Beyond the Truth

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  What if Plummer missed high? Byron thought. He redirected his aim slightly above where Haggerty had been standing. A bullet fired high from this angle would have traveled into the yard directly across the street. He holstered his finger, then rose up to his full height. He studied the yard. Something wasn’t the same. The landscape had changed.

  Byron pulled out his cell and hurriedly scrolled through several dozen scene photos, emailed to him by Pelligrosso. He stopped as he came to the one he was looking for, then zoomed in on the area behind Haggerty’s location.

  Byron alternated looking back and forth between the screen of his cellphone and the scene directly in front of him. He held the phone up and compared the landscape to the picture. It was different. Pelligrosso’s photo clearly showed a snow-covered indeterminate lump the shape and size of a motor vehicle, perhaps a small SUV or wagon. The view in front of him yielded no such lump. Quickly, he climbed down from the car, then picked his way through the littered alley toward the yard on the opposite side of Anderson.

  Even with the recent heavy snowfall, the indentation in the yard was as evident as an in-ground pool in winter. Whatever had been parked there, or more likely abandoned, was gone. Byron checked the building number, then retrieved his cell again and dialed.

  “Dispatch. Mary speaking.”

  “Mary, it’s John Byron. I need you to check something for me, as quick as you can.”

  An hour later, Byron and Pelligrosso stood at the far end of Frederick Street, waiting as the wrecker operator fumbled with the locked gate to Fat Ricky’s impound yard. Judging by the driver’s average build, Byron guessed the operator was employed by Ricky, and not the man himself.

  The driver yanked the chain free and shoved the large rolling cyclone fence gate out of the way. “If you guys want to follow me inside, I’ll take you to the abandoned wrecks we pulled out of the projects at the beginning of the week.”

  Byron and his evidence tech did as instructed, waiting inside the fenced-in yard as the driver secured the gate behind them.

  “So, what’s the deal with these?” Byron asked. “Why were you towing these cars out of Kennedy Park?”

  “Some city thing. They budget money to remove these eyesores from all the low-income housing projects in Portland. So far, we’ve hit Riverton, Front Street, and Kennedy Park.”

  “In the dead of winter?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “Hey, money is money,” the man said.

  “The one we’re looking for is the one that came from here,” Byron said, showing him the address he’d scribbled onto his notepad.

  The driver retreated to the cab of his rig. He reemerged with a metal clipboard. “These are all of the junkers we’ve pulled from Kennedy,” he said. “Give me the number on Anderson again.”

  “Fifty-two,” Byron said.

  He flipped through the greasy stack of papers attached to the clipboard. “Fifty-two. Fifty-two. Here it is. An ’02 Liberty.”

  They scanned the rows of vehicles.

  “Right there,” the wrecker driver said, pointing. “Second row in.”

  The three men walked over to the Jeep. Pelligrosso walked around it, making a visual inspection.

  “We’ll need the keys,” Byron said to the driver.

  “Weren’t any. It’s unlocked.”

  Byron opened the passenger door, releasing a cascade of snow from the doorframe. He checked the glove box and console for paperwork while Pelligrosso continued his visual inspection of the outside.

  “Did you guys find any papers?” Byron asked the wrecker driver as he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Nope. No papers, no plates, no nothing. Probably belongs to a former tenant at 52 Anderson. They tend to leave all their shit behind.”

  Byron opened the driver’s door and repeated the process, looking under the seat and above the visor. He knew how frequently the people living in the city’s assisted housing moved in and out. Many for violating the rules, breaking the law, or simply tiring of living amid all that. Some, although not nearly as many as he would have hoped, were able to move out as their financial situation improved. As he examined the interior of the dilapidated Jeep, he imagined one of the former scenarios was far more likely.

  “Sarge, can you pop the hood?” Pelligrosso asked.

  Byron pulled the release handle and exited the wreck. He looked on as his evidence tech climbed over and under the SUV, inspecting it from every angle.

  Byron pulled out his phone and rechecked the photo. It was impossible to determine whether the snow pile in the picture was the Jeep in question. He’d have to hope that whoever hooked up the junk vehicle had recorded the addresses accurately.

  “Sarge,” Pelligrosso said as he climbed out from under the hood. “I wanna tow this back to 109.”

  “You find something?”

  “Maybe.”

  Byron turned to the wrecker driver. “Can you help us with that?”

  “I’ll have to move some cars around. Give me a half hour and I’ll get a flatbed down here. Want me to call you when I get back?”

  “We’ll wait here,” Byron said.

  Several hours later amid the sickly sweet smell of antifreeze, as a stream of melting snow trickled toward the floor drain, Byron and LeRoyer knelt down to get a closer look at the metallic object lying on the floor of 109’s basement. It was only a tiny hunk of lead amid a jumble of disassembled pieces from the Liberty’s front end, but Byron knew how big a piece it might turn out to be.

  “Tell me again how we found this?” LeRoyer asked, shouting to be heard as the blower to the ceiling-mounted heating unit kicked on.

  Byron recounted the series of events that began with him reinterviewing Erlene Jackson and ended with him climbing atop the car at the shooting scene.

  “You climbed up on a car?” LeRoyer asked, as if that were the point of the story. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

  “I wanted to get a look at what Tommy Plummer would have seen that night,” Byron said as he pointed to the Jeep. “This piece of crap was abandoned on the lawn on the opposite side of Anderson Street, directly behind where Haggerty was standing when he fired.”

  “Why didn’t we check it earlier?” LeRoyer asked, looking from Byron to Pelligrosso and back.

  “Seriously, Marty?” Byron said, coming to the aid of his grease-covered evidence tech. “In addition to being several hundred feet away from our crime scene, and completely covered with snow, it was towed away Monday morning before we had a chance to finish our sweep of the area.”

  “The Jeep was facing the street,” Pelligrosso said. “The bullet fired by Plummer must have sailed over Haggerty’s head, through the grille, and into the radiator.”

  “Even if it hadn’t been covered in snow, there was no visible damage to the exterior,” Byron added.

  LeRoyer shook his head. “Well, this changes things.”

  “No,” Byron said. “Not yet it doesn’t. We still need a ballistics match, and that’s gonna be tough to do without a gun.”

  Byron looked away from his computer monitor. His eyes felt like two burned-out coals. He closed then rubbed them with his knuckles. He wondered if he was really making any progress or just keeping himself occupied. He opened his eyes and observed Internal Affairs Sergeant Brad Thibodeau standing in the darkened doorway like some bad hallucination.

  “What do you want?” Byron asked.

  Instead of responding verbally, Thibodeau entered the office carrying a manila envelope. He placed it on Byron’s desk, then stepped back.

  Byron studied the envelope. It didn’t bear the trademark confidential stamps of a complaint packet, nor did it have his name typed on a label. He looked up at Thibodeau.

  “What’s this? Another 50?”

  “Open it,” Thibodeau said.

  Byron studied the IA sergeant’s solemn expression. Unlike LeRoyer’s easy to read mug, Thibodeau’s gave nothing away.

  Byron unfastene
d the envelope’s metal security tab, then slid the contents out onto his desk. The envelope contained three eight-by-ten glossy photographs of Commander Jennings carrying a file folder. In the first photo, the commander was walking along a corridor that looked suspiciously like the one on the second floor of 109. In the second, the commander was using a key to unlock a door. The third showed him retreating down the same hallway.

  Byron looked up at Thibodeau and tossed the pictures atop the envelope. “I don’t get it. Why do I care about these?”

  The IA sergeant cleared his throat. “The surveillance camera that captured these images was installed after Jennings was promoted out of Internal Affairs. Only former Chief Stanton and I knew about it.”

  Byron glanced back at the photos.

  Thibodeau continued. “The commander, who shouldn’t have a key to IA records anyway, spent forty-five minutes in there. Check the time and date stamp.”

  Byron checked. Thibodeau was right. “And?”

  “He was in there the day before Haggerty’s old IA case was leaked to the press.”

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, 10:00 a.m.,

  January 26, 2017

  Byron was fighting to maintain his composure, simultaneously struggling with his emotions and the weight of the flag-draped casket. The visor of his uniform hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The expression on his face was grim.

  The previous evening, he had taken his dress uniform back to the condo to prep for Haggerty’s service, alone. He hadn’t been in the mood to stand in the superior officers’ locker room listening to the other supervisors and commanders proselytize over how they were all supposed to feel about the death of their brother. Byron knew all too well how he felt, and the emotion topping his list was guilt. Guilt at not having resolved the shooting incident before someone made an attempt on Haggerty’s life. He knew that locating the missing gun would never end the lingering doubts of some, about the events that had led up to the nighttime police shooting of a Portland teen. Nor would finding the gun have guaranteed that Haggerty would still be alive, instead of being carried by six of his comrades. But none of that knowledge did anything to assuage his guilt.

  Trailing Byron were Sergeant Pepin and Lieutenant LeRoyer. On the opposite side of the casket, Byron was flanked by Sergeant Crosby. Rounding out the pallbearers were Officer Curtis and Sergeant Fitzgerald. Every leather surface was buffed, every badge, button, and buckle polished. Ice crunching underfoot called cadence to their every step. Uniformed officers, lining both sides of Myrtle Street from Cumberland Avenue to Congress, stood at attention. Their raised right arms were bent sharply in silent salute. Somber notes played by a lone kilted piper drifted down the street. The instrument’s forlorn wail echoed off the walls of nearby buildings. As the six men crossed the wide concrete sidewalk, Byron glanced left toward the top of the street where the Stars and Stripes, suspended between two fully-extended fire department ladder trucks, hung lifeless in the cold morning air. He looked away, then slowly climbed up and over the threshold through the side entrance of Merrill Auditorium.

  Byron and his fellow pallbearers delivered Haggerty’s casket to the center of the stage before exiting on opposite sides, taking empty floor seats at the rear of the auditorium. LeRoyer sat down next to Byron, wordlessly leaving an empty seat between them. The vacant chair was less about the divide that had grown between the two men than it was a symbolic gesture designed to give both officers a private space in which to grieve. One by one, dignitaries took to the stage. Words of comfort were spoken along with the occasional humorous tale about one of Haggerty’s exploits, and there had been many. The crowd’s laughter momentarily kept their overwhelming grief at bay. Surprisingly, some of the funniest anecdotes came from the department chaplain, Father Barrett.

  Following one particularly uplifting moment, Acting Chief Rumsfeld took to the stage for the final time. Byron had done his best to prepare for this very moment, trying to steel himself against the flood of emotions he knew the ceremonial last radio call would bring to everyone in attendance. A brief squeal of feedback filled the packed hall as the chief was connected to the police dispatcher remotely from the podium.

  Rumsfeld keyed the microphone. “Car One.”

  “Go ahead, Car One,” the dispatcher replied.

  “Would you please raise unit 932?”

  “Ten-four, Car One. 932.”

  The auditorium was filled with tension, but the only sound was the electronic buzz of the open radio link. After a moment the dispatcher spoke again.

  “Headquarters calling 932.”

  Again, there was a pause and again only silence. Byron, along with every officer in attendance, hoped and prayed for Haggerty’s voice to answer loud and clear, telling the dispatcher that he was ten-four. A-okay. Right as rain. Ready for duty. Anything but what he actually was.

  “932,” the dispatcher called one last time.

  The sound of sobbing, coming from various places throughout the auditorium, now accompanied the sound of the open radio link.

  Byron made the mistake of looking up at the backs of the officers seated in front of him. The battle-hardened warriors in blue had transformed into a sea of Jell-O. Each pair of shoulders bounced up and down, racked by the sobs of their grieving owners. He stole a sideways glance at his lieutenant. A watery-eyed LeRoyer wasn’t faring any better.

  Rumsfeld keyed the microphone on his remote transmitter. “Car One, to Dispatch.”

  “Car One, go ahead,” the dispatcher replied.

  After a brief pause Rumsfeld pressed on, his voice cracking. “Car One, 932, Officer Sean Haggerty, is ten-seven for the final time.”

  “Ten-four, Car One. I show 932, ten-seven. Godspeed, Officer Haggerty.”

  Byron hung his head and wept.

  The ambient noise inside the packed Italian Heritage Center function room was deafening. Located on Westland Avenue, behind the Westgate Shopping Center in the Libby Town section of the city, the ITHI banquet hall had been the epicenter of activity for Portland’s Italian-American community since 1977. Large framed black-and-white photos of the ITHI’s past presidents, several of whom had served on the police force, graced the entry hall.

  Byron had lost count of how many police banquets, award ceremonies, and retirement parties he’d attended here over the years. The irony of holding a funeral reception for an Irish cop at an Italian banquet hall was not lost on him. But the gesture, which would not have sat well with his father’s generation, now meant nothing more than some lighthearted ribbing between friends. Times change.

  Byron sat alone at a corner table far from the buzz of activity at the bar. Still attired in the uncomfortable dress uniform, his shirt collar was open and a gray clip-on tie hung limply from its decorative brass clip. His thoughts were muddled, swirling between memories of his murdered friend and what he might still be able to do to clear Haggerty’s name.

  Sipping from a diet soda, and wishing the glass contained less ice and something far stronger, aged at least four years, Byron’s attention was drawn to a nearby table where Sergeant Kenny Crosby was holding court with a handful of younger officers. Crosby’s voice boomed out in typical bravado fashion, making himself heard above the crowd. The two men made eye contact. Crosby shifted gears.

  “See Sergeant Byron over there, boys?” Crosby said, amplifying his voice even further. “Sitting with all of his friends?” Crosby raised his longneck to the other officers seated around his table. “Let that be a lesson to all of you. Never forget which team you play for.”

  Byron turned away, not caring to take the bait nor suffer though any more of Crosby’s drunken soliloquy. He caught LeRoyer looking in his direction and gave a slight nod. The lieutenant was standing amid a group of his fellow team commanders, separated from the lesser ranks like a clique at a high school dance. Bars and stripes, Byron thought.

  “You’ve got some balls, John.” It was Crosby again.

  Slowly Byron turned to face the in
stigator.

  Crosby loomed over Byron, leering down at him, flanked on either side by several of the younger officers who had come to watch the show.

  “Who do you think you are, turning your back on me?” Crosby slurred. Byron rose from his chair to confront him.

  “I’m facing you now, Kenny,” Byron said. “And I gotta tell ya, I’m not finding you half as impressive as you seem to think you are.”

  Crosby’s eyes narrowed, as if he hadn’t expected Byron to poke back.

  “You’ve got some nerve even being here today,” Crosby said. “Helping the AG’s office bury a good cop like Haggerty. You’re a fucking disgrace to the badge.”

  Byron grinned, intentionally looking to provoke Crosby further. “Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”

  Crosby swung first, but in his inebriated state he telegraphed the roundhouse right so badly that Byron ducked it with ease. Not wanting to risk another swing from the muscled-up drug sergeant, Byron lowered his head and dove straight into Crosby. Wrapping his arms around Crosby’s torso, Byron used his legs to drive himself forward, knocking both of them into one of the round banquet tables, upending it. Crosby grunted in surprise as the air was expelled from his lungs. The two men landed hard on the ceramic tile floor, amid the shattering of glass bottles and the clatter of overturned chairs. Byron recovered first, climbing on top of Crosby, then delivering several punches to the face of the stunned provocateur.