Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Hey, Sarge,” Haggerty said as Byron pushed open the inside door.

  Byron could tell instantly that Haggerty was drunk, even before the unshaven man spoke. On the table in front of him sat an impressive quantity of sixteen-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans, a half dozen empties, and an unholstered stainless semiautomatic handgun.

  “Mind if I come inside for a minute?” Byron asked from the doorway.

  “Come on in, Sarge,” Haggerty said, motioning awkwardly with his arm and slurring his words badly.

  Byron stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him in hopes that the officer sitting outside would remain there. Cautiously, he walked toward the table while keeping his eyes fixed on the burly officer’s hands. Byron was trying to avoid doing anything that might aggravate an already volatile situation. Haggerty was built like a linebacker, several inches shorter than Byron, but stocky, easily outweighing him by forty pounds. Even if he was able to reach the weapon first, Byron knew he’d never be able to overpower the younger officer if Hags resisted.

  “How are you holding up, Sean?” Byron asked, knowing full well the answer.

  Haggerty seemed to consider the question. “Not very good actually. Nope, not too good at all.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Please do,” Haggerty said, waving a hand as if casting a spell, his head bobbing slightly.

  Moving slowly and deliberately, Byron pulled out a wooden chair directly across from him and sat down. The eerie similarity between the scene playing out before him and the manner in which he’d found his father decades earlier was not at all lost on Byron. It was as if the past was bleeding through into the present and Byron was a teenager again searching his dad’s apartment and finding Reece seated at the table facedown in a puddle of blood, gun at his feet. Byron couldn’t help wondering what gruesome scene he might have discovered in Haggerty’s kitchen had his arrival been delayed.

  “I tried calling,” Byron said.

  “Shut my phone off,” Haggerty said. “Someone gave my number to the press, Sarge. They wouldn’t stop calling.”

  Byron made a mental note to find the person responsible and personally rip their throat out. “What’s going on, Sean?”

  “Oh, all kinds of stuff. Sharon broke up with me. Did you hear about that?”

  Byron wasn’t sure where Haggerty was headed, but he decided for the time being to let him lead and not to make any waves. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this has been hard on both of you. Maybe she just needs some time to think it through.”

  Haggerty grabbed the open PBR he was currently working on and took a healthy swig before setting it back on the table. He fixed Byron with a smile that was probably as forced as it appeared. His eyes had transformed into the weary windows of a much older man. “You’re a good man, Sarge.”

  “You staying in contact with your attorney?” Byron asked, attempting to change the subject to something a bit less dangerous.

  “Ha! Mr. Bad Fucking News? Yeah, like every day. Told you I was screwed.”

  “Sean, all the detectives are giving their best on this. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Well, here’s to them,” Haggerty said, raising the can and finishing off the contents in several gulps. He banged the empty down on the table, then reached over for a fresh one, knocking several empties onto the floor in the process.

  Haggerty fixed Byron with a blank stare that Byron couldn’t read. Was this simply about the shooting? Byron wondered. Or was Hags feeling guilt about something else? Byron thought back to what Collier and Lessard had said about Haggerty. Was his friend capable of something as repulsive as pushing drugs on kids? The truth was he didn’t know. But given the fragile nature of the moment, this wasn’t the time to press it. Byron would say and do whatever he had to to get Haggerty through this.

  “I know how you’re feeling, Sean.”

  “Oh, do you, Sarge?” Haggerty asked, his body visibly tensing. A flare of anger flickered in Haggerty’s eyes, momentarily clearing them of their alcohol-induced fog. “You know what it’s like to kill a kid?”

  “No,” Byron said as he thought back to the shooting he had been involved in several years before. And while it hadn’t been a teenager Byron had killed, it didn’t make the act of taking a life any easier to swallow. “But I do know how it feels to kill another human being. And it sucks. I know you feel like you’re all alone. Like there’s nobody you can talk to. No one on your side.”

  Haggerty continued to stare at him, but his body had begun to relax.

  Byron continued. “You spend all your time watching the news, listening to everyone saying how you frigged up. How they would have handled things differently. Every talking head is a goddamned expert, right?”

  “Yeah,” Haggerty said, nodding and drawing the word out as if amazed that Byron actually understood.

  “You wish you could turn back the clock to that night and change things,” Byron said. “You want to fix it. Like you could make it turn out differently. Right?”

  Haggerty shook his head, his shoulders slumped forward. “Every minute of every fucking day since it happened.”

  “I know how that feels, Sean.”

  Haggerty’s bloodshot eyes began to water. Byron could see that all the fight had run out of him.

  “I can’t sleep, Sarge. And I don’t want to. Every time I fall asleep, I dream about that night. Over and over, and fucking over. But every time it’s different. Sometimes I’m in the laundromat and Tommy shoots me before I can draw my gun. Sometimes both robbers shoot me. Sometimes Tommy doesn’t have a gun. He only points a finger at me, but I still shoot him,” Haggerty said, choking on the words. Tears rolled freely down his face now.

  Byron remained silent.

  “I just don’t know anymore. I can’t think straight. I’m so fucking tired.”

  Byron caught Haggerty’s eyes as they shifted to the gun lying on the table. “What if I did screw up, Sarge? Maybe those talking heads are right. Maybe he didn’t have a gun. Maybe I just overreacted. I read the newspaper article online. Maybe it was the light on his phone.”

  “Sean, look at me,” Byron shouted, intentionally trying to pull the despondent officer’s attention away from the gun.

  Haggerty looked up, wide-eyed, like a child about to be scolded.

  “You did the right thing. That night. You did the right thing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know you, Sean. I know what kind of cop you are. What kind of man. And so do the others. You’ve got to trust us. We’ll find the other suspect. And we’ll find the gun. We just need more time.”

  “He was just a kid, Sarge,” Haggerty countered.

  “Yeah, he was. A kid who stuck a gun in a man’s face and robbed him,” Byron said. “You’re not the only one who saw Plummer with a gun that night.”

  Haggerty glanced back toward the Smith & Wesson Model 4506 lying on the table.

  “Why don’t you let me hold on to that for you, Sean,” Byron said. “Just for a little while. For safekeeping. Okay?”

  He waited while Haggerty thought it over. Byron was prepared to lunge over the table if necessary, a scenario that would most likely turn out badly. For both of them.

  Byron tensed as Haggerty placed his open palm over the firearm and hesitated.

  “Okay,” Haggerty said at last. He slid the gun across the table toward Byron. “For a little while.”

  Byron drove through the darkened streets of Portland unsure of his destination. He glanced over at Haggerty’s .45 lying on the front passenger seat. Voluntarily turning over the gun had really been nothing more than a symbolic gesture of trust and they both knew it. In reality, Byron knew that Haggerty probably had many more guns squirreled away throughout the house. Byron could have brought other people into the situation and forced the issue. They could’ve searched the entire house, removing all of Haggerty’s firearms for safekeeping, forcing him to go to the hospital to speak with a shrink. Byron could hav
e set all of that into motion, but at the end of the day it would have been nothing more than window dressing designed to make everyone but Haggerty feel better. If Hags really did intend on harming himself there was nothing Byron or anyone else could do about it. Byron had asked Haggerty to hand over the gun and he had. Both men knew what the other was thinking, and both of them knew that the only person who could prevent harm from coming to Haggerty was Haggerty himself.

  Byron stopped behind several other vehicles at the red traffic signal at Woodfords Corner. He snatched the gun off the seat, then bent forward and slid it underneath his own. His intervention had been as a friend. There would be no paperwork generated, no medical trail to follow Haggerty. Things like that had a way of fucking up the careers of some pretty good cops. Byron knew that Haggerty had enough things working against him, without stepping aboard the crazy train.

  The light changed to green and the cars in front of his began to move. As he proceeded inbound on Deering Avenue, his thoughts drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Haggerty about the shooting.

  “What if I did screw up, Sarge?” Hags had said. “Maybe he didn’t have a gun. Maybe I just overreacted. Maybe it was the light on his phone.”

  Byron didn’t believe that, of course, but it troubled him just the same. He knew it was only natural for an officer involved in a shooting to second-guess their own actions. Taking the life of another was no small thing. But with the entire community picking sides on this one it was far from a typical police shooting. And if it turned out that Haggerty was wrong, there would be hell to pay.

  A good investigator considered all possibilities when trying to solve a case. This credo had been hammered into Byron’s head since the day he’d first made detective and he likewise had hammered it into the heads of every detective he’d trained since. He was doing everything in his power to identify the second robbery suspect in hopes of recovering the gun. But what if they ditched the gun before Haggerty spotted them? he thought. Was it a revolver or a semiauto? The two men inside the laundromat hadn’t even been able to agree on the type of gun. What if the flash Haggerty saw was the flashlight on Plummer’s cell? What if Collier was right? What if Haggerty was involved in the drug trafficking? Byron wanted to shove these thoughts under the seat next to Haggerty’s pistol, far from view, but he knew he couldn’t. All he could do was his job. And his job was to uncover the truth. No matter what that truth might be.

  As Byron neared home, he passed Khalid Muhammad’s unit. A figure was silhouetted in a first-floor window. Byron continued past, pulling into his own driveway. He opened the car door, then grabbed his belongings, pausing for a moment as he considered retrieving Haggerty’s firearm under the seat. He decided to leave it where it was. He swung his left leg out to exit the car when he heard the crunch of snow under footsteps. Someone was approaching. Instinctively his right hand moved toward the gun on his hip.

  “Sergeant Byron. It is me, Khalid.”

  Byron relaxed as his neighbor’s face came into view. “Hey, Khalid. What’s up?”

  “I have been waiting for you.”

  Byron could see by the somber expression on Muhammad’s face that something heavy was weighing on the man’s mind. He stepped out of the car and headed toward his condo. “Come inside,” Byron said.

  Muhammad followed Byron into the condo.

  Byron had met Muhammad for the first time the previous spring, when he stopped by to deliver a housewarming present to Byron. Muhammed, who lived several doors down with his family, had told Byron that he was an accountant and a respected member of the Somali community. He had offered his assistance to Byron, if ever it was needed. Byron wondered if this might be the time.

  “Can I get you anything?” Byron asked as he turned on some lights and the two men entered the kitchen.

  “No. I am okay. Thank you.”

  Byron set his belongings on the counter. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the table.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  After they were both seated, Byron said, “So, what’s up?”

  “I am here at the request of a friend.”

  Byron waited while Muhammad wrestled with whatever it was he needed to get off his chest.

  Muhammad continued. “Ahmed Ali is a good friend of mine. He told me that you have questioned him twice about his son, Abdi. Do you suspect Abdi had something to do with what happened last weekend?”

  “Khalid, you know I can’t share the details of an active police investigation.”

  Mohammad nodded as if he had expected Byron’s answer.

  “Having said that, we are talking to anyone who might have been with Tommy Plummer, the student who was killed, on Sunday night.”

  Byron studied his neighbor’s face. He could see the conflict behind it.

  “Do you think Abdi might know something that would help you?” Muhammad asked.

  “If he does, we need him to come forward and tell us what he knows. If he didn’t have anything to do with it, maybe he can help me clear his name.”

  Muhammad’s gazed dropped as if there was something interesting on top of Byron’s kitchen table. Byron checked. There wasn’t.

  “Khalid?” Byron asked, nudging him. “Do you know something?”

  “No. I have to go now,” Muhammad said as he rose from the chair. “Thank you for talking with me, Sergeant.”

  Byron followed his neighbor back to the front door and watched as he started down the walkway. Muhammad might be the key to gaining Ahmed’s trust and, by extension, Abdi’s trust as well. “You can trust me, you know,” Byron called out.

  Muhammad stopped walking and turned back to face Byron. For just a moment it looked as though he might walk back inside and tell Byron everything.

  “And Ahmed can trust me too,” Byron continued.

  “Good night, Sergeant Byron,” Muhammad said, giving him a weak smile. He turned and walked briskly back toward his own condo.

  He watched his neighbor’s shape fade back into darkness.

  Byron went upstairs and changed into his sweats. Returning to the kitchen, he slapped together a sandwich—thickly spread peanut butter on wheat—then poured himself a glass of milk. He retired to the living room where he took a seat on the couch and flicked on the muted television. Watching muted TV always helped him to think. It didn’t matter what was being broadcast; he wasn’t really watching anyway. It just seemed better than being alone.

  He took a healthy bite out of the sandwich and returned it to the plate. He was beginning to mentally dissect Muhammad’s visit when his cell rang. He picked it up off the cushion and checked the ID. It was Diane.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to clear away the food before he spoke.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it wasn’t polite to talk with your mouth full?” she said.

  “Sorry. Hang on.” He took a swig of milk and washed down the remainder of the bite. “Better?”

  “Better,” she said. “Late dinner?”

  “You know me.”

  “Something nutritious, no doubt.”

  He considered it. “Three of the food groups anyway.”

  “How did it go today?” she asked. “Any progress?”

  “Not nearly enough. Everyone is hunkering down on this one.”

  “A lot at stake,” she said, stating the obvious. “There’s a rumor going around that you got into it with Thibodeau.”

  “I hadn’t heard that one,” Byron said. “Crazy what people will make up.”

  “Riiight.”

  “I just had an unusual visit from one of my neighbors.”

  “Some hot divorcée looking for help with her whatever?”

  “No, I fixed her whatever the other day,” he said.

  “Mmm,” she replied. “Yes, you did.”

  “No, it was my neighbor Khalid.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He came by on behalf of his good friend Ahmed Ali.”


  “Abdi’s father? The halal store owner?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t really say anything. I think he was poking around to see if I thought that Abdi might know something about the robbery. I don’t think Ahmed trusts me.”

  “Do you think Khalid knows anything?”

  “I don’t know. I think he’s struggling with something.”

  “With what?”

  “With whether or not he can trust me.”

  Chapter 18

  Friday, 7:55 a.m.,

  January 20, 2017

  The electricity in Byron’s neighborhood had gone out overnight. Comparing the time on the nightstand clock to his cellphone he realized that he’d slept in. After starting the Malibu, Byron climbed out with scraper in hand and went to work on the heavy layer of frost coating every window. As he cleared each surface his thoughts turned to Haggerty.

  Haggerty had never shown a propensity for overreacting when faced with a stressful situation, and Byron didn’t believe he would have overreacted in this case either. Cops tend to revert to their training when in the heat of the moment. Over time their reactions become automatic. The survival instinct was hardwired. As he thought about his interaction with Haggerty the previous night, he hoped Hags’s instincts were still intact. He also hoped that the FBI’s suspicions about Haggerty were wrong.

  Byron circled the block in hopes of avoiding the throng of protesters standing in front of 109. He drove past Middle Street on Franklin Arterial, turned right on Fore Street, then back up Pearl to Federal. As he entered 109’s rear parking garage he realized that his efforts had been for naught. A second group of protestors were camped out in the plaza, effectively blocking both the public entrance to the PD and the rear door, the one most commonly used by the employees.

  He locked up the unmarked, then headed for the plaza on foot. Several of the picketers focused on Byron, waving their signs and raising their voices as he approached, but that was as far as it went. Absent were the rabble rousers and violent opportunists responsible for Sergeant Pepin’s head injury. This gathering obviously believed in delivering the message peaceably. A welcome development. He waded through the crowd, keyed in the entry code, then entered the building.