Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Phillips’s eyes widened. “Oh Christ.”

  They spent the remainder of the trip in silence.

  Portland police headquarters stood at the corner of Franklin Arterial and Middle Street. Constructed in 1972, the oddly shaped four-story pile of bricks had gone through several different renovations—“transformations,” they were called—none of which had made the slightest improvement in 109’s curb appeal. Compared with the grand architecture of city hall and the federal courthouse, 109 would forever be the ugly stepsister of the Port City.

  The Criminal Investigation Division, CID, was housed on the top floor. Comprised of several offices for the supervisory and command staff, a large open bullpen for the detectives, three interview rooms, a conference room, and a glass-walled waiting area, the detective bureau was typical of Maine’s larger departments.

  Byron’s plan had been to drop in and check on Haggerty’s state of mind, then head down to the second floor where Nugent was conducting his interview.

  “I’m advising you not to go in there, Sergeant,” the MAP attorney barked, briefly interrupting his own conversation with the department’s Internal Affairs Sergeant Brad Thibodeau.

  Byron turned around and stood toe-to-toe with the portly lawyer, whose name escaped him. He caught the familiar scent of an intoxicant to go along with an almost imperceptible slurring of his words.

  “Great. You’ve advised me, counselor,” Byron said, enunciating the word as if he’d called him an asshole. “Now, unless you’re planning to physically try and stop me, I’m going to check on the well-being of one of my officers.”

  Byron glanced at Phillips and Thibodeau but neither said a word. His gaze lingered on Thibodeau’s smug mug. He half expected Thibodeau to say something stupid. The beady-eyed sergeant had a well-earned reputation as a yes-man, a trait Byron couldn’t stand, especially in matters pertaining to internal affairs. IA was the one place in law enforcement with the potential to be more dangerous than the street. In the hands of the wrong IA investigator the pen truly was mightier than the sword.

  “This is highly irregular, Sergeant,” the mildly inebriated attorney continued, drawing Byron’s attention back to him. “You can be sure I’ll be taking this matter up with your chief. In fact, maybe I’ll phone him right now.”

  “Acting chief,” Byron corrected. He turned around and continued toward the interview rooms, then stopped. “Oh, and you might wanna consider some mouthwash or a breath mint before speaking with him in person, counselor.” Portly had no comeback.

  Byron rapped his knuckles against the cobalt-colored door to Interview Room One, then stepped inside.

  Sean Haggerty was a cop’s cop. In his early thirties and built like a linebacker, he was a gentle giant. A member of the Maine Police Emerald Society, where he and Byron had first met more than a decade ago, he was also a piper with the Maine Public Safety Pipe and Drum Corps. Haggerty was the one uniformed officer Byron wanted to see at every crime scene. Haggerty was smart and he followed the rules. Byron had tried more than once to recruit the veteran cop to CID, but to no avail. Haggerty liked being on the front lines.

  On this day, he looked defeated, like someone had let the air out of him. Haggerty bore little resemblance to the formidable and squared away presence that Byron was used to seeing. Seated in a chair on the far side of the round wooden pedestal table, slumped to one side, his head was resting against the wall. He sat up as Byron entered. “Sarge.”

  Byron saw what appeared to be Plummer’s dried blood on Haggerty’s uniform pants and shirt. Blood was also present on the black leather jacket lying on the floor.

  “How are you holding up, Hags?” Byron asked, already knowing the answer. Alone and scared. Second-guessing himself and wishing more than anything he could somehow turn the clock back and make all of it go away. Byron was glad Haggerty had at least been spared the sounds of the mother’s anguish, for now.

  “Not too good, Sarge. Feel sick to my stomach.”

  Byron glanced over at the union representative sitting across from Haggerty. “Give us a minute, would you?”

  The officer looked at Haggerty for guidance.

  “It’s okay,” Haggerty said, nodding.

  “I’ll be right outside,” the officer assured him. “Holler if you need me, Hags.”

  Byron waited until the rep had gone and the door was closed before sliding into the chair across from Haggerty.

  “I know the kid didn’t make it,” Haggerty said. “He didn’t, did he, Sarge?”

  “No,” Byron said. “He didn’t.”

  Haggerty tilted his head back and sighed loudly. “I am so screwed, aren’t I?”

  “First off, you’re not screwed. We’re looking into this just like we always do, okay? We’ll figure out what happened.”

  Haggerty looked at Byron. “Have they found his gun yet?”

  Byron wished he could say they had, but on that point, he had no comfort to offer. “Not yet.”

  Haggerty crossed his arms and hung his head. “I’m fucked.”

  “Listen to me, Sean. I’m gonna do my best to get you out of here as soon as I can. You’re gonna get a whole shitload of advice tonight. Some of these self-serving pricks might even try to take advantage of you. Don’t let them. You don’t have to say a word to anyone, yet. All right?”

  Haggerty nodded in silence.

  “Only you know what happened out there. I wasn’t there, and neither were any of the people gathering in the next room. Only you, Sean. You and your attorney will most likely meet with the investigator from the Attorney General’s Office in a couple days. Her name is Lucinda Phillips. She’s good people. It’s entirely your decision whether you decide to talk to her about what happened. But for right now, keep your mouth shut, okay? Don’t talk to anyone but your lawyer. You got me?”

  “Yeah, I gotcha. Guess I shoulda turned down the overtime, huh?”

  “Did you get a look at the other suspect?”

  “Too dark. I wasn’t close enough to him. Did we ID the kid yet?”

  “His name is Thomas Plummer.”

  “Oh Jesus. Tommy.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Everybody knows him.”

  “Portland High kid?”

  “Captain of the basketball team.”

  Byron hadn’t been looking to make Haggerty feel worse. He switched gears. “I called in another E.T. to grab your clothes and snap some photos of you.”

  Byron watched as Haggerty surveyed his own clothing. Haggerty’s face shifted; he knew that his uniform was now evidence.

  “Do you have someone who can grab you a change of clothes from your locker?” Byron asked.

  “I’ll have my rep to do it.”

  “You want me to call anyone?”

  “No. I’ll phone my family and my girlfriend after I get out of here.”

  “You need anything? Coffee? Something to eat?”

  Haggerty shook his head. “Don’t think I could keep it down.”

  Byron stood up and moved around the table. He placed his hand atop the younger officer’s slumped shoulder and squeezed.

  “He shot at me, Sarge. I saw the flash.”

  Byron resisted the urge to ask a follow-up question. If this was a bad shoot, Haggerty had already said too much. “Just hang in there, okay? You’re not alone in this, Sean.”

  Byron departed the interview room and headed for the stairwell. Phillips remained in CID. He knew she’d at least have to touch base with Haggerty and his lawyers before he was sent home. Byron needed to check in on the detectives taking statements.

  He found Nugent and Tran conducting an interview in the police training room on the second floor. Byron motioned through the half glass window wall for Nugent to step out into the hall.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Nugent said, retreating into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

  “Tell me about your witness,” Byron said.

  “Ha. Well, now that we’re getting down to brass tacks
, she’s not exactly as advertised.”

  “How so?”

  “When I first spoke with her, Mrs. Dietrich claimed to have actually seen the incident happen. Now it comes out that what she actually witnessed was the aftermath. Out walking her dog on Anderson when the foot chase crossed the road up the block in front of her. Says she definitely heard the shots though. She and everyone else.”

  “She say how many?” Byron asked.

  “Maybe a dozen.”

  Byron raised his eyebrows.

  “Her words,” Nugent said, raising his hands as if in surrender.

  “Gabe told me Hags only fired five rounds.”

  Nugent rolled his eyes. “So far we’ve heard everything from two or three to fifteen. Can you say shitty witnesses?”

  Byron knew this was not unusual. The bigger the incident, the wilder and less trustworthy the witnesses’ stories tended to be. Some people just couldn’t help themselves. Some even believed what they were saying.

  “How about the canvass?” Byron asked. “Any other people claim to see the shooting?”

  “Nope. Mel and a couple of Sergeant Peterson’s guys are putting together a list of people, but so far there aren’t any eyewitnesses to the shooting itself. I’m sure that will change once the news breaks.”

  Byron was sure it would too. He watched through the glass as his one-man Computer Crimes Unit interacted with Mrs. Dietrich. Tran seemed to be taking the assignment seriously. Like the rest of the department, CID was down a few bodies, forcing everyone to do more with less. “How’s Dustin doing?” Byron asked, nodding toward Tran.

  Nugent regarded his temporary partner through the window. “For a geek who spends all his time playing with computers, he’s doing okay. Don’t worry, Sarge. When I’m through with him, he’ll be as suave an interviewer as me.”

  Byron met up with AG Investigator Phillips and they both headed back to the scene, intentionally bypassing 109’s first-floor lobby where Rumsfeld was holding an impromptu press conference, accompanied by Diane and LeRoyer. Byron wasn’t worried about the acting chief leaking anything too important, mainly because he didn’t know much yet. The problems would begin during the next gathering, most likely late morning, when Rumsfeld would have to field some tough questions.

  “How’d it go with Sean?” Byron asked after they were back in the car.

  “Okay,” Phillips said.

  “When is he meeting with you?”

  “This afternoon.”

  This afternoon? Byron turned to face her. “Seriously? I just finished telling him to take some time.”

  “I suggested the same thing. Sean said he just wanted to get it over with.”

  Byron hoped Haggerty wasn’t making a mistake. Being prodded for details less than eighteen hours after killing a teenager, on the heels of what would likely turn out to be a sleepless night, didn’t seem to Byron like the prudent course.

  It was after one-thirty by the time Byron and Phillips rolled onto Anderson Street. They parked behind the evidence van and two black-and-whites. The crowd of people gathered earlier had long since departed, along with Tommy Plummer’s body. The bitter cold and late hour had been a blessing after all.

  Pelligrosso and Murphy were seated inside the rear compartment of the van with the heater cranked, sipping coffee and trying to get warm enough to return to the scene.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Pelligrosso said as Byron and Phillips climbed in with them and closed the door.

  Byron introduced Phillips, then got right to the point. “How’s it going?”

  “Slow,” Pelligrosso said. “The cold is messing with everything. The camera batteries keep dying, even the plaster casting was a bitch. We got it though.”

  Byron couldn’t help but think of the cellphone found next to Plummer.

  Pelligrosso addressed Phillips. “Your evidence people just left.”

  “Yeah, I spoke with them by phone.”

  “I’ll make sure they get copies of everything we generate.”

  “Thanks,” Phillips said. “What were you casting?”

  Pelligrosso brought Phillips up to speed, explaining that the sneaker print hadn’t matched the soles of the dead suspect’s footwear. “Plummer was wearing Adidas running sneakers. The print I found has these two weird angled pairs of squares on the heel and on the ball of the foot.”

  “What did Ellis have to say?” Byron asked. Ellis was the state’s deputy medical examiner.

  “Doc said he’ll schedule the post for Monday, late afternoon. Figured we’d still have too much to do down here tomorrow morning.” Before Byron could correct him, Pelligrosso checked his watch. “Make that today.”

  “Any problem getting the body out of here?” Byron asked. “We’re not gonna see him on Facebook, are we?”

  “We managed to keep that from happening, I think. Had a hell of a time getting him bagged though.”

  “What do you mean?” Phillips asked.

  “Body heat,” Pelligrosso said. “He’d already frozen to the ground.”

  Phillips grimaced.

  “What else do you need done tonight?” Byron asked his senior evidence tech.

  “Still gotta gather up our equipment. I want to come back during daylight hours and take additional photos and measurements.”

  “I’ll get the shift commander to hold a couple of officers down here until you’re ready to release the scene.”

  “Plus, we need to double-check that we’ve recovered all the evidence there is to find.”

  “Speaking of which, I’m assuming we didn’t find a weapon?” Byron said.

  Pelligrosso downed his last swig of coffee, tossing the empty Styrofoam cup into the dingy white five-gallon bucket, doubling as a trash receptacle, tethered to the inside wall of the van. “We did not. Another reason I want to scour the area during daylight. Haggerty told Pepin that the kid shot at him. If there’s something to find, I want to find it.”

  Byron did too. “What about the robbery money?”

  “We found a ten and three ones in the left front pocket of his jeans.”

  “That’s it?” Byron asked.

  “That’s it,” Pelligrosso said.

  “How much was taken in the robbery?” Phillips asked.

  “Victim said they got just over six hundred,” Pelligrosso said.

  Phillips gave Byron a look that didn’t need translating.

  “I wanna do a quick group meet-up in CID to go over what we have so far,” Byron said. “109 in twenty?”

  “We’ll be there,” Pelligrosso said.

  Byron took a cellphone call as he and Phillips were heading back to their respective cars.

  “Sarge, it’s Mel. Just finished with Plummer’s parents.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “About like you’d imagine. They didn’t really hit it off with the advocate, but they were okay with me.”

  Byron hoped, with Stevens’s help, they’d be able to establish a working relationship with the Plummers before things spun totally out of control.

  “They say where Tommy got the gun?” Byron asked.

  “Said he didn’t have one.”

  “Did they have any idea who he was running with tonight?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “How did you leave it with them?” Byron asked.

  “I told them you’d want to meet up with them midmorning. I also said we’d let them know of any new developments before we put anything out to the public.”

  “Good. Where are you now?”

  “Heading into 109. I got some paperwork to start and I figured you’d want to meet up as a group.”

  “Thanks, Mel. I’ll be in shortly.”

  Byron and Phillips pulled into the rear parking garage of 109, armed with fresh coffees and two boxes of donut holes from Dunkin’ Donuts. LeRoyer was waiting for them as they entered the CID lobby.

  “John, we need to talk,” LeRoyer said.

  “Meeting with my detectives in the conference room righ
t now, Marty. You’re free to join us if you’d like.”

  “Actually, they’re my detectives,” LeRoyer snapped. “As are you, Sergeant.” He pointed toward his office like he was ordering a canine to obey. “You and me, right now.”

  “I’ll meet you in the conference room,” Phillips said wisely as she took the boxes from Byron. “I gotta check in with my boss anyway.”

  LeRoyer trailed Byron into the CID locker room where Detective Luke Gardiner, one of Sergeant Peterson’s property crime detectives, was changing footwear.

  “Give us a second,” LeRoyer said.

  “Sure thing, Lieu,” Gardiner said, quickening his pace.

  Byron removed his coat and sweater and hung them in his locker as he waited for the new detective to depart and for his high-strung commander to make his point.

  “How long were you gonna leave me in the dark about the Plummer kid not having a gun?”

  “We don’t know for sure he didn’t have one, Marty. Besides, until I knew the gun wasn’t hidden beneath something, I wasn’t about to say anything.” Byron grabbed a small bottle of green-colored mouthwash off the shelf in his locker and headed for the sink. LeRoyer followed, then paced the floor behind him.

  “The chief is really pissed off,” LeRoyer said.

  “Acting chief,” Byron corrected before taking a swig. “And I’ll be sure and add that to the list of things I don’t give a shit about.”

  “Dammit, John, it isn’t funny.”

  Byron gargled the minty liquid, then spit the rinse into the sink and recapped the bottle. “Don’t see me laughing, do you?” Byron said.

  Byron and LeRoyer had worked the same city streets together for many years. Byron knew it was only their history that allowed him the leeway of telling his boss exactly what he meant without fear of reprisal. In a paramilitary organization like the Portland Police Department, it wasn’t a luxury afforded to many subordinates.

  “The chief is meeting with the city manager right now, at his house, about this morning’s press conference,” LeRoyer said.

  “A shame Perkins couldn’t be bothered to visit us here,” Byron said, returning to his locker with LeRoyer hot on his heels.