by Gerry Boyle
Bay Witch meant nothing to him. Patrolman Brandon Blake meant nothing to him. Out here, Brandon could hide.
Brandon waited until the ketch was five hundred yards astern and then he swung Bay Witch northeast, following the channel markers between Cushing and House islands. The lights on Peaks Island were showing in the rain when he caught the bell leading into Whitehead Passage. Just beyond the bell he throttled back. When he’d passed Catnip Island on the port side he swung southeast and into Spring Cove. The town pier was to starboard and he eased his way beyond it to a small rocky island just west of Whitehead. He cut the throttle in 18 feet of water, two hours from dead low tide, he slid down from the helm, went to the bow and released the anchor. The chain rattled out and the anchor disappeared into the green murk. The boat swung around, bow to the shore, and jerked gently on the anchor rode. Brandon went back to the helm and cut the engine.
It was quiet, the waves slapping the bow, the stern swinging. He was alone.
This was one of their spots, Brandon and Mia. Just a half hour from the marina but on most days deserted. Sheltered by the lee shore from the prevailing southwest wind in the afternoon, protected by Peaks and the crescent of the cove from winds out of the east and northeast. Away from the gaggle of boats around Great Diamond. It seemed odd to be here by himself, not opening a bottle of wine with Mia on the stern deck.
That all seemed a lifetime ago.
He slipped down the steps from the helm, went below. It smelled like bleach and dish detergent and polish, the deck still sticky. He went to the refrigerator and then remembered the two remaining beers had been poured on the pile. There was a bottle of Jameson in the back of the galley cupboard and they’d missed it. He reached it out, poured an inch into an aluminum cup. Sipped. Poured more and, taking the bottle with him, went out onto the stern and back up to the helm.
He sat in the seat at the wheel. Flicked on the VHF and tuned it for weather. The robotic voice said south winds would become southeast during the night, building to 15 knots after midnight, gusts to 20. Southeast winds were fine. They’d blow him back into the harbor in the morning. He drank. Grinned to himself in the dark.
What had they said? No booze. No news.
“Screw that,” he said.
Brandon drank. Bay Witch swung on the anchor, bow pointed toward the rocky bluff, a dark band in the dusk. To starboard a light glowed on the end of the island pier. Solar lights flickered on a private dock. He flicked his phone on, a pale gray glow filled the cockpit. Everything else fell away.
He peered at the screen, scrolled through the news feed:
Demonstrations Roil Portland After Police Shooting
Parents of Police-shooting Victim Demand Justice
Critics Say Police Body Cameras Only as Good as Officers Who Wear Them
And this one.
Mother: Teenager Killed in Garage Fall Died of Broken Heart
Brandon stared at the screen, read the headline again. Reached for the cup and took a long pull of whiskey. He swallowed it. Put the cup back on the console and tapped the phone.
Estusa. realportland.com
A video, the still shot showing the mom, her face drawn, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She was holding a tissue in both hands. Brandon reached for the arrow. Touched it like it were on fire. The video played.
“My daughter was a wonderful girl, so kind and loving.” A sniff. A wipe with the tissue. “She and Thatcher were, I don’t know if you call it love, but they were just so happy when they were together. What do they call it? Puppy love? It doesn’t make it any less important, you know?”
A sniff and then a cut, the video edited.
“Do I blame Officer Blake? I hate to say this but I do. Thatcher was a good kid. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. He wasn’t some threat to society. Amanda was so lovely, so sweet. I mean, I’m a single mom. She was all I had. But now both of them are gone because this policeman made the wrong decision.”
Another sniff and wipe, another cut of the video.
“Should there be consequences? Yes. There are no witnesses. Nobody knows what happened there. Why should we take this cop’s word for it? He’s got everything to gain and nothing to lose.”
“By lying?” Estusa’s voice.
“By lying. Yes.”
The video continued. A tagline appeared: CHLOE SHAKESPEARE, MOTHER OF AMANDA SHAKESPEARE, 16, WHO FELL FROM PARKING GARAGE TO HER DEATH
Brandon put the phone down, reached for the cup and drank. He picked the phone up again. He flicked through Estusa’s stories, the next one on the feed: Parents Demand Justice in Son’s Death at Police Hands.
A photo of the Rawlingses at the demonstration, the crowd in the background. Signs: NO DEATH PENALTY IN MAINE…THIS IS NOT A POLICE STATE…PUT A STOP TO TRIGGER HAPPY COPS
Another video: Brandon hesitated. Tapped again.
Tiff and Crawford Rawlings, standing close, his hand around her shoulders like he was holding her up. Tiff Rawlings lips were clenched and she was staring into the distance like she was oblivious to Estusa, to the crowd behind her. She looked battered, exhausted, bleary.
“When one of us stumbles, the other one steps in,” Crawford Rawlings said. “Sometimes it’s me who can’t take any more. Today it’s my wife. But we both refuse to let our son die for nothing. His contribution will be to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. That this police department does not continue to hire rogue cops. Cops who have a history of fatal shootings. Cops who have backgrounds that are one giant red flag.”
Estusa: “You mean Brandon Blake?”
“Yes, I do mean Brandon Blake. He should never had been hired. He had a troubled childhood, was raised by his alcoholic grandmother, shot a man to death shortly before becoming a police officer. I mean, what were they thinking? He was carrying so much emotional baggage that he was a walking time bomb. And still is.”
“So you don’t think Blake should go back on duty?”
“I think Blake should go to prison for the execution murder of my son. I think this police department and this city should be held liable for the death of my son. I think this should stop now so no other family should go through what we are going through, what Mrs. Shakespeare is going through.”
“It’s a living hell,” Tiff Rawlings whispered. She started to crumple and her husband reached across and held her with both arms as she sobbed into his shoulder.
“Bullshit,” Brandon said.
Staring into the phone, he played the video again, but this time watched Tiff Rawlings as her husband talked. She stared into space for a few seconds, then her gaze sharpened and she looked at something off camera. She tracked something with her eyes and then seemed to make an almost imperceptible nod. Then her stare blurred again, like someone pretending to be asleep. And someone passed behind her, in front of the demonstrators.
Brandon played the video again. Saw the guy walk by.
The lawyer James Kelly. Portland’s finest criminal defense. The Rawlings’ lawyer. Coaching from the sidelines? “Just remember your line, Mrs. Rawlings. It’s a living hell.”
Brandon drank more whiskey. He went back and forth, one minute thinking the Rawlingses were cashing in on their son’s death, the next minute slapping himself for thinking it at all. The wind picked up. The boat swung in a wider arc, caught in an eddy. He sat at the helm, looked back at his phone. Stories. Photos. Video. #kidslivesmatter trending on Twitter. People calling for him to be fired, convicted, killed in prison. Which he supposed could happen, him being an ex-cop.
The word froze him. Ex-cop. Never to be a cop again. His career, his life. The whole thing blowing up like Thatcher Rawlings had been a suicide bomber. Which he had been, in a way.
Brandon looked out into the darkness. He heard the bow slap as the boat swung, the soft swish of the lee surf on the rocks. And then a ring, the phone lighting up. A text.
Mia: You okay?
He replied: I’m fine.
Fourteen
Brandon woke
up on the settee in the salon, his clothes on, shoes off. It was a few minutes after six and the sky was cement gray over the island, the sunrise looming behind clouds. The southeast wind had, indeed, picked up after midnight and he could feel Bay Witch was tugging on the anchor and making wide, quick swings. Brandon couldn’t remember coming down from the helm.
His mouth was dry and his head felt tight, like a clamp had been screwed onto his temples. He rolled to his feet and lurched to the head. Filled a glass of water and drained it, drank most of another. He put the gas on for coffee and, as the kettle hissed, patted himself down looking for his phone. No luck. He glanced around the galley and salon, looked to the stern and slipped up and out. The wind was gusty, a chop building in the passage and west of Peaks Island. Brandon climbed to the helm, saw his phone on the console, the whiskey bottle, too. He grabbed both, came back inside and dropped the bottle in the trash. He plugged his phone into the charger, saw the screen fill.
Texts:
Mia, 5:16 a.m.:
They called and spoke this time. Some kid said I’m harboring a criminal, a bunch of nasty stuff. Should I tell Kat? Call me.
Kat, 5:02 a.m.:
Hope you’re ready for today. Bring your A-game partner. Protests are putting some pressure on.
Mia, 4:14 a.m.:
Somebody’s been calling every half hour all night, hanging up.
Mia, 2:35 a.m.:
I guess you turned off your phone. Call when you wake up.
Mia, 12:47 a.m.:
Sorry to bother you but where are you? You never said. Please let me know you’re OK.
Brandon did. Mia answered, sounded exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“That cove on the west side of Cushing.”
“Was your phone off?”
“I left it topsides.”
“I was so worried,” Mia said.
“Sorry.”
“But are you really?”
“Of course.”
“I know. I’m just exhausted. I need to see you.”
“I know. Same here. What about these calls?
“Some guy, young sounding when he finally spoke.”
“Number?”
“I’ll text it. When are you coming in?”
“Shortly. Meeting at the P.D. Internal investigation is starting.”
“What about the attorney general’s office?”
“They do both,” Brandon said.
“Why?”
“AG decides whether I broke the law. Internal decides whether I screwed up in other ways.”
“What time?” Mia said.
“I have to be there at nine.”
“I can pick you up.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Yeah, but—”
“This is gonna be a long run, Mia,” Brandon said. “Save it for something big.”
“Like court?”
“Yeah. Like court.”
There was a pause, both of them picturing Brandon on the stand, a hotshot lawyer like Jim Kelly questioning him.
“I can meet you,” Mia said.
“I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Brandon washed his face, considered shaving but didn’t. He was three days into a beard, starting to feel less recognizable. He trimmed it, looked halfway respectful. Of the process. Of his superiors. Which he was. They had to ask questions. He had to answer them. One step closer to getting back on the job—if he wasn’t going to be sacrificed to appease the demonstrators. The parents.
Chief Garcia? A police chief with an MBA? He was cold but Brandon didn’t think he’d throw him under the bus. The D.A.? He didn’t know.
He put on clean khakis, a little rumpled. A button-down shirt and a sweater. Looked like he was one of Mia’s preppie friends. He wasn’t, not by a long shot.
He went to the helm, ran the blower. Looked out as he waited, saw whitecaps in the passage, the chop building from the southeast. A fast run into the harbor. He started the motor and the V-8 gurgled, idled up and then slipped into a steady throb. There was a half-tank of fuel. He’d top it off at the marina after the meetings. No time to go there first, and no inclination. People at the gate. People on board. The drone flying over.
One of the owners, a plastic surgeon from Cape Elizabeth, kept forty feet of dock space at Custom House Wharf for his Sea Ray, like leasing a parking spot. He used it when he and his wife went to dinner in the Old Port. But the doc was on some sort of medical trip to Central America, fixing cleft palates. The Sea Ray was growing weeds in its South Portland slip. The wharf space was empty. A 10-minute walk to the P.D. Beard, sunglasses. Baseball hat.
The wind was brisk, steady at 15 knots, higher puffs. When Brandon stepped out on deck, it caught him for a second and he steadied himself with the grab rail. He moved to the bow, stepped on the switch for the winch, after a second, felt the anchor come free. Bay Witch drifted back, as the anchor chain rattled onto the reel.
As the bow swung away from the shore, Brandon locked the anchor in place, slipped around and up to the helm. He eased the throttle up, steered for the bell buoy, and swept past the east end of Cushing, headed for the southern tip of House Island. It was 6:55. The seas were four feet and Bay Witch porpoised her way through the channel, past Spring Point, Bug Light. The Peaks Island ferry was headed out and passed thirty yards off on his starboard. A deckhand waved and Brandon waved back. It felt good to be just another boater, no judgment out on the water.
He angled into the ferry wake and Bay Witch heaved and pitched, and then he was around Bug Light and the Portland waterfront loomed, a cruise ship berthed like it had landed from space.
The city. A sinking feeling.
His phone buzzed on the console. A text. Then another. And another as the phone blew up. He reached for it and read:
fu killer cop…prison is 4 murderers like u…your life is down the shitter, blake…justice for Thatch and Amanda…we’ve got u surrounded u coward…your done blake…P.D. can’t protect u, not this time…how many people do you need to kill?…how can you sleep?…Gonna be somebody’s bitch, Blake.
And then:
Brandon Blake. Got your number from the realportland website. I think we need to talk. I knew Thatcher. Like really well. He was a good kid. I’m not here to ream you out. Something you should know.
Brandon put the phone down, listened to it buzz. He couldn’t talk, no way. His phone number on the website? That bastard, Estusa. Where did he get the number? God, he’d like to kick that guy’s ass.
Something he should know, like what? But then he was coming into the harbor, a backhoe and dump truck on a barge chugging out to the islands, a dragger coming in, a tug crossing his bow, headed for the bridge and upriver, a big sailboat motoring out into the bay. A cruise ship towering over the whole thing.
And then he slowed, rose and fell over the tug’s big wake. He idled into Custom House wharf, saw the space below the Port Hole restaurant. A tight fit for 32 feet of Chris Craft, with somebody squeezing a 40-foot yawl along the float in front of his slot. Brandon idled past the space, reversed and pulled the stern in, whipped the wheel around and goosed the throttle, Bay Witch settling close enough. He jumped down from the helm, slipped around to the bow, ran the line back, and leapt onto the dock. Bay Witch was drifting forward into the stern of a gleaming sport fisherman, and Brandon yanked hard on the line, took a loop on a post and pulled. The boat fell back against the dock and Brandon cleated the line, ran to the stern, which was drifting off. He jumped on board and off, cleated that line, too. Got back on board and climbed up and shut off the engine. Instruments.
A sigh of relief. His phone buzzed.
Kat: Where are you? Let’s talk before you go in
Brandon: pearl and commercial in 5
Kat: roger that. I’m off duty
Brandon put the fenders out to protect the hull. Felt like he should wear some of his own.
He stood at the co
rner of Commercial and Pearl, looked up and down the street. A few early bird cruise ship passengers were doing the same, holding maps in front of them. Brandon waited, saw Kat’s black Jeep approach. She pulled up like an Uber driver and he got in. Kat was in yoga pants, running shoes, a T-shirt that said Team Glock.
“I’d say coffee but maybe not,” Kat said.
“Low profile,” Brandon said.
“I like your preppy slacker disguise.”
“Thanks. Should I have worn a suit and tie?”
“No,” Kat said. “It’s not like you’re going to court.”
He looked at her.
“Much,” she said.
She drove down Commercial, swung up onto the Eastern Prom. They passed Munjoy Street, and Brandon pictured Mia, making coffee, cleaning the apartment. That made him think of her father and he said, “Think I should have my own lawyer there?”
“Carew will be there for you. So not yet. Not for this.”
“Soon?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I could lose the boat,” Brandon said.
“We can only hope,” Kat said. She looked at him and smiled.
They parked by the ramp, looked out. The boats were all pointing southeast, into the wind. A couple was struggling to keep their kayaks from being blown around. The trip out of the harbor was going to be rougher.
“So here we are,” Brandon said.
“You’ll be fine. Just tell the truth. The whole truth.”
“I always do,” Brandon said. “The one thing my grandmother taught me that stuck. That and how to make her a Manhattan.”
“I thought she drank wine,” Kat said.
“Only before five. A couple of stiff Manhattans for the big finish.”
“You miss her?”
“I’m glad she’s missing all of this,” Brandon said.
“She’d be on your team. Speaking of which...”
Brandon watched the kayakers. The guy was fifty feet ahead of the woman, who was still struggling.
“The mayor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I heard she wants Garcia to come down on you hard on the body cam.”