Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “What’s at city hall?” Billingslea asked.

  “Mayor Gilcrest called a press conference. Ten minutes. Go.”

  Billingslea went.

  Byron and Stevens stood on the front porch waiting for someone to answer the door. He knocked a second time. During their earlier visit a half dozen cars had occupied the driveway; now there was only one.

  “What do you think, Sarge?” Stevens said.

  “I think we’ve worn out our welcome.”

  Byron pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his overcoat, penned his cell number on the back, then stuck it between the storm door and its frame.

  “Your move, Hugh,” Byron said as they turned and headed back to the car.

  Micky Cavallaro looked up as the front door to the laundromat opened. With a blast of cold air from outside, a large man entered. He was carrying a suit jacket and pants on a hanger. He recognized Alex instantly. Alexander Bruschi, always dressed to the nines, was a fixer, and Micky’s situation was in dire need of fixing.

  Bruschi approached the dry cleaning counter, casting a quick glance about the place to make sure they were alone. The only other person present was a young woman wearing sweats and a ski jacket sitting in a chair reading a magazine. The woman was wearing earbuds and humming to a tune that neither man could hear, while she waited for the clothes dryer to finish its cycle.

  “Good day, my old friend,” Bruschi said. It wasn’t and they weren’t.

  “Alex,” Cavallaro said, smiling broadly in an attempt to hide his nervousness. “It’s good to see you.”

  A predatory grin spread across Bruschi’s face, just above the deep cleft in his chin. “I understand you had a little trouble recently. Delivery issues?”

  A chill ran up Cavallaro’s spine as he wondered which thing Bruschi had been sent to fix.

  “A little short on product, are we?”

  Micky nodded.

  “How short?”

  “All of it.”

  Bruschi shook his head in disapproval and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “That’s most unfortunate. Have the police caught the other man? The one who isn’t dead.”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  Bruschi reached out and laid the suit across the top of the counter. “I need to have this cleaned. Can you do that?”

  “Of course,” Cavallaro said.

  “I put the instructions in the inside pocket. You should follow them exactly.” Bruschi tugged on the cuffs of his black leather gloves, pulling them on tighter. “I understand the officer who killed the boy is the same one assigned to the high school.”

  “Haggerty, yes.”

  “Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Micky?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” Cavallaro answered slowly, not at all liking the question or its implications.

  Bruschi fixed him with cold calculating eyes as he tapped the suit with his index finger. “Remember. Follow my instructions, to the letter. I’ll return when it’s done.”

  “I thought you might fix this thing for me?”

  The grin reappeared. “Have you forgotten who it is you work for, Micky?”

  Cavallaro shook his head. “No.”

  “This is your mess. And you need to clean it up. After this thing is behind us, we will talk again.”

  Cavallaro nodded his understanding.

  “Good to see you again,” Bruschi said, patting him on the cheek, a little firmer than necessary.

  Resisting the urge to call out and ask when his product would be made whole again, Cavallaro watched Bruschi turn and stroll back out through the door to the sidewalk, relieved that he was gone.

  Cavallaro hung Bruschi’s suit on the rack behind the counter. He reached inside, checking the jacket pockets until he felt a piece of paper. He pulled the paper out and unfolded it. His eyes widened as he read the note. The instructions were very specific. His supplier was going to make him pay for the loss. And pay mightily.

  Cavallaro picked up the phone and dialed downstairs to the basement where Roni was working on the dry cleaning. She answered on the first ring. “I need you to cover me on the desk,” he said. “I’ve gotta go out for a while.”

  Billingslea stood inside city hall’s grand first-floor rotunda, crammed between several taller members of the audience, one of which he recognized as Lee Reynolds, the weekend desk anchor for WGME, the local CBS affiliate. Billingslea nodded and said hello but Reynolds pretended not to recognize him. The young reporter wondered what it would be like to be so well-known that you could simply become an asshole. Or maybe he was an asshole before fame came calling, Billingslea thought as he fixed the anchorman with an insincere smile.

  Attorney Roger Bertram stood with the Plummers, slightly to the right of the mayor at the bottom of the massive winding marble staircase with the gleaming brass railing that led to city hall’s second floor. Accompanying the news media, and effectively blocking the building’s main entrance and the hallways to both the building’s wings, was a sizable crowd of city employees. Digital camera flashes and video spotlights bathed everyone in harsh light, casting monstrous shadows upon the walls. The high ceilings and stone surfaces amplified and distorted every footfall and spoken word, turning the space into an echo chamber.

  “I am greatly disturbed and saddened to have to be here today,” Gilcrest said, drawing out her words as she scanned the crowd. Her expression was pained, and sincere. “Last night the injustice and brutality, experienced time and again by the rest of the country, reared its ugly head in our beloved city. Thomas Plummer, a seventeen-year-old Portland High School student, was shot and killed by a Portland police officer.”

  Mrs. Plummer burst into tears, while her husband did his best to console her. Another barrage of flashbulbs illuminated the rotunda. Gilcrest, taking full advantage of the drama, waited a full ten seconds before continuing.

  Davis Billingslea scribbled in shorthand as quickly as he could, not wanting to miss a single word.

  “Tommy was a bright young man who didn’t deserve what happened to him. Many of you will remember that he led the Portland High Bulldogs basketball team to a state championship last year. With Tommy’s help, Portland was expected to make another run this season. Tragically, that is no longer possible. The police in this country are out of control. Lethal force by law enforcement is on the rise, in spite of the fact that they now possess more nonlethal options than ever before. Tasers, pepper spray, beanbag rounds—there are so many other options than death.”

  “Hear, hear,” a male voice shouted from within the crowd.

  Billingslea craned his neck, searching for him. He made a mental notation to locate and interview the man.

  The mayor continued. “I want to assure Hugh and Alice Plummer, and all of the citizens of this great city, that I will avail myself of every resource to get to the bottom of what happened last night. And while I understand that what has happened cannot be undone, I am making a promise to seek justice for Tommy. I will personally be meeting with police department officials this afternoon to discuss this matter fully. I want answers as much as you do.”

  Gilcrest turned to the Plummers. “I want to offer my heartfelt condolences to you and your family.”

  Mr. Plummer nodded silently.

  Gilcrest faced the cameras again. “I am prepared to take a few questions.”

  Billingslea’s hand shot up before all others.

  Chapter 7

  Monday, 11:00 a.m.,

  January 16, 2017

  While the technicians raced to recover evidence left at the scene, and the detectives were busy recanvassing Kennedy Park for witnesses, Byron regrouped. With no chance of getting another crack at the Plummers, it was time to turn his attention toward identifying the second robbery suspect. Tommy’s lookout. He dropped Stevens off at 109.

  Byron needed to figure out who Tommy Plummer usually hung with. Who would he have been with on a Sunday evening when one of them got the not-so-bright idea
to pull an armed robbery and, assuming Haggerty was right, shoot at a cop? Surely someone at Portland High School knew, but Haggerty, who had already been placed on suspension, would have been his best source for figuring out who. Byron’s second-best option was Detective Luke Gardiner. Prior to joining the bureau at the end of the summer, Gardiner had held Haggerty’s liaison position at Portland High for the previous three years. Byron figured Gardiner would still have a good handle on who the problem children were at the high school, even though he hadn’t been there during the last four months.

  Detective Gardiner was currently assigned to the property crimes unit under Sergeant Peterson, but given the nature of the case they were working, and the fact that most of the other investigations had been put on hold, Peterson readily agreed to temporarily assign Gardiner to Byron’s team.

  Established nearly two hundred years ago, Portland High is the second oldest public high school in the United States. Constructed from brownstone and granite, the massive Italianate building covers an acre of land on Portland’s in-town peninsula. In a school of about a thousand kids, Byron knew that they had their work cut out for them.

  They passed through the center of three ornate archways. Byron pulled the heavy wooden door open, gesturing for Gardiner to enter first. “After you, Detective.”

  They found Assistant Principal Paul Rogers in his office, reading the riot act to a sullen-looking male student who sported a long greasy-looking black ponytail and a silver-colored chin stud. Some things never change, Byron thought. He and Gardiner stood in the office reception area, waiting until Rogers had finished.

  The chastised student walked by wordlessly a moment before Rogers exited his office and greeted the detectives with a big smile.

  “Luke,” Rogers said, giving the former SRO an enthusiastic handshake. “Or should I call you Detective now?”

  “Luke’s fine,” Gardiner said as his cheeks turned rosy. “How have you been, Paul?”

  “Nothing ever changes around here. You know that.”

  “Paul, this is Detective Sergeant John Byron,” Gardiner said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Byron said, extending his hand.

  “Likewise, Sergeant. What can I do for the two of you? Am I correct in assuming this has to do with the death of Tommy Plummer?”

  “I was hoping we might speak in private,” Byron said, casting a glance at the office staff and the young female student with the silver nose stud working the copier. She had been eyeing the detectives since they first arrived.

  “Certainly,” Rogers said before he led them to his office and closed the door.

  Byron got right to the point, explaining the reason for their visit.

  “As Luke probably told you, we are very familiar with Tommy,” Rogers said. “I’m sure you are aware of his athletic abilities. He was our star basketball player. Many of the students are taking the news of his death pretty hard.”

  “What kind of a student was he?” Byron asked. “Was he a problem child?”

  “He was an average student. Definitely full of himself. He knew how much he meant to our basketball team. But Tommy hadn’t been in any real trouble since his sophomore year.”

  “What kind of trouble did he get into then?” Byron asked, thinking about the shoplifting arrest that Melissa Stevens had uncovered.

  “He actually had a couple of different incidents that year. The first was when he got caught dealing marijuana on school property.”

  “And the second?”

  “He got into an altercation with another student who he believed ratted him out.”

  “Altercation?”

  “He beat the other kid pretty badly.”

  “Why weren’t any charges filed?” Byron asked.

  “Tommy’s parents took care of the medical bills and the boys resolved their differences.”

  “Pardon my bluntness,” Byron said. “But maybe if Tom Terrific been held accountable for any of this behavior he wouldn’t have been committing an armed robbery and shooting at a cop last night. What happened to the drug trafficking charge?”

  Rogers’s face reddened. “Principal Larrabee elected to handle that in-house without involving the police.”

  Byron shot an accusatory glance at Gardiner before turning his attention back to Rogers. “Can you think of anyone Plummer hung out with regularly who might have been with him last night?”

  “You mean besides the entire boys’ varsity basketball team?”

  Until that moment Byron hadn’t realized how big a task finding the second robber might be.

  “There are four students who immediately come to mind. Scott Henderson, Nate Freeman, Abdirahman Ali, and Mohammed Sayed,” Rogers said, counting on his fingers.

  “Are they on the basketball team too?” Byron asked as he jotted the names into his notebook, noting that several of the names were the same ones Gardiner had provided on their way to the school.

  “Abdi is, but none of the other three are involved in any school sports.”

  “Any of them ever get into trouble like Tommy?”

  “Oh yeah, Henderson and Sayed are regular visitors to my office. Luke could tell you.”

  Gardiner nodded. “Yup.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Byron asked.

  “Typical stuff,” Rogers said. “Disrupting classes, mouthing off to teachers, and occasionally vandalizing a locker or something. My money would be on one of those two. But it’s hard for me to imagine that either one of them would be dumb enough to pull a robbery.”

  “Armed robbery,” Byron corrected. “And would you have imagined that Tommy Plummer was capable of it?”

  Rogers shook his head. “Before today? No.”

  “What about Freeman and Ali?” Byron asked.

  “Nate Freeman is actually Tommy’s cousin but he’s never been in any trouble. Abdi Ali is one of our best students. Abdi’s only a sophomore but he’s got some serious skills on the basketball court. Made the varsity team this year. Only underclassman to make the cut. He’s never been in any trouble that I know of.”

  Byron wondered if that underclassman might have been trying to score some brownie points with his new teammate, by pulling a robbery.

  “Are they all in school today?” Byron asked.

  “Let’s see.” With the click of a mouse, Rogers quickly checked a computerized absentee list. “Henderson, Freeman, and Ali are here. Looks like Mohammed Sayed is out with the flu,” Rogers said, rolling his eyes. “Want me to fetch the three that are here for you?”

  “We’ll want to speak to them separately,” Byron said, glancing at Gardiner for guidance.

  “Let’s start with Scott Henderson,” Gardiner said.

  Micky Cavallaro sat at a metal visitor’s table inside the prison with inmates at nearby tables. He caught bits and pieces of conversations drifting by, but most of the people were speaking in hushed tones, making it difficult to eavesdrop. He glanced at the two guards across the room. In addition to the guards, the room had several security cameras mounted high up on the walls. Cavallaro had been here several times before, and he used the memories of each visit as a reminder not to get caught. He wondered how anyone could spend their days caged like an animal and not go completely batshit crazy.

  A door banged open and Derrick Vanos was led into the room by yet another prison guard. Wearing the standard issue dark navy pants and robin’s egg blue collared shirt, Vanos shuffled over to where Cavallaro sat waiting.

  “No touching,” the large guard cautioned as Vanos settled into a chair across from Cavallaro.

  “Got it, big guy,” Vanos said. “Wasn’t planning a conjugal visit anyway.”

  The guard turned and walked back through the door he had previously entered, giving a nod to the room’s two monitors as he left.

  Vanos’s shirtsleeves were rolled up nearly to his shoulders, revealing bulging biceps and a few tattoos. His nose had several distinct crooks in it, having been broken more than once when he was younger. A four-
inch scar bifurcated his left eyebrow and his head was shaved smooth. He looked like a cross between an aging heavyweight boxer and Mr. Clean.

  “Mick,” Vanos said, grinning warmly. “Good to see you. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “You saw the news, then?” Cavallaro asked.

  Vanos’s grin disappeared. “I did. How much did you lose?”

  “An entire delivery.”

  “Holy shit. Do you know who was behind it?”

  “The kid the police shot was a senior at Portland High. They haven’t released his name.”

  “The news said there were two.”

  “The other asshole got away. Apparently the cops don’t know who it is. At least, not yet.”

  “And you’re here because you need my help with some muscle.”

  Cavallaro wished it were that simple. He stole a quick glance at the guards before answering. “More than muscle this time, I’m afraid.”

  Vanos raised a brow. “You’ve never made such a request before, Micky. You sure you want to go down this road?”

  “I don’t have a choice. Either I fix this thing or my supplier will fix me. They want a clear message sent.”

  “To the other robber?”

  He shook his head. “To the cop who shot the kid. Haggerty.” Cavallaro saw the muscle in Vanos’s jaw twitch.

  Vanos slammed his hand down on the table in anger. Both guards ceased their conversation and looked over at him.

  Vanos raised his hand and forced a smile to show that everything was fine. After several moments the guards returned to their chat.

  “He’s the reason I’m in here,” Vanos growled.

  Cavallaro knew this and was hoping for a discounted rate.

  Cavallaro and Vanos had grown up next door to each other in the southern Maine mill town of Sanford. Vanos, always the larger of the two, had looked out for him, kicking the shit out of anyone who dared to mess with Cavallaro. They remained close even through high school, but as they aged Vanos became more violent and unstable, to the point that even Cavallaro had begun to fear him. Still, his side business had required that he avail himself of Vanos’s services every now and again. Vanos had friends who would keep people in line for a price. And now that Cavallaro’s gambling problem had dragged him into a forced partnership with an out-of-state entity, he needed Vanos more than ever.