Alfonsi avoided eye contact with him, but Byron could see the wheels turning.
“Enter Buddy Dixon, an old army pal of Derrick’s who you called. You see, Terry? Your prints are all over this thing. Right from the beginning. I don’t really give a shit if you admit anything or not.”
Byron stood up and grabbed his notepad and pen as if he was preparing to leave. “I guess the only question is, will this remain a state charge or go federal?”
Terry’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. If the feds get involved in this you might be looking at life or worse.”
“Worse? What’s worse?”
“Terry, you just took part in a conspiracy to murder a police officer. You’re fucked.”
Alfonsi’s mouth dropped open as if he hadn’t considered this. “What if I wanted to cut a deal?”
“I don’t make deals, Terry. Not my job. Why would we cut a deal with a piece of shit like you anyway? We’ve already got you. Besides, you have to have something to bargain with. And you don’t.”
Byron stood up and opened the interview room door.
“What if I give you my uncle Derrick?”
“So, we’ll be able to charge Derrick and his nephew with conspiracy to commit murder, right?” LeRoyer asked, seemingly distracted.
“Based on Terry’s confession, I’d say we can,” Byron said. “I couldn’t shut him up.”
“What about Cavallaro? He set this whole thing in motion, right?”
“It looks that way, although we’d need Derrick to convict Cavallaro. Speaking of which, have they had any luck locating him yet?”
“Nothing yet. Trust me, everyone is looking.”
Byron nodded, then stood up to leave the lieutenant’s office.
“Where are you going?” LeRoyer asked.
“Gonna head up to the hospital to check on Hags.”
“Um, hang on a sec.”
“What?” Byron asked, stopping at the door. “Haven’t we covered everything?”
“I, um, I have something to tell you, John.”
Byron studied the serious look on his lieutenant’s face and took two steps back into the office. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Spit it out, Marty. What?”
“Hags passed away an hour ago.”
Byron felt the rage building within him. He wanted to punch something, or someone, until his knuckles were bloody. And keep on punching until he couldn’t lift his arms to punch anymore. Vincent Knauer would’ve been his first choice, but beating on an already dead murderer wouldn’t have brought much satisfaction. Of course, Derrick Vanos, the man responsible for initiating the attack on Haggerty, was still alive. Byron knew that the Windham prison allowed conjugal visits, but he was fairly certain that they would frown on a visit of the more pugilistic variety.
All the work he and his team had done to get to the bottom of what happened the night Haggerty shot Plummer had been for naught. While they’d been scrambling to restore Haggerty’s life to some semblance of normalcy, Vanos had been working just as hard to extinguish it.
Byron descended the back stairwell to the plaza. He walked alone to his car, then drove away from 109. This wasn’t a time for him to be around people.
Chapter 24
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
During the days following Haggerty’s death, the Portland Police Department was shrouded in an emotional gray fog. More than two hundred and twenty-five employees, civilian and sworn personnel alike, roamed the halls of 109 like zombies, each of them consumed by and dreading the event awaiting them at week’s end. Sean Haggerty’s memorial service. Grim-faced uniformed officers and dispatchers all wore a band of black cloth over their badges. Detectives followed suit with the shields clipped to their belts. The daily briefings given in the squad room were solemn affairs, devoid of the usual lighthearted banter and salty irreverence. The PD family was in mourning.
Byron occupied his time as best he could, going through the motions. He arrived at 109 early each morning, grabbing the ever-present stack of overnight crime reports from the printer, then refilling the paper and waiting for the rest to print. As always, he divided the reports into property crimes and person crimes, giving the former to Sergeant Peterson, while he read and assigned the latter to his own detectives. Working alongside the Attorney General’s Office, Byron personally oversaw the process of charging both Derrick Vanos and Terrence Alfonsi for their involvement in the Haggerty murder. Micky Cavallaro remained in the wind. Special Agent Collier told Byron that he’d let him know as soon as Cavallaro was located, but Byron wasn’t holding out hope. Physically, Byron attended the various administrative meetings, which he’d always considered a waste of precious time, but mentally he was elsewhere.
AG Investigator Lucinda Phillips returned to her own office in Augusta as the investigations into both officer-involved shootings were no longer deemed a priority, now that all concerned parties were dead. The police protests gradually wound down until finally no one was left. The news media moved on to the next big thing, although Mayor Gilcrest managed to get herself in front of the camera on a couple occasions, each time alluding to the need for the Department of Justice to come in and do a review of the Portland Police Department’s use of force policies and practices. Byron had heard it all before. The players’ names were different but in the end it was always the same old game being played with people’s lives. Lives that would never move past the loss they’d suffered.
CID detectives went back to working on the cases they’d set aside following the laundromat robbery and subsequent shooting, and to catching new ones. During what little free time Byron’s detectives had they worked on the Plummer case, rereading statements and supplements, reviewing video and news reports. Even the physical evidence was looked at a second time.
Everyone did their best to carry on despite the huge loss the PD family had suffered. They’d lost one of their own but there was still a job to do. Portland’s bad guys didn’t call a truce so the men and women in blue could grieve. The job wasn’t like that. Criminals kept breaking the law and victims demanded justice.
Byron spent every spare moment studying the Plummer shooting. He knew there had to be something they’d overlooked, something that would lead them to the truth.
LeRoyer stopped by Byron’s office on several occasions to ask if he was okay.
“You should talk with someone, John,” LeRoyer said during one particular visit.
“No offense, Marty, but spare me the EAP bullshit, okay?” Byron said. “I’m not gonna go all goofy on you because I lost a friend. But don’t expect me to let this go either.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” LeRoyer said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I know you too well.”
“There’s still a suspect somewhere out there who had a hand in all of this,” Byron said. “He was with Tommy Plummer when they robbed the laundromat and again when Haggerty shot Plummer. I will find that son of a bitch, and they will answer for their crime.”
Tuesday afternoon, under an overcast sky, Byron drove to Kennedy Park alone. After parking on the street, he climbed the rickety back steps to Erlene Jackson’s Anderson Street apartment and rapped on the frost-covered glass of a rusted storm door. He had read her statement at least a dozen times. She claimed to have seen and heard nothing. Jackson had told the detectives that she’d retired to bed early on the night Plummer was shot. At first glance her account seemed entirely plausible. It matched up with the fact that officers and detectives hadn’t been able to raise anyone at her apartment during their original canvass of the area. But Byron had never been one to accept anything strictly at face value. Seldom were things the way they first appeared.
Dustin Tran had researched every resident in the area, and Jackson’s story did not jibe with her long history of calling the police whenever something wasn’t right. Loud music, squealing tires, fights�
��over the last several years, both day and night, she’d reported it all. She always called anonymously, oblivious to the fact that her phone number was visible to the dispatcher. So it didn’t make sense she could have missed this event. Busybodies were creatures of habit, and Erlene Jackson clearly had such a reputation.
Byron was about to knock again when a middle-aged woman came to the door. She wore a tan wool sweater and an expression of distrust.
“Yes?” the woman said through the glass of the storm door.
“Mrs. Jackson?” Byron asked. “Erlene Jackson?”
“Who wants to know?”
Byron removed his credentials from his jacket pocket and held them up for her to see. “I’m from the police department. My name is Detective Sergeant Byron. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”
“What about?”
“Do you mind if we talk inside? I’d rather not do this out here.”
“Is this about that boy who was shot by the police?” she asked.
“It is,” Byron said, returning his ID case to his inside jacket pocket.
“I already told those other detectives I didn’t see nothing.”
“If I thought that were true, I wouldn’t be here,” he said, going all in.
Jackson’s eyes widened ever so slightly as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“You calling me a liar?”
“No, ma’am. I think you’re doing what you have to do to survive down here. And I can appreciate how hard it must be for you. But I think you know a whole lot more than what you put in your statement to those other detectives. You seem like a person who cares about what happens in her neighborhood. But I wonder, will you be able to live with yourself if and when more people get hurt over this?”
She stared at him without blinking. Byron waited to see which way she would go with it. He knew he had about five seconds, after which she would either slam the door in his face and get on the horn to LeRoyer or she would let him in and unburden herself. He was going all in on the latter.
Jackson’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Why should I tell you anything, Sergeant?”
“Because a neighborhood boy is dead, a police officer was gunned down, and because you know I’m right. More people will be hurt or killed unless we can get to the truth about what happened that night.”
Jackson looked away for a moment and inhaled deeply though her nostrils. She let out a long slow sigh. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” she said as she reestablished eye contact with Byron.
“No, ma’am. I’m not. Not until I get to the truth.”
She unlocked the outer door, then took a step back. “You might as well come in, then.”
“Marty, come in and close the door,” Rumsfeld said from behind his desk, gesturing with his hand as if he were in a hurry.
LeRoyer followed the acting chief’s instructions, then looked over to the window wall where Commander Jennings was seated. They had left a vacant seat between them. The lieutenant walked over to the empty chair next to Rumsfeld’s desk and sat down.
“What’s this about?” LeRoyer asked.
“It’s about Sergeant Byron,” Rumsfeld said.
“We think he’s becoming a liability,” Jennings added.
“I disagree,” LeRoyer said. “I know John can be a bit difficult sometimes, but—”
“He’s losing his perspective, Marty,” Rumsfeld said.
“If you’re talking about that thing with Thibodeau, in IA, that’s just a couple of sergeants blowing off steam,” LeRoyer said. “It’s old school.”
“Well, that behavior wasn’t in my old school,” Jennings said.
LeRoyer’s head swiveled back and forth between the two men as he attempted to read their faces. The meeting felt like an ambush, a rehearsed one.
“What are you saying?” LeRoyer asked.
Rumsfeld sat back in his chair, a move designed to appear less threatening. He tented his fingers and got to the point. “Marty, city hall thinks that this investigation into the laundromat robbery has gone on long enough, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“We’re still making progress, Chief,” LeRoyer protested.
Jennings chimed in. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Lieutenant, but it looks like all you’re doing is chasing your tail and wasting city resources.”
“How it looks is not my problem,” LeRoyer shot back.
“But it is mine,” Rumsfeld said. “And so is John Byron. Look, Marty, this is a lot more than just getting in the IA sergeant’s face or being insubordinate with me the other day. Byron is losing his way.”
“Face it, this isn’t the first time he’s gone off the rails,” Jennings added. “He has a reputation for—”
“Getting to the truth,” LeRoyer said, finishing his sentence for him. LeRoyer turned his back on Jennings to face Rumsfeld directly. “Look, Chief, I know this has been a rough one. Haggerty’s death has been hard on all of us. But I know John. Yeah, he steps on toes, occasionally even mine, but he’s a good investigator. He’ll come around. He always does.”
Rumsfeld appeared to be mulling it over as he stared out the window. LeRoyer knew this was all part of the act. He could tell Rumsfeld had already made his decision.
“Let’s look at what you have so far, Marty,” Rumsfeld said. “The two guys inside the laundromat can’t even agree on what type of gun. And the owner of the Bubble Up is missing, right?”
LeRoyer nodded.
“There wasn’t even video of the robbery,” Rumsfeld continued.
“How can we even be sure that Haggerty was chasing the robbery suspects?” Jennings asked. “Maybe he just stumbled across two other kids wearing hoodies.”
“And ski masks?” LeRoyer said. “They were the robbers.”
“Marty, all I’m saying is we’re just beating a dead horse at this point,” Rumsfeld said.
“Where are you going with this?” LeRoyer asked.
“The families of some of the kids Byron has been harassing have attorneys representing them now. It’s just more negative press we don’t need. City hall thinks it’s best if we settle the Plummer affair and move forward. Maybe we can budget for some additional deadly force training for the officers.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Chief,” LeRoyer said.
“Perhaps it’s time for some new blood in CID,” Rumsfeld said at last.
LeRoyer said nothing, but he could feel the temperature in the room rising. This was an ambush. They were about to float out the name of a sergeant that they’d like to see replace Byron. And then LeRoyer would do what he always did. He’d stake his own position as CID lieutenant against Byron. If John screwed up after that, they’d both be replaced, and Rumsfeld would have two brand-new CID bosses to do his bidding. It was a routine as old as policing. LeRoyer wondered which lieutenant had been sniffing around for a CID command.
“How would you feel about Diane Joyner?” Rumsfeld asked.
“Look, give me another chance to get Byron back in line, okay?” LeRoyer said. “If he steps out of line you can replace me too.” God hates a coward, he thought.
Rumsfeld’s eyes widened slightly, as if LeRoyer’s reaction had caught him by surprise. “Are you sure you want to put your neck out there like that, Marty? You’re taking a big chance.”
“He’s the best investigator I have,” LeRoyer said.
“And your friend,” Jennings added.
“My friendship with John has nothing to do with it,” LeRoyer snapped back without looking at him.
“Doesn’t it?” Jennings said.
“All right,” Rumsfeld said at last. “Sergeant Byron is your responsibility. Get him under control.”
“I will,” LeRoyer said.
“Don’t let me down, Marty.”
Forty-five minutes later Byron stepped out from Jackson’s stuffy apartment into the cold. He knew they wouldn’t be exchanging greeting cards any time soon, but she had provided h
im with something he needed badly. A witness to Plummer possessing and, more importantly, firing a gun at Haggerty. While Jackson had said at the outset that she would never testify in open court to what she was telling him, Byron figured they would cross that particular bridge when, and if, they ever came to it. The problem now was finding the evidence to back up her account. They hadn’t managed to find it so far.
Byron paused on the landing to survey the surrounding area. After several moments he descended the wooden steps, then approached the junk car upon which Tommy Plummer had been perched when Haggerty shot him. Nearly obscured by a new blanket of snow, the vehicle looked less like a mode of transport than a sleeping beast. Standing alone in the frozen yard, Byron looked back in the direction of Anderson Street. He didn’t know what he was searching for exactly, but he knew the answer had to be close by. It always was. Not close enough to reach out and slap him perhaps, but close.
His gaze shifted toward the back end of the alley. Buried in the drifts were several wooden pallets leaning against a stockade fence. It took him several minutes before he managed to pry a pallet loose and drag it over to the abandoned car. Deep snow worked its way into his boots. Using the pallet as a makeshift ladder he climbed up onto the hood. Sheet metal buckled under his weight. The snow shifted and slid off the car onto the ground as Byron turned and looked toward the road.
Recalling the crime scene captured in Pelligrosso’s photos, Byron searched for anything out of the ordinary. There had to be something they had overlooked, but what? He focused on the area to his right where Haggerty had been standing when the shooting occurred. The snow-covered pile of garbage wasn’t high enough to have provided Haggerty with much in the way of cover, not from this height. Realizing that at 6’3” he had a higher vantage point than Plummer would have had, Byron crouched down slightly. He pointed his hand as if it were a gun, sighting in on the spot where Haggerty had been standing. Pelligrosso had said that he hadn’t located anything in the way of a bullet, or a hole from a bullet, within the pile. Byron moved his hand slightly to the right. Anything fired in that direction would have struck the siding or penetrated a window of the adjacent building, and the evidence techs would have found it. He shifted his aim to the left. Missing left would have yielded a ground strike, and the odds of ever finding a round fired into the ground amid the debris and snow were somewhere next to zero.
Beyond the Truth Page 24