Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Come on! Fucking answer it already.”

  He knew Jimmy, their part-time desk guy, was there but he also knew what a slacker Jimmy was when no one was around to keep him working. Jimmy was either out back getting high, on his cellphone with his girlfriend, or spending what he called “quality time” in the john.

  After losing track of the number of rings, Vinnie hung up. He was thumbing the keypad, attempting to speed dial Terry’s cell again, when the phone, already slick with blood, slipped out of his grasp and tumbled onto the floor of the Eclipse.

  “Fuck,” he screamed. He scanned the floor between his legs trying to locate the phone, but he couldn’t see it. At the sound of a car horn, his eyes quickly returned to the road in time to see that he had crept over the center line into the path of oncoming vehicles. Vinnie jerked the steering wheel back to the right, just missing a silver-colored Explorer driven by an angry-looking woman who flipped him off as she passed. The sudden movement hurt him badly and he fought to keep from passing out.

  There was no way he could reach the phone without stopping the car, and that wasn’t an option. The pain intensified each time he inhaled. He was doing his best to keep his breaths shallow. He saw the town line of Westbrook pass into his rearview mirror. He had made it into Gorham. Less than ten miles to the garage now, where he could hide the car and figure out what to do next. Vinnie wasn’t prone to prayer, but right now he was making up for lost time, hoping that the Big Guy really did help those who fucking needed it most.

  The Hannaford parking lot was a bevy of activity, swarming with customers, cops, and witnesses. Despite the chaos, Byron remained all business, directing the investigation from the heart of the action. He had Pelligrosso collecting evidence at the shooting scene, Stevens on statements, and Nugent retrieving the surveillance video. Byron himself had already provided the suspect vehicle description to Dispatch, who in turn had broadcast a regional ATL, both by radio and computer. LeRoyer was standing near the barricades, alternating between talking to reporters and jousting with the business managers who were pissed about how the parking lot being shut down was hurting their businesses. Normally Byron didn’t want the press to know anything about his scenes while he was working them, but in this case briefing each of the local television stations was a necessity and the only way to ensure the suspect information got out to the public quickly.

  Everything seemed to be well in hand. The one glaring exception was that Byron wasn’t at 22 Bramhall Street in the ER watching as the trauma team worked to save his friend’s life.

  “I can’t believe Haggerty was involved in another shooting,” LeRoyer said as he approached Byron on foot.

  Byron had no trouble believing it, given the current state of the community. The media, along with help from some of the local politicians, specifically Mayor Gilcrest, had whipped Portland into frenzy. Along with generous portions of threats, protests, and public displays of civil disobedience, an attempt on a cop’s life was the next logical step in an illogical situation. Byron wondered where things might go from here.

  “You think this was payback for the Plummer kid?” LeRoyer asked.

  Byron had to admit, on its face the attack had the bitter aftertaste of retribution. But was it for Plummer? Or had the act only been designed to look like payback? Could this attack on Haggerty be related to the OC case the feds were working? It was too early to say. Or perhaps it was retribution, but for something else entirely. What if the shooter had only used an opportunity created by the current crisis? Never let a crisis go to waste. Byron couldn’t remember where he had heard that particular turn of phrase, but it described the current situation perfectly.

  Pelligrosso approached Byron and LeRoyer.

  “Anything we can use?” Byron asked.

  “We may have recovered the suspect’s gun,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Where did you find it?” Byron asked.

  “Lying beneath a parked car. One of the witnesses saw the suspect drop it out the window as the truck backed into the car. The witness pointed it out to Mel.”

  “Describe it,” Byron said as he pulled out his notebook.

  “Smith & Wesson .38. Five shot, chief’s special. Looks like the suspect managed to fire a couple of rounds at Hags before he dropped it.”

  “Serial number?”

  “Ground off.”

  Of course it is, Byron thought.

  “Well, we can send it to the feds to raise it, right?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Sure,” Byron said. “Except we don’t have six months to wait.”

  “I’ll check it for prints as soon as I can,” Pelligrosso said.

  “What about Haggerty’s gun?” LeRoyer asked, trying again.

  “He emptied his Glock,” Pelligrosso said. “In addition to the shooter’s gun, I’ve recovered Haggerty’s and all of his shell casings.”

  “Any indication that Haggerty may have hit the suspect?” Byron asked.

  “No way to tell. There are a couple of debris fields on the ground. One is Haggerty’s groceries and blood; the other seems like it’s all from the accident between the suspect’s car and the pickup.”

  “What are the odds that Haggerty would have missed the guy with every shot?” LeRoyer asked.

  Pelligrosso shrugged. “Hags is a good shot. But according to the witnesses he’d already been hit, LT. That tends to change the game.”

  Byron said nothing, but he secretly hoped the piece of shit was bleeding out somewhere. And in a lot of pain.

  Vinnie had managed to get behind the one driver in all of Buxton who apparently had all day to get where they were going. According to his speedometer they were traveling at least ten under the limit. The pain hadn’t departed but mercifully parts of his body had begun to feel numb and detached, as if they belonged to someone else. No one would ever mistake Vinnie for a doctor, but was he fairly confident that his loss of feeling was not a good sign.

  He was trying to decide whether he dared pass the silver Buick when the Mitsubishi began to hiccup. All the dashboard warning lights illuminated at the same instant the engine died. He rolled onto the dirt shoulder on the side of the road and stopped. So much for prayers, he thought. He wondered how long it would be before a cop pulled up behind him.

  “Dammit,” he yelled, wasting what little energy he had left and causing his pain to intensify. Vinnie realized he had two choices: find his cell or prepare for life in prison, if he lived that long.

  He leaned forward and reached down with his good hand, screaming as he did so. He slid his hand around on the carpet until his fingers touched the side of the phone. Carefully, he grabbed on to it, then sat back in the seat. The steering wheel was now slick with blood. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath while he waited for the pain to subside to a bearable level. After a moment or two he carefully keyed in his passcode and hit the redial for Terry’s cell.

  Byron stood beside Nugent, waiting for the Hannaford store security supervisor to replay the section of video where they had seen Haggerty exit the front of the store. Byron wanted to see where the Mitsubishi had come from. None of the parking lot witnesses had gotten a look at the vehicle’s registration, nor had they been able to agree on the number of doors or make of the car. The only thing recalled by every witness was the deep bass of the car’s stereo.

  Byron looked at the multiple video clips simultaneously playing on the high-definition screen of the multiplexer. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the intro to The Brady Bunch.

  “There,” Nugent said, pointing at the lower left image.

  As he followed Hags’s progress away from the store, Byron’s eye was drawn to a different camera angle. The top right view showed what looked to be a dark-colored sports car creeping along the front of the store, then turning to follow Haggerty up the aisle between rows of parked cars. The video wasn’t crisp enough to make out the registration. Byron couldn’t even tell if it was an Eclipse or not, but it was definitely a two-door.

&
nbsp; Byron’s body was knotted with tension as he watched the scene unfold. First, the driver of the Mitsubishi could be seen firing in Haggerty’s direction, after which Haggerty either fell or dove, disappearing off camera. Simultaneous to the shooting, a large pickup backed into the Mitsubishi, violently impacting it. Several more seconds passed before anything noteworthy happened. Haggerty reappeared on screen as he approached the shooter’s car. His gait was awkward, staggering like one of his legs had fallen asleep. It was clear that he was injured. Haggerty raised his right arm, pointing in the direction of the Mitsubishi. Multiple flashes appeared from the muzzle of Haggerty’s gun. The stoner’s pickup pulled forward, rocking the Mitsubishi as the two vehicles separated. Haggerty continued to fire his weapon as the Mitsubishi fled the scene out onto Preble Street Extension. The driver never slowed.

  A strange combination of grief and nausea swept over Byron as he watched his friend collapse to the pavement. The same friend who at that very moment was fighting for his life at Maine Med. Several bystanders ran to where Haggerty was lying helpless. Not wanting to show weakness to the other people occupying the room, Byron quickly pulled himself together and turned to Nugent.

  “Have Dispatch provide you with a list of responding officers,” Byron said. “I want the video from each of the cruiser cameras.”

  Nugent looked confused. “What are we looking for, Sarge? They’re only gonna have video of the scene after the shooter fled.”

  “It’s possible that our suspect drove right past one of the responding units. With a little luck we may get a plate number or a look at the suspect’s face.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Terry kept glancing over his shoulder as he operated the winch. After obtaining Vinnie’s approximate location, he had driven the wrecker as fast as he dared to Buxton. He’d located the badly damaged Mitsubishi on Route 202 near Hollis Center. One look at Vinnie and he knew there was nothing else to do but leave him in the car and tow it back to the shop.

  The Mitsubishi rolled slowly up the flatbed’s steeply inclined ramp, leaving a trail of fluid in its wake. Terry didn’t care what was leaking out of it, only that they’d get the car out of here. As he was leveling the ramp he saw the familiar profile of a white York County Sheriff SUV come into view, approaching from the opposite direction. His pulse quickened. Just keep moving, he thought. Nothing to see here.

  His legs threatened to buckle as he watched the patrol vehicle slow, then pull up alongside of him. Shit, shit.

  The SUV stopped, and the driver lowered his window.

  “Afternoon,” the gray-haired deputy sheriff said. “Whatcha got?”

  “Afternoon, Deputy,” Terry croaked. He cleared his throat. “Just a broken-down motorist. Triple A call out,” he added, thinking it was a nice touch.

  “You all set here?” the deputy asked as he looked over at the Mitsubishi.

  “Just getting ready to head out. Thanks.”

  “Anytime, friend,” the deputy said as he pulled away with a wave.

  Terry returned the wave, then walked on shaky legs back to the front of the truck, waiting to check the progress of the cruiser until he’d reached the cab. As he reached up to open the door he looked back. The patrol vehicle was already a quarter of a mile distant. Terry didn’t exhale until after he pulled away from the side of the road and headed back to the garage.

  Vinnie slowly came to. He felt weaker than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life. He recognized the crappy faux-wood paneling and old-time pinup posters on the wall. He was lying on the shitty oil-stained couch in the office. A familiar voice floated in from the garage.

  “Jesus, you should see him,” Terry Alfonsi said. “It’s bad. I mean really bad. I think he might be dead.”

  “I can hear you, asshole,” Vinnie croaked. “And I’m not fucking dead.”

  Terry whipped around the corner. “Oh, thank God.”

  Vinnie was pretty sure God wasn’t involved. “Is that Derrick?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Vinnie said, unsuccessfully trying to raise his left hand. He turned his head to look. The shirtsleeve was dark with blood and there was no feeling in his arm. It was as if the appendage hanging limply off the couch belonged to someone else. He raised his right hand and took the phone from Terry. “Hey, Der—”

  “What the fuck happened?” Derrick asked.

  Vinnie struggled to focus. “This a recorded line?”

  “No. Actually, they let me out for the day. I’m hanging out by the goddamned pool waiting for a hottie in a bikini to bring me my beer and nachos. Of course it’s fucking recorded.”

  Vinnie closed his eyes, waiting for Derrick to stop being a tool. “You done?”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a piece. Some asshole backed into me before I could finish it.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Maybe? If I’d wanted maybe, I coulda sent some other dipshit. How bad are you?”

  “What did Terry say?”

  “He said you’re fucked.”

  Vinnie looked down at his blood-soaked left side. That’s probably accurate, he thought. “Pretty sure I’m gonna need some medical help.”

  There was only silence from the other end of the phone. Vinnie began to wonder whether he’d passed out again and was only dreaming the phone call when Vanos spoke up again.

  “Sit tight. I got an idea. Put Terry back on the phone.”

  Vinnie, wondering where Derrick thought he might go, handed the phone to Terry. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter 20

  Friday, 12:35 p.m.,

  January 20, 2017

  Byron hurried into the emergency room. LeRoyer was pacing back and forth in front of the nursing station.

  “Any word?” Byron asked.

  LeRoyer shook his head. “Nothing yet. Anything on your end?”

  “Gabe is still working the scene. I’ve got Dustin looking at tape from all the responding cruisers.”

  “What about the supermarket video?”

  “Captured the shooting, but not the driver. And not close enough to see a plate.”

  “Goddammit,” LeRoyer said, swiping at his hair.

  Byron silently agreed. “Did all the media outlets put out our ATL?”

  “Yeah, all three of the locals cut in on their programming to put out an update. A couple of the radio stations responded as well.”

  “Good,” Byron said. “Dispatch already put out what little we have to the surrounding agencies. NCIC too.”

  “What do you think?” LeRoyer asked.

  “I think they’ll be stopping every black Mitsubishi north of Boston.”

  Byron’s cell vibrated with an incoming text from Dustin Tran.

  Found it, call me.

  Could it be that easy? Byron wondered, knowing full well it never was. He dialed Tran’s number, then lifted the phone to his ear. While waiting for his computer wizard to pick up, Byron caught the disapproving eye of an ER nurse standing behind the counter with her arms crossed. The nurse shook her head and pointed at the No Cellphone sign on the wall.

  Byron ended the call and turned to LeRoyer. “I’ll be outside.”

  As he reached the parking lot, Byron redialed Tran’s cell.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Tran said.

  “Got your text,” Byron said. “You sure it’s the same car?”

  “Positive. One of the cruisers responding by way of Dartmouth Street caught the Mitsubishi on camera just before the driver turned down a side street. Probably trying to avoid being seen.”

  “Go ahead with the reg,” Byron said, pulling out his notebook.

  “I can’t get it,” Tran said. “I tried to enhance some still frames but the car was just too far away.”

  Byron could hear the disappointment in Tran’s voice. But he had provided them with a direction of travel. It would have to do for the time being.

 
“Good work, Dustin,” Byron said. “Do me a favor and call Dispatch. Have them assign any free units to scour that area on the off chance the suspect dumped the car.”

  “Already done.”

  Byron stood across from LeRoyer in the hallway that led to the ER. Byron was working on his third cup of cafeteria coffee when a thirty-something doctor with dark wavy hair came through the automated double doors. The doctor looked exhausted.

  “You guys here for the police officer who was shot?” the doctor asked.

  Byron tried to get a read from the man’s face, but it was a blank page.

  “Yeah,” LeRoyer said, answering for both of them. “How is he?”

  “Too soon to say. I’m Dr. Levesque. My team and I just spent the last two hours working on him. Officer Haggerty is a fighter. Does he have any family waiting? I should really be speaking to them.”

  “They’re on their way,” LeRoyer said. “Flying in from out of state.”

  “Until they get here, we’re Sean’s family, Doc,” Byron said. “What can you tell us?”

  Levesque looked back and forth at the detectives. Byron knew he was trying to weigh his legal obligation to the patient’s privacy against common sense.

  At last the surgeon spoke. “He’s suffered two gunshot wounds. The first wasn’t serious. Caught him in the thigh. Most of the damage was to muscle tissue and I was able to remove the bullet cleanly.”

  Byron knew Levesque was holding back on the bad news. It was standard protocol in the medical field. Give the bad news first and people stopped listening.

  “And the second?” LeRoyer asked.

  “I made the decision to leave the second bullet inside him for now. It is lodged up high in his torso, near the front of his spine. There are too many vital organs around the bullet to justify causing any additional damage to his insides at this point. We’ve tried to pinpoint and stop his internal bleeding.”

  “Tried?” LeRoyer asked.