Byron checked his cell as the waitress refilled their water glasses and took their orders.
“Am I keeping you from something?” Lucinda asked.
“No, I’m just expecting a call.”
“Haggerty?”
“It’s related.”
She paused after taking a sip of wine. “I’m not the enemy, you know.”
“I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to. You act like I’m some kind of pariah whenever I’m around.”
“I don’t mean to, it’s just—”
“It’s just that you’re worried about your friend and want to see him get a fair shake, right?”
“Right. And it doesn’t feel like he’s getting that.”
“From the AG’s office?” she asked.
“From anyone. The media, the city, and maybe the AG.” He wanted to add the FBI, but held back. “Just feels like everybody is jumping to conclusions.”
“What about you? Aren’t you jumping to the conclusion that it was a righteous shoot, John?”
Byron said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Lucinda said after a moment. “That was out of line. It’s the wine talking. How about we change the subject?”
“Works for me.”
“Have you eaten here before?”
“Not really in my budget,” he said as he scanned the restaurant for familiar faces. “The state must pay better than I thought.”
“Hardly. I couldn’t do this either, not without my pension check. Where do you normally dine?”
“Ha. I’m not sure I’d call it dining. It’s usually either Thai takeout at my condo or a burger in the car.”
“The glamorous life of a homicide detective.”
“Something like that.”
Lucinda gazed at him over her wineglass. “So, what’s the story with you and Diane?”
“More wine?” the waitress asked, appearing in the nick of time.
Although it was nearly 10:00 p.m., Davis Billingslea still occupied his workstation at the Herald. He was trying to put the finishing touches on the piece he was writing about Tommy Plummer. It was a human-interest piece entirely designed to highlight the tragic irony of a local basketball star looking toward college, only to watch those dreams shattered by a cop’s bullet.
He had been struggling with the wording on the third paragraph for the last half hour and was growing increasingly frustrated when he was saved by the bell, literally. He picked up the desk phone on the second ring.
“Newsroom, Billingslea.”
“Davis Billingslea?” a male voice asked.
“The one and only. To whom am I speaking?”
“A concerned citizen.”
Concerned citizen, my ass, Davis thought. He tried to place it, but didn’t recognize the voice. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Concerned Citizen?”
“I’m sending a PDF to your email address. In it, you will find information regarding the cop involved in the Kennedy Park shooting.”
“What kind of information?” Billingslea said, playing along. “And how do I know that you’re—”
Davis heard a click as the call was disconnected. He held the receiver up, looking at it for a moment before hanging up. “Fruitcake.”
He returned to his story. Back to that infernal third paragraph. Five minutes later, as he was reading through his edits and thinking that the story was as good as it was likely to get, his email alert chimed. The message header identified the sender as “Concerned Citizen.” Billingslea clicked the message bar and it opened. There was nothing in the subject line or body of the email. There was a PDF attachment labeled badcop.pdf. He went up to the sender box and right-clicked, hoping to see an actual address that identified the sender, but all it gave was [email protected]. He closed out the pop-up and went back to the original email. The cursor flashed above the file. He paused with his hand resting lightly on the mouse. There was always the possibility that someone was screwing with him. Even in his short tenure at the Portland Herald, he had made a few enemies. Could this be someone hoping to infect the newspaper’s computer system with a virus? he wondered. If that’s what it was, would they have called first? He thought about it for a minute. Maybe they called knowing that you wouldn’t be able to resist opening it. The suspense would absolutely kill you.
“Screw it,” he said as he clicked on the file. “No guts, no glory.”
He waited as the file downloaded to his computer, then opened it.
It took him a moment to realize what he’d been sent. He quickly skimmed through the first few pages, noticing that they were out of order. After locating the page that should have been the first, he began to read the entire document carefully. At first glance it looked to be some kind of internal investigation from the Portland Police Department, only it was hard to tell because the headers had been removed and some of the information redacted. Someone had drawn over portions of the document with a black marker. Blacked out or not, there was still enough information present for him to decipher what this was, and his excitement was building. It was a complaint against Officer Sean Haggerty, probably several years old. The complainant had alleged that Haggerty had used excessive force against him while making an arrest. The complainant also claimed that both the traffic stop and arrest were unlawful, further stating that the reason he was pulled over to begin with was a ruse because of his out-of-state plates. The unnamed complainant was from New York.
Billingslea checked the time on his cell: 10:15. Way past time for the print edition, he thought. But plenty of time for the web. There was always time for the internet. He snatched up his desk phone and punched in the number for his editor. He was smiling. Scoop Billingslea was back.
It was nearly ten o’clock as Byron pulled to the curb and parked in front of the Holiday Inn on Spring Street.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
“You’re most welcome,” Lucinda said as she released her seat belt. “Care for a nightcap?”
“I appreciate the offer but—”
Before he could finish the thought, Lucinda leaned over and kissed him squarely on the lips. She had caught him off guard, but he didn’t resist.
After several moments Lucinda pulled away slightly but maintained direct eye contact. “John, I may regret this tomorrow—maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s you—but I want to spend the night with you.”
Byron paused a moment before answering. There was no question that he had always found her attractive. Very attractive. Any unattached heterosexual male in his position would not have hesitated for even a second before taking her up on her offer. “I am flattered, Luce. But I can’t.”
The disappointment clearly shown on her face. “Diane?”
He nodded. “I don’t know what it is that Diane and I have exactly, but I do know I don’t want to screw it up.”
Lucinda smiled and lightly touched the side of his face. “She’s a lucky woman.”
Byron returned her smile. “Good night, Luce.”
“Night, John.”
Byron waited until she’d made it safely inside the hotel lobby before he pulled away from the curb. The scent of her perfume lingered inside the car. He was wondering why he’d agreed to go to dinner in the first place when his cell rang.
“Byron,” he said, answering it on the second ring.
“Sarge, it’s Randy Cameron from Lowell PD. Sergeant Crosby said you might need my help with a gun buy.”
Chapter 14
Wednesday 6:45 a.m.,
January 18, 2017
Sleep had eluded Byron for most of the night. Predictably, the five-thirty alarm ripped him out of the deepest slumber he had been able to achieve. As in any high-profile investigation his brain wouldn’t shut down, but the robbery and the Haggerty shooting weren’t the only things inside his head. Lucinda Phillips was also taking up considerable space.
Byron slid the unmarked into an empty space on Middle Street and got out. Three protesters—one male
and two females—stood on the sidewalk in front of 109. Byron assumed their diminished numbers were due to the early hour. The protesters stood huddled together talking and holding cups of coffee. Their signs were stuck into a snowbank. A middle-aged woman wearing aqua-colored mittens gave him a cursory but disapproving glance before returning to the conversation. Byron mounted the steps to the plaza.
The message indicator light was lit on Byron’s desk phone. He tapped the speaker button, then dialed his voicemail password.
“You have twenty-one new messages,” the computerized feminine-sounding voice said. Detecting more than a trace of condescension in her tone, he pressed Play.
“Hello, Sergeant Byron. This is Gerry Humboldt again. I’m a reporter with the Boston Globe and I am still hoping to get a few minutes of your time regarding the police shooting of Tommy Plummer. You can call me at—”
Byron deleted the message from Humboldt without so much as a second thought, the equivalent of rolling up the car window before it began to rain.
“Sergeant. Austin Graves calling from the Bangor Daily News. Wondering if you might call me—”
“Keep wondering, Austin old buddy,” Byron said.
He punched the speaker button with his index finger, ending the session and telling himself that he’d listen to the rest of them later but knowing he likely wouldn’t. He grabbed the coffee off his desk and headed for the CID conference room.
“War room” described the scene to a T. The long wall-mounted whiteboard was packed with information written in multiple-colored markers. Yellow and blue sticky notes and full sheets of paper covered nearly every inch of the whiteboard’s wooden frame. Atop the conference room table stood stacks of file folders, computerized printouts, blue notebooks, and several Portland High School yearbooks. Their entire investigation was here, but it was as if someone had dumped a pile of puzzle pieces onto the table before absconding with the box cover.
Unlike Byron’s usual murder cases, they already knew how this one began and ended. What they still didn’t know was the identity of the other suspect and what had become of the gun. And who was the inside man, or woman, at the high school? He studied the board, rechecking their progress while he sipped from his large hot coffee.
Shortly after seven, the detectives began to trickle into CID, chattering with each other and checking their own voicemails by way of speakerphone. The workday had started, and Byron’s brief moment of solitude was gone.
Nugent walked into the conference room and tossed two large yellow envelopes on the table directly in front of Byron. On the front of each, stamped in red letters, was the word Confidential. Rectangular white labels bearing his typed name had been affixed to both.
“These what I think they are?” Byron asked.
“Yup. A formal invitation to the annual IA ball from Sergeant Bradley K. Thibodeau. Got mine too.”
“Fabulous,” Byron said without opening them. His attention returned to the whiteboard.
“Any idea what we should wear?” Nugent asked.
Byron ignored the question.
“Where do you want to start today, boss?”
“Call the school. Let’s find out if Sayed has recovered from his illness yet. It’s time we spoke with him.”
“You got it.” Nugent departed the room a moment before Melissa Stevens appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, Mel,” Byron said before taking another sip of coffee.
“Have you seen the Portland Herald online this morning?” Stevens asked.
“No. Why?”
“I think you’d better look at it for yourself.”
Byron stared at the computer screen. The headline of the Portland Herald’s lead story read Portland Cop Accused of False Arrest, Excessive Force. The story written by Davis Billingslea covered the details of a five-year-old internal affairs investigation, launched following Haggerty’s arrest of an intoxicated motorist. The driver had filed the complaint with the chief’s office alleging that Haggerty had only stopped him because he was from out of state. It went on to describe how the cooperative complainant had been manhandled by Haggerty and even punched in the face and falsely accused of resisting arrest. The Herald article even included a file photo of Haggerty in uniform with a particularly intimidating expression on his face like that of a cage fighter entering the ring.
“They’re not gonna give him a fair shake, are they, Sarge?” Melissa Stevens asked.
Byron didn’t know what to say. He knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised by what some in news media would stoop to in order to sell copy, but this was so far from decency, even for Billingslea. Byron remembered the case distinctly. The complainant turned out to be a New York City businessman with big-time connections and a history of driving drunk. The charges against the man were eventually filed for one year by the district attorney with the understanding that the defendant would not get into trouble for the next year, nor would he sue the department. According to the news article, the fact that the complainant refused to be interviewed by the internal affairs investigator, or that the allegation against Haggerty had been cleared as unsubstantiated, had no bearing on the DA’s decision. Nor did it matter to the editorial staff at the Herald. The only thing that mattered was smearing Haggerty’s name further. But Billingslea couldn’t have written this story without help, Byron thought. Through waves of anger it gradually began to dawn on Byron who had most likely requested the information be leaked to the press. Rumpswab. But Byron knew the acting chief wouldn’t have dirtied his own hands. He would have left that chore to another. A weasel of lesser rank. And Byron was confident he knew exactly who that weasel was.
Byron didn’t bother knocking on the closed door before he barged into Internal Affairs.
“What the fuck?” Sergeant Thibodeau barked. “I’m in the middle of a goddamned interview here, John.”
Byron glared at the irate sergeant before turning his attention to the wide-eyed young male uniformed officer seated opposite Thibodeau.
“Give us a minute, would you, Officer?” Byron said.
“Now wait just a goddamned minute,” Thibodeau said from his chair. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The officer, who barely looked eighteen, was up and out the door before Thibodeau could finish protesting.
“Why did you do it?” Byron asked, taking a step toward him and holding up a printout of the newspaper article in front of Thibodeau’s face.
“Do what?” Thibodeau asked, his face flushed.
“Really? You’re just gonna sit there and play stupid? You think I don’t know where the Herald got this old IA information on Haggerty?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It was a bullshit case too. Wasn’t it?”
Thibodeau began shuffling the paperwork on the table in front of him, trying to avoid Byron’s gaze. “I don’t give a damn what you think, the paper didn’t get anything from me.”
“You don’t think Haggerty’s going through enough right now? You’re just gonna keep piling it on, right?”
Thibodeau said nothing.
“Know what, Brad?” Byron said. “You’re a lying piece of shit. Why don’t you stand up and face me like a man?”
Thibodeau glanced toward the door. Byron looked back to see what had caught his attention. Both internal affairs office assistants stood in the hallway, mouths agape.
“What are you gonna do, John, hit me?” Thibodeau asked.
Byron turned his attention back to Thibodeau. “Nothing would make me happier than to lay your ass out. Tell me, whose bidding are you doing now? Rumpswab’s? Or maybe Governor-wannabe Gilcrest’s?”
Thibodeau said nothing.
“You’re pathetic,” Byron said.
The internal affairs sergeant glanced toward the door again. Byron figured he was checking to make sure his witnesses were still present. Thibodeau slowly stood and faced Byron.
“You know why they never assigned you to IA?” Thibodeau
asked, his voice cracking. “Because you couldn’t cut it. You’d have to follow the rules. And everyone knows you just make your own. Don’t you?”
Byron clenched his jaw, bearing down so hard he wondered if his teeth might crumble like chalk. He leaned in, invading Thibodeau’s personal space until their noses were mere inches apart. Byron took some satisfaction in watching Thibodeau give a slight flinch.
“You’re goddamned lucky we’ve got an audience,” Byron growled, intentionally holding his position a few seconds longer, hoping to add to Thibodeau’s discomfort.
Thibodeau’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he nervously swallowed, but he wisely remained silent.
Byron crumpled up the printout and hurled it into the plastic trash bin standing next to Thibodeau’s desk. He walked toward the door to the hallway where the office assistants stood frozen in place. He stopped before reaching them and turned around to face the flustered internal affairs sergeant.
“And you’re wrong,” Byron said. “You know why they’ll never assign me to this office? It’s because I won’t put up with people telling me how my cases should turn out before I’ve even investigated them. Fuck you, Brad.”
Byron nearly collided with Mike Nugent as he exited the stairwell onto the fourth floor.
“Hey, Sarge. I just got—Are you okay?”
“Fine. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with the high school. Mohammed Sayed is still absent, but Dustin located a work address for his old man, Sameer.”
“Where?”
“Sam’s Taxi, on Anderson.”
Byron parked across from the taxi depot on the lower end of Anderson Street near its intersection with Gould. Several green-and-white sedans bearing the business name and number were parked on the street directly in front of the brown corrugated steel building, which was nothing more than an oversized garage set on a slab. The rusted metal sign bolted to the front of the business read Sam’s Taxi Service. Below the sign a large overhead door stood open revealing several additional taxis inside. Byron entered the building.
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