Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Three males of Middle Eastern descent stood beside one of the taxis. The men were engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion, but they ceased talking as Byron approached.

  “What do you want?” the largest of the men asked gruffly.

  “I’m looking for Sameer,” Byron said as he flashed his credentials.

  “I am Sameer,” another man said. “You are police?”

  “Yes. Detective Sergeant Byron.”

  “What is the trouble?” Sameer asked.

  “I want to ask you a few questions about your son, Mohammed,” Byron said.

  Sameer waved the other men away, then led Byron to his office at the back of the garage. The office, which had no ceiling, was constructed of plywood on three sides. The back wall was the interior surface of the building’s metal exterior wall. One desk, three chairs, and a table rounded it out. The light spilled in from fixtures hung from the garage ceiling. Everything was coated in a thin layer of dust. Sameer sat down in one of the chairs and gestured with his hand for Byron to do the same.

  “Why do you come to me about my son?” Sameer asked. “Is he in trouble again?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sayed. Do you know where Mohammed was last Sunday night?”

  “At home.”

  “With you?”

  “No, I worked Sunday. All day. I was not home until late.”

  “Is there anyone who can verify that Mohammed was home on Sunday night?”

  “His mother, Astur.”

  “Where would I find her?” Byron asked.

  Before Sameer could answer, a woman entered the office accompanied by a tall thin teenaged boy. Both men turned to look.

  “This is Astur,” Sameer said. “And my son, Mohammed.”

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday 1:25 p.m.,

  January 18, 2017

  In typical Maine fashion, the weather was as fickle as a teenaged girl trying to decide on a dress for the prom. Two days prior it had been meteorological Armageddon. Reporters hoping one day to land their own air-conditioned news anchor desks had subjected themselves to doing live feeds outside in blizzard conditions, wearing the latest in outdoor fashion, while jamming yardsticks into snowdrifts as plow trucks passed by. The hyped message was always the same: run to the store and buy bread and milk before the world ends. Now, less than forty-eight hours later, aside from the ridiculously high bankings left behind by city plow drivers, there was no evidence that the world had ended. In fact, it was beautiful. Portland was showcasing her virgin white overcoat under a cloudless Prussian sky. All was right in the world. All except for the crowd of protestors in front of 109, and the dead teenager, and the cop who had shot him.

  It was nearly one-thirty. Byron and Nugent sat parked in an unmarked on Diamond Street, just around the corner from Sewell’s Second Hand. They were awaiting Detective Cameron’s arrival. Byron checked his watch again. Cameron was now twenty minutes late.

  “You think the Sayeds were telling the truth about Mohammed?” Nugent asked.

  “I don’t know,” Byron said. “Too much time has passed. They could have gotten their stories straight. At the very least they had to know we’d been looking for Mohammed.”

  “What about the kid’s sneakers?”

  Byron shook his head. “They weren’t Nikes. And they weren’t new.”

  “Shit.”

  Byron was about to respond when he noticed a beat-up Chevy half ton rolling toward Sewell’s. The rusted silver hulk was a match to the vehicle Crosby’s loaned detective had described.

  “There he is,” Byron said.

  “Jeez, what a piece of crap,” Nugent said. “That has to be a state-owned seizure. Nobody else would drive it.”

  The pickup turned into the lot and shuddered to a stop in front of Sewell’s.

  “Think he’ll go for it?” Nugent asked.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Byron said.

  Detective Cameron stepped inside Sewell’s and quickly scanned the store. The only customer in sight was a middle-aged man browsing through bins of old vinyl record albums. Behind the counter sat a beady-eyed unshaven man wearing a plaid chamois shirt. Cameron placed the man’s age at about thirty-five. Judging from his hand movements and the way he was holding his phone, Cameron was pretty sure the man was playing a video game.

  “Help ya,” the man said as Cameron stepped up to the counter.

  “I hope so. I’m looking for the owner.”

  “Owner isn’t here,” the pawnbroker said with barely a glance away from his phone. “I’m the manager.”

  “Are you the man I’m supposed to talk to?”

  “Depends on what you need.”

  “I’m looking to buy a handgun.”

  The manager finally tore his eyes from the phone, sizing up Cameron. “Why do you need a gun, friend?”

  Cameron smiled. “Protection. Portland can be one crazy-ass city.”

  “That it can.”

  “So, are you the man?”

  The manager grinned and slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. “I might be able to help you, but I’m gonna need to see two forms of ID and have you fill out some paperwork for the feds.” He reached under the counter and retrieved a firearm application form.

  “What’s this?” Cameron asked, his smile disappearing.

  “That’s Form 4473. ATF requires you to fill this out.”

  “ATF?”

  “Yeah, friend. You know, Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Guess they forgot about the E.”

  “And I gotta to fill this out?” Cameron asked, turning the paper around to look at it.

  “Yup. Then there’s the three-day wait for your background check.”

  Cameron did his best to look saddened by the news. “That’s too bad. I was kinda hoping to avoid all that rigmarole.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got some history.”

  “What kind of history?”

  “The kind the feds frown on.”

  “What you’re asking is illegal. I could get into a shitload of trouble selling you a gun without going through the proper procedures, Mr.—”

  “Smith.”

  The manager fixed him with a knowing smirk. “Well, Mr. Smith, like I said, I could get into serious trouble doing something like that. Trouble I don’t need.”

  The bell hanging from the front door clanged as the lone customer left without making a purchase, leaving Cameron alone with his mark.

  Deciding to up the ante, Cameron shoved a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and produced a wad of bills. “I got a thousand bucks. Cash.”

  Beady’s eyes widened as he stared at the money in Cameron’s hand. “Give me a minute to close up the store.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand the question, Mr. Dresden,” Byron said. “I asked you if you recently sold a firearm to a gentleman by the name of Ahmed Ali.”

  The pawnbroker stared back at him from the other side of the table in CID Interview Room Two. Byron knew Dresden didn’t have what it took to win at this game. Whether he was experienced in dealing with the police or not had no bearing. The only thing that mattered now were the years of incarceration hanging over his head for trying to sell an illegal gun to an undercover narcotics officer.

  “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Dresden?” Byron asked.

  “Oh, I heard you, Sergeant,” Dresden said. “I was just wondering how long it would be before my attorney got this whole thing dismissed due to entrapment.”

  “Entrapment? Hmm. I think you may be a bit confused about how that defense works. Our UC simply asked if you knew where he might be able to purchase a gun without all the red tape. It was you who lost your good sense after seeing the flash money.”

  Byron watched the arrogance drain from Dresden’s face. It was obvious that he hadn’t thought the whole thing through.

  “What kind of guarantees do I get if I decide to cooperate?” Dresden asked.

  “No guarante
es. And everything depends upon what you can give me.” Byron waited as the rusty gears slowly turned inside the young man’s head.

  “I never got a name,” Dresden said at last.

  “What did he look like?” Byron asked.

  “Middle-aged. Black.”

  Byron frowned at Dresden’s vagueness. “American-born? Foreign?”

  “Foreign, I’d guess. He had a really thick accent.”

  “Could you tell from the accent which country he might have been from?” Byron asked hopefully.

  “Africa?”

  Byron briefly thought about explaining to Dresden that Africa is not a country but a continent, which is in fact comprised of fifty-four countries. But after careful consideration, Byron decided to save his breath for more useful pursuits. Like breathing.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Byron asked.

  Dresden shrugged. “Maybe. What if I say I want a lawyer?”

  “Your choice,” Byron said, feigning indifference. He stood up and moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Dresden asked, looking concerned.

  “Gotta call the feds to come pick your dumb ass up,” Byron said as he opened the door to the interview room.

  “Wait. Wait.”

  Byron paused in the doorway. “For what?”

  “Okay. I’ll cooperate.”

  Byron tasked Melissa Stevens with assembling a photo array that included Ahmed Ali’s BMV photo. After checking the color photos, to see if they were similar enough to warrant using them, and printing out a copy of the lineup, Byron returned to the interview room and sat down across from Dresden.

  “Mr. Dresden, I’m going to show you a group of six photos of similar-looking males. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of them, and if so where you recognize them from. Do you understand?”

  Dresden nodded. “Is one of these pictures the guy I sold the gun to?”

  Byron, resisting the urge to knock some sense into the low-life gun dealer seated across from him, calmly replied, “The man to whom you sold the gun may or may not be among these photographs. If you would just look at all of them before saying anything, then tell me if you recognize any of them.”

  “Okay.”

  Byron waited as Dresden studied the photos. Dresden seemed to pause at and then return to photo number two. The minutes slowly passed as Byron watched Dresden agonize over the array.

  “Well?” Byron said at last, tired of playing the game. “Do you recognize any of those men?”

  Dresden looked up at Byron. “I can’t say for certain, but number two and number five look the most like the guy I sold the gun to.”

  Byron could feel his hopes dashed at Dresden’s comment. Ali’s photo was displayed in the number five position, but Dresden’s comment, combined with his indecisiveness, amounted to nothing more than a maybe in the eyes of the court. And maybe didn’t cut it. It didn’t rule out Ali as the buyer, but it didn’t give Byron the probable cause he’d need for a search warrant either. He picked up the array and placed it back in the folder.

  “How did I do?” Dresden asked as Byron stood up.

  “Fabulous,” Byron said, making no attempt to hide his condescension. “Stay here and I’ll go see about your reward.”

  Byron departed 109 with a newfound determination. Dresden may not have given them Ahmed Ali from the prepared lineup, but his confession about selling a Smith & Wesson revolver to a middle-aged foreign-born black male was the first lead they’d had toward putting a gun in the hand of Tommy Plummer. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if Ali was the buyer, his son might have had access to his father’s gun. Extrapolating even further meant that Plummer, through his friendship with Ali’s son, might also have had access. The trick would be getting an admission out of either the elder or younger Ali.

  Byron parked at the curb in front of Ali’s store and walked inside. Ahmed Ali, who was bagging up groceries for a female customer, looked up as Byron entered the store. His expression was somber, and he began to shake his head as Byron approached. Speaking in Somali, Ali said something to the woman as he handed her her purchases. She took her bags and hurried past Byron and out of the store.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Ali,” Byron said. “I wonder if you might have a second to speak with me.”

  “I am very busy, Sergeant Byron. What do you want?”

  Both men turned to the sound of the front door opening again. Abdi, Ali’s son, stepped inside accompanied by Mohammed Sayed. Both boys froze at the sight of Byron.

  Mr. Ali barked something at his son in Somali. Abdi nodded his understanding, then he and Sayed did an about-face and quickly exited the store.

  Byron turned his attention back to the store owner. “What did you just say to your son, Mr. Ali?”

  “None of your business, Sergeant.”

  “Did it have anything to do with your gun?”

  Ali glared at him. There was no cultural disconnect in the expression on the shopkeeper’s face now. His disdain for Byron, and his question, was obvious.

  “Who was that other boy with your son?” Byron asked, testing him.

  “Please leave my store,” Ali said. “You are not welcome here.”

  Byron departed the halal store and drove the side streets of Munjoy Hill, hoping to spot the boys, but they had disappeared. He was trying to decide his next move when his cell rang. LeRoyer.

  “Hey, Marty,” Byron said.

  “You mind telling me what in the hell happened in Internal Affairs this morning?”

  It was nearly eight o’clock before Byron could break away for his impromptu dinner date with Diane. They grabbed a table on the second floor of Bull Feeney’s pub in Portland’s Old Port. Diane ordered a glass of merlot, Caesar salad, and baked haddock; Byron had a cup of coffee and the lamb stew. As they dined, Byron brought Diane up to speed on the case, including the details of his meeting with the FBI.

  “The feds showed their hand?” Diane asked. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, well, not until after Haggerty ended up in the middle of it.”

  “You trust Special Agent Collier?”

  “After the O’Halloran case, I’d have trusted Sam with anything.”

  “And now?”

  Byron, after burning his mouth on the first spoonful of stew, guzzled half of the ice water from his glass before he spoke. “I don’t know. I don’t think Sam is calling the shots on this thing. The guy Sam was with, Lessard, seemed to be in charge of what information got doled out to me.”

  “Who else knows about it?”

  “Nobody. According to them, even Crosby is in the dark about this one.”

  “Why wouldn’t they involve MDEA? It’s a drug thing, right?”

  “Yes, but the underlying investigation is OC.”

  “Ah. And which crime syndicate are they looking at?”

  “They wouldn’t say. The implication is that Micky Cavallaro is involved.”

  “So I guess it’s safe to assume they aren’t looking at the Russians, then,” Diane said as she buttered a piece of Irish soda bread.

  “They mentioned Haggerty though.”

  She stopped buttering. “Hags? What about him?”

  “Lessard said they think one of the places being supplied with drugs from the Bubble Up is Portland High.”

  “And?”

  “They have reason to believe there may be an inside guy.”

  “And they suspect Sean?”

  “They wouldn’t go that far. They only said he’d been discussed.”

  They ate in silence for the next several minutes.

  “Have you asked Hags about it?” Diane asked at last.

  “Can’t. I’m not even supposed to be sharing this with you.”

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, 7:30 a.m.,

  January 19, 2017

  Byron gathered the entire team in the conference room. He wanted everyone on the same page before they began the day’s wo
rk. After sharing the previous afternoon’s illegal gun buy and the possible connection to Abdi, Byron had Melissa Stevens give her report.

  “Except for a few stragglers, we’ve talked with everyone in Kennedy Park,” Stevens said.

  “Anybody admit to knowing that asshole from South Portland?” Nugent asked.

  “He means Lucas Perez,” Byron said.

  “No,” Stevens said. “We couldn’t locate anyone who claims to know Perez.”

  “So he’s full of shit,” Nugent said.

  Not as far as the public was concerned, Byron thought.

  Stevens continued. “I tracked down Nate Freeman’s mother. She alibied him as being home Sunday night. Said they watched something on Netflix.”

  “Starship Troopers,” Byron said, looking at Gardiner.

  Stevens looked up from her notes. “Yeah.”

  Byron turned his attention to Pelligrosso. “What have you got, Gabe?”

  “No matches on the footwear yet. The test results for the powder seized at the scene came back positive for cocaine. Oh, by the way, Ellis called and left me a message last night. Tommy Plummer tested positive for alcohol and cocaine.”

  “Where are we at with Tommy’s basketball teammates?” Byron asked.

  Gardiner, wanting to contribute, shot Stevens an anxious glance. She nodded.

  “All but two of them had alibis for Sunday night,” Gardiner said.

  “Which two?” Byron asked.

  Gardiner checked his notebook. Stevens gave Byron a knowing grin.

  “Stephen Fuller and Patrick Mingus.”

  “Mingus?” Byron said. “Mel, isn’t he the student who told you about Plummer being the go-to drug guy?”

  “The very same.”

  “Think he’s deflecting?” Tran asked.

  Nugent’s head snapped around toward Tran. “Look at you, Colombo. Deflecting.” He turned to Byron. “See, Sarge, told you I’d turn him into a real detective.”

  Byron turned to Tran. “Anything to add, Dustin?”

  “Still working on the social media stuff, pics, connections, etc. I checked BMV and only a handful of the names you gave me have a driver’s license.”