Clipper walked out to the public lobby and waited patiently as the two TV reporters set up their camera shots. When they were ready, he was succinct. “Last night, Mr. William Owens, age fifty-seven was murdered in his home at 235 Broadway,” he said. “Our investigation has just begun and, as yet, we have no suspects.”
“How was he killed?” “Was it a robbery?” The two youthful TV reporters tried to outshout each other while the veteran police beat reporter from Bangor News leaned against the wall and jotted notes into a narrow notebook.
Clipper held up his hands. “I’m not going to discuss any part of the investigation at this point,” he said firmly. “Once we get things sorted out, we’ll provide you with more information.” Clipper did not view the press as his natural enemy as many police officers did, but he was well aware of how easily their efforts to protect the public’s right to know could undermine an investigation, and felt no compunction in turning on his heel with a curt, “Thank you.”, and leaving the reporters standing in the lobby.
Chapter 2.4
Bangor had the dubious distinction of having hosted the bloodiest shootout in New England law enforcement history, and Clipper was generally familiar with the town lore of the 1937 capture of Lester Edgewink and the fatal shootings of the other two members of his Boston gang.
“They came and we killed ‘em.” Clipper reached out to accept the cup of coffee offered by Councilman Bass. “Get a bunch of guys with guns and have them shoot everyone in sight and you’ll be pretty much historically correct.”
“Hey, Clip,” said the other man, grinning hugely, “I’d never have gone to the chief if I’d known how much grief it would cause.” He broke into a laugh. “Man, the look on your face… I thought you were going to explode.” The two men were in Ed Bass’s real estate office at eight o’clock the next morning.
Clipper felt enough at ease with his old friend to speak out of school a little. “Ed, that guy knows about as much about law enforcement as your wife does. He may impress the hell out of you guys on the council, but he just gets in the way of real cops.” Clipper sighed. “Anyway, what do we need to do to get this show on the road? We’ve got the original pictures and the gang’s guns and some other stuff at the station. I could make a list of the types of weapons you’d need, and I might be able to find some of the old reports.”
Bass sobered. “Good, but I think we’ve got the reports covered. The Bangor News is sending over a reporter to help. I understand he’s made something of hobby of researching the shootout and has copies of all the reports and articles.”
Ten minutes later, the two men were seated at the desk jotting down some preliminary plans when there was a knock and the office door opened to admit a tall slender young man with red hair and moustache, carrying a battered briefcase. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants, a Red Sox tee shirt and aviator style sunglasses.
“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand. “Councilman Bass? I’m Colin Murch from the News.”
Bass got up and shook hands. “Call me Ed, and this is Tom Clipper, from the Police Department. Glad to have your help.”
Murch stretched to shake Clipper’s hand. “No. Thank you!” he said grinning. “I’ve been fascinated by the Edgewink gang since I was in high school and this is a great excuse to really spend some time on it.”
“Shouldn’t take too much time,” Clipper said. “From what I remember, they were only in town for a day and the shootout only lasted a few minutes.”
Murch looked serious. “Actually, the shootout lasted less than a minute.” He looked sideways at Bass. “And the outcome was not exactly flattering to Bangor.”
“Yeah,” muttered Clipper, a little uneasy in the presence of the bright, young reporter, “the casualty count was something like ten or twelve to three, in their favor.”
“Fourteen to three,” corrected Murch, “five cops, including the Chief of police, and one civilian dead, eight cops wounded, and only one of the gang members ever actually fired a shot.” He shook his head slowly. “It was quite a circus that day but, for me, the real story is what happened before and after the shootout. From an historical point of view, the Edgewink gang were some of the most successful outlaws in this country’s history,” the reporter continued excitedly. “They conducted an eighteen-month crime spree in Boston the likes of which has never been equaled, and not one red cent of the loot they took has ever been recovered.”
“Huh,” snorted Clipper. “That money probably went to women and liquor as fast as they stole it.”
“They lived pretty well, but I’m not sure three guys could have spent $100,000, or more, in eighteen months in Boston in 1937,” mused Murch, but even if they could, there’s still jewelry estimated at $300,000, in 1937 dollars, unaccounted for. Most of their robberies were high-end jewelry stores, and they did at least one bank, and they were damn good at what they did.”
Clipper whistled. “We’ve got a collection of the stuff they had on them when they died at the station, but I don’t think there was more than a couple hundred in cash.”
“How do you know all this,” asked Ed Bass, shaking his head at Murch.
“Like I said, the gang fascinates me. I’ve been researching them for years. When I came here for the job at the News, I started volunteering at the Hospital, chasing down that end of the story, and it just kept pulling me in.” He grinned at Clipper. “I met my girlfriend, Wanda, there. She’s a psychiatric aide, in their psychiatric nursing program, and that gave me even more reasons to hang around.”
Murch opened his briefcase on the desk and pulled out a sheaf of 8” x 10” black and white photos. “This is some of the local material I’ve collected.”
Clipper and Bass perused the old photos, most of which they had both seen before in various presentations of Bangor history. As always, Clipper was fascinated by the candid views of the past. Whenever he viewed one of these sharp, old black and white photos, he always found himself scanning the background closely, almost expecting the people to start moving and talking, and he always felt that he was on the verge of seeing the next instant in their lives. ‘Yeah, like a Stephen King story,’ he chided himself silently studying a familiar photo in which the bodies still lay, uncovered, in the bloodstained parking lot. Marveling, as always, at the large crowd standing around gawking, fresh shock and horror etched forever on their faces, Clipper tried to imagine the enormity of dealing with such an event today.
“These,” Murch said, pulling a smaller packet of photos from the briefcase, “you may not have seen before. They’re from Boston Police and F.B.I. files and have more to do with the gang’s activity in the Boston area.”
Clipper recognized typical crime scene photos depicting the armed robbery aftermaths of shattered display cases, gaping safes and wide-eyed, white-faced employees. Of more interest to him, were the photos of personal items recovered from the rooms of the gang members, and photos of the gang members themselves at different stages of their lives. He noted that many of the photos were posed with weapons of various types, including submachine guns, sawed-off rifles and shotguns as well as pistols, knives and, in one case, a hand grenade.
“It’s a good thing they were traveling light when they came here,” he remarked. “They sure liked their weapons.”
Clipper idly turned several of the photos over and then looked at the reporter. “These pictures are originals, marked as part of an F.B.I. case file,” he said. “How did you manage to come by them?”
Murch grinned. “Sorry,” he said, “that’s a source I can’t reveal. I’ve got a lot more of it though, articles, witness accounts. If you want to get together sometime, I’ll show it to you.”
Clipper grinned back, liking the young reporter despite his initial reserve. “Let me give you a call. Right now, I need to get to the station and see what’s happening with my homicide investigation. That is,” he continued, casting a wry at Councilman Bass, “if I can be officially released from this critical, high level advisory tas
k.” Chuckling at the Councilman’s roar of laughter and the puzzled look on Murch’s face, Clipper left the office and strolled across the street to his truck. Just as he opened the door, his police radio came to life.
‘Bangor, all cars, all cars. St. Stephens, New Brunswick PD reports bank robbery suspect possibly crossed the border at Calais this am. Be on the lookout for a dark blue 2000 Chevy Lumina bearing New Brunswick registration Mike India Golf 449. Repeating, MIG-449. Vehicle registered to Susan McMaster, St. John, New Brunswick. Unknown male occupant, consider armed and dangerous.’
Clipper grabbed a pad of sticky notes from his console and jotted down the vehicle description and registration. He stuck the note on top of an older one on the dashboard and headed for the police station.
Chapter 2.5
The Bangor Police Station was a five year old, three story building faced in stone and brick. It sat between two parking lots on a spacious plot at the edge of Bangor’s downtown, built when the department outgrew the dingy quarters it had shared with the fire department since the early 50’s, and Clipper still felt a little like an imposter when he walked through its modern entrance. With the Patrol Division, Dispatch Services and public lobby on the first floor, the rest of the building was tightly secured by card locks and an elevator which could be remotely locked from the lobby information window or dispatch center. The spacious basement level housed a four-position fifty-foot firing range and the evidence and identification labs, with the traffic and records divisions on the second floor and the Criminal Division and department administrative offices occupying the third.
Clipper took the elevator to the third floor and slipped through the bull pen, empty except for detective Ken Thomas talking earnestly on the phone, and into his office to begin scanning the pile of reports relating to the Owens homicide. After being reviewed and initialed by Clipper, written reports from everyone who played any role in the investigation, from the dispatcher who took the initial call and all responding officers to the follow up investigators and labs technicians, would be assembled into a casebook. The major crime casebook was one or more large, indexed three ring binders, done in triplicate. When the case was closed, one book went to the prosecutor, one became the defense attorney’s discovery and one remained with the police department. In Maine, all homicides were prosecuted by the State Attorney General’s Office, and all homicide investigations were done by the State Police with the exception of those occurring in the Cities of Portland and Bangor. Clipper was very proud that his department had passed the Attorney General’s muster in terms of the training and investigative skills needed for these important cases, and he was fiercely protective of that status. In important cases, Clipper made it his personal responsibility to see that the casebook was complete, that it contained proof of the elements needed to get a conviction, and offered no free shots to the defense.
After dealing with the homicide follow-ups, Clipper grabbed the pile of incident reports from the last two Patrol shifts. The second one down was the report of a burglary into a house with the theft of a dozen firearms. Burglaries were not uncommon in Bangor, looked upon by street people, dropouts and drones as a practical supplemental employment opportunity, but the usual take consisted of loose change and the occasional I-pad. Clipper scanned the appended list of weapons, wincing when he realized that they were not just a collection of hunting rifles. Three lugers, two colt peacemakers, a Henry rifle and six vintage Winchesters, suggested considerable loss, and the dollar amount plus the firearm involvement would push this crime in the Class A felony bracket. Clipper set the report aside while he dealt with the rest of the stack, and then called Ellen Davis into his office.
Ellen Davis was a sturdy 5 foot seven blond, an eight year veteran of the force, recently promoted into the Criminal Division after surviving an accident that had totaled her cruiser during a high speed chase. Ellen, a graduate of the State Police Pursuit Driving School, had been in complete control and gaining on the stolen Mazda when a seventy-two year old retired minister t-boned her in a wide open intersection. The accident had left her with chronic lower back pain which put an end to ten hour shifts behind the wheel. Clipper had found her to be a tireless worker and good, if sometimes a little too much by-the-book, investigator.
“This one needs some special attention,” he said passing her the report when she stepped into his office.
Davis quickly scanned the report, pursing her lips soundlessly when she got to the list of guns. “I suppose you want the guns back and somebody locked up?” she said.
Clipper grinned. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said with mock formality. “Preferably before they start shooting at us with them.”
When Davis left, Clipper took a cigar box of gun cleaning supplies from his desk draw and upholstered the old 1911 .45 Colt automatic he carried on his right hip in a worn bianchi model 5 high-ride rig. The venerable weapon had been with his grandfather at Normandy and, original except for new combat sights, new grips and a light accuracy job, it suited Clipper far better than one of the lighter nine millimeter autos carried by the rest of the department. As he began the familiar task of dismantling and cleaning the already spotless weapon, he freed his mind to try to imagine the motive that led to the Owens’ death. Nothing he’d read in the investigative reports indicated anything unusual in the life of Bill Owens. Neighbors and acquaintances told of a quiet, financially stable man who worked hard and enjoyed fishing and working around his house. There was no history of domestic violence, in fact no criminal history whatsoever. Clipper wondered if the killing might have happened during an abortive burglary, but that didn’t have the right feel. Perhaps a sexual liaison gone bad… As the pistol went back together, he realized that he was groping for alternatives to the most likely suspect. Snorting, he reloaded and holstered the .45 and went looking for his sergeant.
John Peters was just escorting an older, gray haired lady, dressed in a shapeless blue dress and sandals, out of his office when Clipper found him.
“Lieutenant,” John said, this is Mrs. Butler. She lives across the street from the Mr. and Mrs. Owens.”
Clipper smiled. “We appreciate your coming in, Ma’am,” he said. “We really rely on what people notice in cases like this.”
“Well,” breathed the elderly lady, swelling in self-importance, “I can tell you, I knew no good would come of that marriage. If you ask me, she was just looking for his money. I saw her sneaking around last night, and I knew she was up to no good.” Mrs. Butler drew herself up and pointed a gnarled finger at Clipper. “You’ll see! In my day, a lady didn’t marry an older man and then just up and leave. I bet she planned the whole thing with her lover!”
Behind Mrs. Butler, Peters smiled and rolled his eyes to let Clipper know he’d gotten the entire story.
“Well, you can be sure we’ll find out what happened,” Clipper said. “Thanks for helping out.”
Peters was laughing outright by the time they got seated at his desk. “That one’s got it all wrapped up,” he said grinning.
“Lover?” prompted Clipper.
“Well, she couldn’t actually swear to a lover, but she couldn’t see any other reason why a woman would leave a perfectly good husband like Mr. Owens.” Peters chuckled. “Apparently Owens had a wife that died some years back, and Mrs. Butler thinks she set a pretty high standard.”
“Did she really see Mrs. Owens last night?” asked Clipper.
Peters sobered. “I think she did,” he said, slowly. “She said she noticed the wife’s car parked a little ways down the street, instead of in the driveway and watched until she saw her come out from behind the house and drive away about 11:00 o’clock. It caught her attention because there were no lights on in the house and she knew Mrs. Owens was staying at her mother’s. Says she didn’t see anyone else.” Peters leaned back in his chair. “So far, I.D. hasn’t found anything unusual in the latents; there’s nothing at the crime scene to indicate a stranger was in the house, and Angelo sa
ys Rupert Jones still looks clean. The post won’t be done until late afternoon, but I don’t think we’re going to see any surprises there.” He looked up. “I think she’s it, Clip. Let’s bring her in before she splits or lawyers up.”
Clipper and Peters took an unmarked cruised and stopped by a Mc Donald’s for a quick lunch before driving to the Thompson residence on Oak Street. They were met in the front yard by Janice Owens’s mother, a tanned, slender woman of indeterminate years dressed in faded jeans, a long-sleeved top, sun-hat and ragged gardening gloves. Janice is sleeping,” she said firmly. “You’ll have to come back later.”
Clipper smiled, liking her feisty manner. “It’s important that we get Janice’s statement as soon as possible,” he said. “Why don’t we see if she’s awake.”
Mrs. Thompson bristled. “Why don’t you…”
“It’s ok, Mom,” interrupted Janice Owens from the front door step. “I’m up, and these men have a job to do.”
“Yes, of course I remember my rights. I’ll tell you anything I can to help you get whoever killed my husband.” Janice Owens sat pale and rigid on the edge of her chair in an interview room. They’d driven her back to the station chatting about their family histories in Bangor and people they knew in common, and now Clipper sat in front of her with John Peters off to one side in an informal grouping that they hoped would help keep her at ease.
Clipper made a point of leaning back, relaxing in his chair. “Mrs. Owens… Janice, please tell me about your relationship with your husband.”
Janice Owens took a deep, shaky breath. “Bill and I have been married nine years. His first wife died in 1990, and his son, Albert was killed in Afghanistan in 2011. He was a Captain in the Army. Albert’s death changed Bill. He began losing interest in everything - his business, the house, even me. He shut out his friends, wouldn’t talk to anybody... I couldn’t take it anymore and I finally told him I wanted a divorce.” She blinked back tears. “He didn’t even seem to care about that.”
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