can scare up some more troops.”
At one a.m., Clipper suspended the search until the next day. Conroy had been arrested for obstruction when he shoved Randy Bissonette, and Maddy sat mutely amidst the wreckage of her home.
Clipper stopped to speak to her before he left. “We’ll be back in the morning,” he said. “I’ve got to leave an officer here, so maybe you should give your sister a call, maybe spend the night there.”
Maddy was defiant. “I’m not leaving. I’m gonna stay here and take pictures of what you did. I thought you were smart, but you’re stupid if you think Grandad did anything wrong.” Her voice broke and tears ran down her cheeks. “H-he didn’t do anything wrong and you— you arrested him, you bastard.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The tired gray skies and spitting snow were a perfect match for Clipper’s mood when he met John Peters at Cleo’s Saturday morning. With Allen Oaks recovering from his gunshot wound and Ed Angelo still out on administrative leave, he had tapped Peters to work the weekend with him and ordered the rest of the crew to get a couple days of rest.
Over coffee and breakfast sandwiches, they brought each other up to date,
“With Beaudreau and his victims out of the way, I’ve had Evan and Ellen bearing down on the Pollack interviews,” Peters said around a mouthful of egg and English muffin. “They’re about done and, so far, there’s still nothing there. I talked to Galen Woodman and got a list of all the people he could remember having been to that hunting camp. I guess we’ll start on that next.”
In the frantic pace of the past two weeks, Clipper had all but forgotten the older case. Now his mind tickled with a fleeting thought that wouldn’t come to the surface. “I still think that one’s closer to home,” he said. “We need to look harder at her family and close friends.”
Peters nodded and swallowed. “Speaking of home, I checked with the hospital; they released Kimberly Carpenter last night. Ellen Davis brought her home, but she was too spaced out to talk. We did the search—nothing there—and I told her we’d be back sometime today.”
Clipper pushed his coffee cup back. “Well, no time like the present. I’ll do that if you’ll finish out the warrant at the Conroy place.” He filled Peters in on what they’d found and his suspicions that there were rifles hidden on the property. “He was pretty pissed. We had to take him for obstructing last night, but I imagine he’s made bail, so be careful. We pretty well took the house apart last night, but they could be anywhere under that old barn or buried in the woods. Randy and Dave are coming in, and I talked to Jim Thorn about a couple of uniforms to help.”
“You think Conroy’s the sniper?”
“Yeah, I think maybe, but we’re going to need to find his rifle to prove it.”
Clipper couldn’t quite hide his surprise when Nelson Miller answered the door at the Carpenter residence fifteen minutes later.
“Uh, hi, Nelson. What are you doing here?”
“Just a friend,” Miller said quietly, putting a finger to his lips. “Kim’s asleep in the living room. We can talk in here.” He led Clipper into a large modern kitchen and gestured at the heavy wooden table. “Grab a seat. I’ve got coffee on.”
Miller filled a couple of mugs and sat. “Kim works at UMPD. She runs our records division, and we think quite a lot of her. I just stopped by to see if she needed anything, but she dropped off in the middle of our conversation, so I thought I’d stick around for a while.”
“And I appreciate that, Nelson, but you really didn’t need to. I’m perfectly okay.” Kimberly Carpenter stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a thick housecoat belted tightly over black slacks. Her sunken eyes, pale skin, carelessly brushed hair, and hunched posture painted a picture of frailty and grief, but her voice was strong.
Clipper stood. “Ms. Carpenter, I’m Lieutenant Clipper, Bangor PD,” he said, unsure if she remembered him. “I’m sorry to intrude, but we need to talk with you if you feel up to it.”
“Of course. Why don’t we go into the living room.”
She moved slowly and winced visibly as she settled into the corner of the couch. Clipper sat on a chair across from her, but Miller stopped by the front door.
“I’ll be taking off, Kim. Let us know if you need anything at all.”
Carpenter frowned. “Can you please stay, Nelson?” she said. “I’m sure Mr. Clipper wouldn’t mind, and I… I really don’t want to be alone right now.”
Clipper shrugged his okay, and Miller walked over and sat at the other end of Carpenter’s couch.
“Mrs. Carpenter,” Clipper began, “why don’t you tell me about yesterday from the time you got up?”
“Well, we— I got up about six-thirty to fix Jack’s breakfast, like I always do. And then, after, he went to work and I… I got ready and started to go to work, but I… slipped on the walk and fell. And I … well, I was pretty sore so I called in. And then I was laying on the couch when you came by to tell me…”
Clipper kept his face impassive as her voice trailed off. “Mrs. Carpenter—” Clipper hesitated. “Mrs. Carpenter, what do people call you?
“My name is Kimberly Ann, but people usually call me Kim. Jack called me Kimmy sometimes.”
“Kim, we spoke to your doctor. He’s pretty sure you didn’t get those cracked ribs in a fall, and he told us about other bruises and injuries, even broken bones. In fact, he told me he thought you’d been beaten.”
Carpenter shook her head mutely and looked away.
Nelson Miller reached over and touched her knee. “Kim, it’s okay. It
’s over now, but you have to face it. Jack’s gone, and you have to start healing.”
“I loved him. I tried to be good but, sometimes…” Suddenly she was sobbing. “Oh God, I didn’t want him to die. Why did he have to die? What will I do?”
Twenty minutes later, Miller followed Clipper to the door. Kim Carpenter had finally conceded that her husband had had a quick temper, but insisted that he was a good man and a good provider. Clipper had probed gently, but uncovered nothing to make him think she had had any part in his murder.
As they left, Nelson said, “I’m going to hang here and call a couple of the girls at work, see if they can stay with her for a few days. She has no family, and I don’t think she should be alone.”
When Clipper got back to the station, he found a follow-up report from Dave Adams on his desk. The message on Carpenter’s cell phone was a standard SMS protocol, and it came from a prepaid burner phone. No way to identify the sender.
Clipper spent the rest of the morning tracking down Jack Carpenter’s friends and co-workers and arranging for interviews, until John Peters returned to the station with a tense Otis Conroy in tow. In the interview room, he handed Conroy a sheet of paper, glancing at Clipper as he spoke.
“Here’s a receipt for what we’re seizing,” he said evenly. “One ammo can, containing sixty rounds of .308 match ammunition and 100 rounds of .223 military ball ammunition; One Winchester model 94, serial number 900432; one Remington model 870 shotgun, serial number 229199; one Harrington and Richardson .22 rifle, serial number 439307; and one Springfield .22 rifle serial number 7662617.”
Peters had closed out the warrant on Conroy’s property without finding any other firearms.
Conroy snatched the list. “This ain’t the America I fought for no more,” he growled.
Clipper turned on the recorder and took over. “Mr. Conroy, we need to talk to you about that ammo we found—and some other things—but before we start, I’m going to read you your rights.”
Past Master Page 15