Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Buddy Dixon had traveled less than a mile from the Vanos garage when he noticed the headlights in his rearview. A vehicle was closing on him rapidly. He continued to recheck the mirror until the trailing car was right on his bumper. He was still trying to decide if the car was bad news for him, or if it was simply some yahoo out for a nighttime joyride, when the strobes and flashing headlights lit up, momentarily blinding him and illuminating the cab of his truck. He glanced over at the left side mirror and saw a second vehicle emerge from behind the first. Then a third police car appeared ahead of him, its lights also flashing, perpendicular to the roadway, blocking him in.

  Fuck, he thought. Cops must have had the garage under surveillance. Dixon slowed, then pulled the truck onto the gravel shoulder and stopped.

  Having once served as a military police officer, Dixon knew the drill. This would be a felony stop, replete with commands and weapons pointed at him. He killed the ignition, turned on the interior dome light, then placed both of his hands atop the steering wheel. Experience had taught him that compliance with lawful orders went a long way toward reducing the nervousness of those issuing them.

  “Driver,” an electronically amplified voice said from somewhere behind the lights. “Place both of your hands out through the window. Do it now!”

  Dixon did as he was instructed. Fuck, he thought again.

  Thirty minutes later Byron sat across from the stoic ex-soldier, trying to decide if Dixon was being truthful or not. The two men were occupying what passed for an interview room inside Buxton PD, although the presence of shelves and metal file cabinets betrayed its actual purpose as a storage room. Dixon looked back at Byron without speaking; his expression was muted.

  If he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it, Byron thought. Perhaps Dixon’s involvement was as limited as he had led them to believe.

  “So, you’re saying that’s all you know?” Byron asked.

  “That’s it. I told you everything. Derrick’s nephew, Terry, called me. Said he needed my help for some medical emergency. I told him to call an ambulance. He said he couldn’t.”

  “Did he tell you what the emergency was?”

  “No,” Dixon said, arching his back until it made an audible popping sound. “I had no idea until I got to the garage.”

  “And you just dropped what you were doing and went to go help a guy you’d never met.”

  “I was doing a favor for an army buddy’s nephew.”

  “That’s right. And when was the last time you spoke with your good buddy Derrick?”

  “It’s been years.”

  “Hard for me to believe, Mr. Dixon.”

  “That’s because you never served, Sergeant.”

  Byron’s cell rang. He reached for it to silence the ringer but noticed that the incoming call was from Pelligrosso.

  “Hey, Gabe,” Byron said, maintaining eye contact with Dixon, hoping to rattle the man. “You got something?”

  “Sarge, I lifted some good prints from the gun, and the rounds inside it.”

  “Locate a match?”

  “They belong to a guy named Vincent Knauer.”

  “Who’s he?” Byron asked.

  “Pretty long sheet. Mostly violent crime. Agg. assault, terrorizing, and weapon possession.”

  “Can you send me a photo?”

  “Check your text messages,” Pelligrosso said. “I already sent it.”

  Byron ended the call and pulled up the picture his evidence tech had forwarded. He looked across the table at Dixon. “Tell me again how many people are inside the garage?”

  “Just two. Terry Alfonsi and the guy who’s all shot up. Terry called him Vinnie, I think.”

  “The guy you say you’ve never met before tonight.”

  The two men sat staring at each other in silence, each sizing up the other.

  “If I were you, I probably wouldn’t believe me either,” Dixon said at last. “But it’s true. I’ve never met the guy before tonight.”

  Byron leaned forward and reached across the table, holding out his cell screen for Dixon to see. “Recognize this guy?”

  “That’s him,” Dixon said matter-of-factly.

  “Who?” Byron asked, looking to make the ID airtight.

  “The guy with Terry. The one who’s all shot up. How did you guys do that so fast?”

  “Either of them armed?” Byron asked.

  Dixon shrugged. “No idea. Guess if they had one gun they probably have others.”

  “Tell me again how you left it with them.”

  “I said I was going to try and find an open pharmacy. See if I could find more first aid supplies to help him.”

  “When did you tell them you’d be back?”

  “As soon as I could.”

  “What did you do for him while you were there?” Byron asked.

  “I stopped the bleeding and bandaged him up as best I could. He’s in a lot of pain. Told him he needed surgery.”

  “Did you give him anything for the pain?”

  Dixon didn’t answer.

  “Well?” Byron said.

  “What would you have done, Sergeant?” Dixon asked.

  Byron ignored the question. He reached across the table and picked up Dixon’s cellphone. It was unlocked. He went into the call history, then held up the phone for Dixon to see. “Is this the phone number Terry called you from?”

  Dixon looked at it, then nodded.

  “Will he respond if you send him a text?”

  “I guess.”

  The wall-mounted television was on, but the volume was turned down. Terry sat behind the office desk fidgeting with a squeaky-hinged staple remover while he watched Vinnie from across the room. The wounded man was pale and sweating profusely. Thinking back to what Dixon had said, Terry wondered if maybe infection had already begun to set in. He didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew what a dying man looked like.

  Terry’s phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He slid it out and read the text from Dixon. Tell V u r going outside 4 a smoke, then call me.

  “Who’s that?” Vinnie asked.

  Terry felt his stomach turn as he looked up from his phone at Vinnie. He hadn’t realized that Vinnie was paying attention to what he was doing. “My girlfriend,” he lied. “She’s needy.”

  “Get a new one,” Vinnie said matter-of-factly.

  Terry laughed nervously. He hoped it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. He stood up and exaggerated the act of stretching. “I’m gonna go outside and call her. I need a smoke anyway.”

  Vinnie eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t be talking shit to her about this. Got me?”

  “’Course not. What do you think, I’m stupid?”

  Vinnie didn’t answer but he kept his eyes on Terry.

  Terry grabbed his grubby field jacket and wool hat off the wall peg and headed for the door. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Don’t I look it?”

  LeRoyer stared at the picture on Byron’s cellphone. “Is this the guy we think shot Hags?”

  “Nothing gets by you, Marty,” Byron said, too tired to stop himself. The SRT commander, Lieutenant Price, who stood with them, tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

  LeRoyer fixed Byron with a watch-yourself stare. But it was obvious that he also was too tired to engage in any verbal jousting with his detective sergeant.

  “Who is he?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Vincent Knauer,” Byron said. “A longtime friend of Derrick Vanos. Looks like he works as a body man for Derrick’s nephew, Terry. Dixon confirmed that this is the guy all shot up.”

  “Jesus,” LeRoyer said. “What the hell is this world coming to?”

  Byron, having recently pondered that very question, remained silent.

  “Did Dixon shed any more light on why Knauer did it?” LeRoyer asked.

  “Dixon said they didn’t go into detail with him. He was contacted by Terry Alfonsi because of his army medic experience. Any word on Cavallaro?”

  “I just spoke with Dis
patch,” LeRoyer said. “He’s not at home and the business is locked up tight. They put out an ATL on his car.”

  Byron wondered if Collier’s people were still sitting on him.

  The detectives turned at the staccato sound of a status update coming in by radio from a member of the advance team.

  “Copy that,” Price said in response to the transmission. He addressed Byron and LeRoyer. “Here’s the latest on the layout of the building. The office, where our intel tells us the targets are holed up, is at the front right corner of the building. The office windows have been covered over with something like painted plywood and we can’t see inside. So, we only have Dixon’s word that there are only two men in there.”

  “Have we located the Mitsubishi yet?” Byron asked.

  “It’s behind the garage, sitting up on a flatbed wrecker. They made a half-assed attempt at covering it with a plastic tarp.”

  “Bastards,” LeRoyer said.

  Lieutenant Price continued. “One of our spotters confirmed the presence of a blood trail leading from the driver’s door toward the building.”

  “Good,” LeRoyer said. “I hope he’s in some serious fucking pain.”

  “So how do you want to do this?” Byron asked.

  They waited while Price thought it over. “Let’s make the approach out in the open.”

  “Are you crazy?” LeRoyer asked. “Those two guys are likely to come out firing.”

  Given the circumstances, Byron wondered if that would really be such a bad thing.

  “Not if we drive up in Dixon’s truck,” the commander said.

  When Terry Alfonsi reentered the office, Vinnie was sitting up on the couch. He was slouched awkwardly to one side, still in obvious pain, but he was sitting.

  “How was she?” Vinnie asked.

  “Who?” Terry said, momentarily forgetting his lie.

  “Your girlfriend. You said you were going outside to call her, right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, she’s good. Just wondering where I was.”

  Vinnie eyed him suspiciously. “What did you tell her?”

  “I—I told her I was working late, is all.”

  “Why so nervous, Terry?” Vinnie said. “You didn’t do anything stupid like tell her what is going on here, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “I hope not, for your sake.” Vinnie patted the butt of the stainless semiauto sticking up out of the waistband of his jeans, grimacing as he did.

  “Where did you get that?” Terry asked. “I thought you said you dropped the gun at Hannaford.”

  “I always keep another one stashed here. Never know when I might need it. Never know when someone will try and fuck me.”

  Terry swallowed nervously.

  “What the hell is keeping that guy?”

  “Dixon? I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  Vinnie looked at him appraisingly. “You sure seem to have all the answers tonight, Terry.”

  Terry could feel Vinnie’s eyes trying to bore inside of him to see what he was thinking. It was almost as if Vinnie really could read his thoughts.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re up to your ass in this too,” Vinnie said. “If I go down for shooting a cop, you will too.”

  Terry swallowed again.

  Byron stood inside the crowded mobile command post as the SRTs for both departments headed toward the target. The tight space was standing room only as the detectives listened to the radio updates. The SRT had already positioned several snipers with night vision scopes in the woods around Vanos Automotive. The entry team was moving into place.

  Following a burst of static, the lowered voice of Lieutenant Price came over the radio. “Alpha One to CP.”

  “CP, go,” the York County communications specialist seated in front of Byron said.

  “Team two is in position.”

  “Ten-four, Alpha One. Alpha Mobile copy?”

  “Alpha Mobile en route. Two minutes out.”

  The young communications specialist swiveled in his chair to address Byron. “Here we go, Sarge.”

  Byron badly wanted to be out at the scene. There, he might make a difference. Packed sardine-like inside the command post, he felt helpless. What if this goes sideways and another cop gets hurt? he thought. Or worse still, What if Haggerty’s assailant slips through the noose and goes on a cop-killing rampage? He knew it was foolish to think that way, especially with snipers in place, but he couldn’t quite seem to quiet the voices inside his head.

  “You’re bleeding again,” Terry said, pointing at Vinnie’s bandages.

  Vinnie looked down at the blood-soaked rags. “Fuck,” he said.

  “Dixon will have to replace those.”

  “Ya think?”

  Both men’s heads swiveled at the sound of an approaching vehicle.

  “Check and see who it is,” Vinnie said.

  Terry got up and went to the window. He slid the plywood to one side, just enough to allow him to peek outside at the parking lot. “It’s him.”

  “About goddamned time,” Vinnie said.

  Terry replaced the board and returned to his seat behind the desk.

  They both heard the front door open followed by the sound of Dixon stomping the snow off his boots.

  “Where the hell have you been, Dixon?” Vinnie shouted toward the darkened garage. There was no reply. “Hey, fuck stick, you hear me?”

  Before either of them knew what was happening, two shadows appeared on either side of the doorway. “Police. Get your hands in the air,” a male voice commanded.

  Terry’s eyes widened as he saw the two bright red dots appear on Vinnie’s chest, crawling around in tight circles like angry fire ants. Terry immediately raised his hands above his head.

  Vinnie looked down at the laser dots targeting him, then turned his attention to Terry. His eyes narrowed until they were no more than slits. “You slimy little cocksucker. You set me up!”

  “No. I swear I didn’t, Vinnie.”

  “Hands up, Vincent,” the voice repeated. “You’ve got no chance.”

  Vinnie looked back at the doorway. “I can’t raise my hands, pig. Fuck you!”

  Terry watched in horror as Vinnie’s right hand slid toward the gun sticking out of his waistband. At the exact moment that Vinnie’s fingers grazed the butt of the weapon, the room exploded with rifle fire and muzzle flashes. His body jumped around on the couch as if performing some cartoonish improvisational dance. The gunfire ceased. An acrid cloud of bluish smoke spilled into the office from the garage. Terry stared at Vinnie’s now motionless body slumped back on the couch. His lifeless eyes were pointed up at the ceiling. Vinnie was dead.

  Chapter 23

  Friday, 11:15 p.m.,

  January 20, 2017

  Terry Alfonsi sat handcuffed across from Byron in CID Interview Room Two at 109. According to the officer who transported Derrick’s nephew to Portland, Terry hadn’t spoken more than two words during the entire trip. They made it through Miranda with the mechanic giving an affirmative response at the end of each section. Byron was surprised when Alfonsi didn’t immediately request an attorney.

  “When did you last speak with your uncle?” Byron asked.

  “Monday.”

  “We checked the prison call log. Derrick didn’t receive or make any calls Monday.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. He called the garage late Monday morning.”

  Byron made a note to check with the phone company to see which number had called into the garage. “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know. He talked with Vinnie, not me.”

  It took every bit of restraint he had not to leap over the table and beat Alfonsi senseless. Outwardly, Byron kept his cool.

  “So the call made from your garage phone to the prison this afternoon must have come from Vinnie too, huh?”

  “I guess. I know I didn’t call the prison.”

  “Bravo, Terry,” Byron said while slowly clapping his han
ds together in mock applause. “You’re gonna lay the blame for all of this at the hands of Vincent Knauer, the one man who can’t defend himself.”

  Alfonsi shrugged.

  “I thought you might be smarter than that. Guess I overestimated you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The texts. You knew what was going to happen to Vinnie when you responded to our texts. You set him up.”

  Alfonsi remained silent.

  “Do you even know why Derrick wanted the hit on Officer Haggerty?”

  “Who?”

  Byron sat back in his chair and stared at Alfonsi. He could see that his current tactic wasn’t working. Byron didn’t believe that Alfonsi was nearly as tough as he was pretending. Alfonsi had gone along with Dixon’s text ruse too readily. He’d been looking for a way out, then. Maybe he still was. “You must be wondering how we found you, right?”

  “I figure the deputy who saw me towing Vinnie’s car called you. But I just thought Vinnie had broken down. I didn’t know anything.”

  “That wasn’t how.”

  Confusion spread across Alfonsi’s face.

  “You messed up, Terry. The plate you attached to the Mitsubishi hadn’t been used in years. Unfortunately for you it was previously registered to a car involved in an accident. And that car was totaled. Care to guess which tow company removed it from the accident scene?”

  “No idea. It wasn’t Vanos Automotive.”

  “That’s right, it wasn’t. It was a company that went bankrupt.”

  Alfonsi shrugged again.

  Byron allowed himself a smile. “Guess who purchased the bankrupt company’s assets, Terry?”

  The realization of what he’d done began to creep into Alfonsi’s expression.

  “That’s right. It was Uncle Derrick. Let me guess, you grabbed a plate from a box in some dusty old corner of the garage and slapped it on the burner.”

  Alfonsi said nothing.

  “That is what you were planning on doing with the car, right? Burn it. Remove all the evidence that might connect you and Vinnie. Like your prints on the plates. Who knows? You might have gotten away with it. But then everything went to shit. Vinnie got himself shot up. He called you for help when the car broke down. That’s when the deputy saw you, right? Was Vinnie in the car when you were winching it up onto the flatbed? He must have been. All those holes in him. All that blood. Wouldn’t want that in the truck. Then you called the prison, right? Uncle Derrick, it’s all fucked up. What do we do?”