by Carl Schmidt
I noticed that Cynthia was sitting on the porch, so I called to her and asked if she wanted some coffee. She got up and quickly came inside.
“Have you heard?” she asked. “Travis was arrested this morning at six o’clock. He’s being held as a material witness in the murder.”
“Whoa!” I said. “No wonder he was so testy with me on the phone yesterday afternoon. He probably saw it coming.”
“You talked to him yesterday?” Cynthia asked.
“I tried, but he hung up on me. I expected as much though. We didn’t exactly have a history of being friends. The only other time I had ever spoken with him, I threatened his job.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Could he be involved in the murder? We know he didn’t pull the trigger.”
“I guess it’s possible, but it still is a total shock. There is some logic to it though. He is my ex, and he knew that I was secretly dating his boss, if you can call William his boss. But murder? I never would have thought he’d go that far. We were married for six years. Until the evening at the campaign party when I met William, Travis had always been sweet to me. I don’t know whether I should be angry or sad. I can’t avoid either emotion right now.”
Just then my office phone rang. I hustled down the hall, picked it up and noticed that the caller ID read “Kennebec County Jail.”
“Hello,” I said. “This is Jesse Thorpe.”
“Jesse, this is Travis Perkins. I’ve been arrested, and I’m being held as a material witness in the murder of Governor Lavoilette. I think they intend to charge me with first-degree murder. They have ballistic fingerprints on the bullet that killed the governor, and they match those from my gun. They’ve determined that my weapon was used to kill the governor. But I’m pretty sure they don’t actually have the gun, otherwise they would have confronted me with it.”
“How do they know the markings match your gun?” I asked.
“It’s standard practice to keep a record of all law enforcement weapons. They test-fire our guns and keep the ballistic fingerprints on file. Someone stole my gun, Jesse. It was taken from my home while I was away this past weekend. I didn’t kill the governor. This is nuts. I’ve been set up. You’re already on the case, I want to hire you.”
“Really?” I said. “Do you have a lawyer yet?”
“No. You are the first person I’ve called.”
Charles Dudley Warner was right once again; politics does make strange bedfellows.
“All right. We’ll need to talk, but not over the phone. Do you have any idea when you can have visitors?”
“Not yet. As soon as I secure a lawyer, I want the two of you to work together. For now, I’ll just say that I’ve been set up in an extraordinary way. It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. I never saw it coming.”
“OK. I’ll keep following the leads that I’ve been working on until I hear from you again,” I said.
“I have some money, not much, but enough to pay you. Thanks. And I’m sorry for being gruff with you yesterday. Everything’s different now. I have to go.”
“Bye,” I said. And we were disconnected.
“Whoa,” I said for the second time in five minutes, “and it’s only 7:15 in the morning.”
Cynthia had come into the room as I was talking on the phone. From what she heard of my conversation, she gathered it was Travis and that he had joined my growing list of clients.
“So Travis is hiring you now,” she said. “If this keeps up, you’ll be the most sought after PI in New England.”
“Let’s hope the seeking doesn’t spill over to the FBI and the Maine State Police. They probably would toss my billing invoices in the trash anyway.”
“Did Travis tell you anything about his situation?”
“He said he was framed.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I said. “It’s probably a little early in the morning to get that information on the license plate, but I’ll give it a try.”
I checked my email and found that the response had come in from docusearch.com just a few minutes earlier. The message read:
“Maine License plate - GOFURS
Registered to - Frank Hayden, 622 Lindlay Rd, Brunswick, ME 04011
Phone - NA
Vehicle - 2008 Ford F-150, Red
VIN - 1FTLX17W78167396”
“Cynthia, look, the license plate you saw on the back of the Honda CRV is registered to a 2008 red Ford F-150 truck. Obviously the license plate was stolen. You told me that when the driver left the murder scene, he rounded the corner, stopped and then walked around to the back of his vehicle. You then heard a couple of thuds. He may have tossed the license plate and even the gun. He wouldn’t want to have those on or in his car if he were pulled over on his way into Brunswick.
“While we are here at the computer, I’ll bring up a map and survey the murder scene,” I said.
I pulled up Google Maps and typed in Brunswick, Maine. The map came up, and I zoomed in on the intersection where the FBI stopped my car.
“OK, here it is. Show me where the murder took place and where the CRV stopped. Also, try to pinpoint where you think the sound of those thuds came from.”
Cynthia pointed to the exact spot of the murder and to the place on the highway where the CRV stopped around the corner. Her best guess was that the thuds came from the far side of Highway 24, to the west.
I dragged the icon of the “little orange man” onto the highway for a roadside view. The series of photographs along the highway was very clear. I rotated the image so that we were looking west across the highway from the spot where the driver had stopped. We had pretty much the same view that the murderer had, except that he was in the dark. However, the headlights on the governor’s car would have illuminated the road reasonably well.
There was a guardrail on the west side of the highway. Beyond that, a wide swath of wild brush grew in front of a stand of trees. There was a driveway to a home on that side of the road, but the home was completely hidden from the road by trees. I began thinking aloud to include Cynthia.
“I’m not sure if the FBI search ranged to the west side of Highway 24. So if my guess is right about what had been tossed, the FBI might not have found those items. There had been no crime tape on that side of the highway, so there is a good chance they didn’t look there. If they had located a gun, I’m sure they would have roped that area off. And if the police had spotted a license plate, they could easily have dismissed it as unrelated.
“If the assailant tried to throw his beard, towel or gloves separately, they probably wouldn’t have carried beyond the highway. They might have been dropped on the east side of the road. That was in the area that had been cordoned off. Then again, he might have bundled them and pitched them to the west, or perhaps even further down the road from his moving car.
“The towel was probably used to conceal the gun as William approached, and it would have doubled as a silencer to keep the blast as quiet as possible. So it probably has some powder marks on it.
“There’s something else to consider. At first when you told me that the assailant must have dragged Michael’s body down the embankment, I wondered why he would do that. Now I think that he did that to delay the discovery of the body, giving him more time to flee the area.
“What do you think, Cynthia?” I asked. “Does any of this sound plausible to you?”
“Yes. Everything you just said makes sense.”
“I’ll try and get Frank Hayden’s phone number and ask him about his license plate.”
I called information and got his phone number. It was still early, but I decided to call anyway.
“Mawnin’.”
“Hello, is this Frank Hayden?” I asked.
“Ah-yuh.”
“Mr. Hayden, my name is Jesse Thorpe. I am sorry to call you this early in the morning, but I am investigating a minor automobile accident. A vehicle with the license plate, ‘GOFURS,’ was seen
leaving the accident. That plate belongs to you. Is that plate on your 2008 Ford F-150?”
“Ah-yuh, that it tis, but there’s been no accident.”
“I see,” I said. “It’s possible someone misread the plate. Is your plate still on your truck?”
“Hahd tellin’, without lookin’.”
“Would you be kind enough to check?”
“Shuwah,” he said.
I heard his footsteps, so he must have carried his phone with him. About a half minute later he bemoaned, “By thundah, mah plate’s missin’. That’s damn wicked, it is. It didn’t fall off. Some pissant mustah stole it.”
“Can you possibly recall the last time you actually saw your license plate?” I asked.
“Ah-yuh. Washed mah truck Wednesday mawnin’ last, after haulin’ a load of chicken dressing to the gahden. I remembah washin’ off the plate. Coated with mud, it was. That’s the last I saw it.”
“We figured the plate had been stolen, because it was on a totally different vehicle. I’m sorry to disturb you about this. I guess you’ll have to contact the Maine DMV and report that your plate is missing.”
“I guess prob’ly.”
“Tell me something, Frank,” I said. “I was wondering what ‘GOFURS’ stands for?”
“Gotta nephew plays football up to the University of Minnesota.”
“Oh, yes. They are the Golden Gophers, aren’t they?” I said.
“Ah-yuh.”
“I suppose the license plate ‘G-O-P-H-E-R-S’ was already taken at the DMV.”
“Don’t know. Didn’t check that one.” Frank paused a moment and then said, “Nevah been good at spellin’.”
That took me a little by surprise. I wondered how long Frank had been down on the farm. I hemmed and hawed long enough to create an uncomfortable pause in our conversation. Then Frank added, “Gotchah!”
“That you did, Frank. That you did.”
“Nice talkin’ to yah, Mistah Thawpe.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Frank.”
City slickers are fair game for Mainers like Frank Hayden.
• • •
“Have you had breakfast yet, Cynthia?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“I want to check in on the surveillance of your house first, and then let’s eat. We can talk about what is next on our investigation agenda for today.”
I scanned the video feed from my cameras, but found nothing significant on the motion log.
“Now that Travis has been arrested, your name might surface; you are his ex wife. I guess we’ll have to wait and see how that develops.”
We walked together to the kitchen. Cynthia offered to cook some eggs and toast.
“The pasta was so good last night, I can’t wait to see what’s next,” I said.
“How do you like your eggs?” she asked.
“Over easy.”
“Do you have any bacon?” she asked.
“Angele is a strict vegan and doesn’t allow bacon on the premises. She says it comes from pigs.”
“She’s right about that.”
“She’ll never hear me say, ‘I bring it home.’ There’s no need to rile her up, and besides, she makes more money than I do.”
“Angele seems to wear the pants in the family,” Cynthia said.
“Sometimes,” I said, and winked. “I’ll clear out of here and let you do your thing. I want to check the news and see what’s cookin’ there.”
But…like it is so often, there was nothing really new on the news this morning.
Cynthia added some chiles and salsa to the eggs. I liked that. They made me think of Angele. Of course, lots of things were having that effect on me. I hadn’t seen her now for about ten days. I checked my watch and did the math. Make that eight-and-a-half days. When she left here in the evening, Sunday before last, she took my heart with her, as is her custom. I’ve been pining ever since.
Cynthia and I ate together in the breakfast nook next to the kitchen. We were both finishing our coffee when I asked, “Do you happen to know if Richard went to college?”
“Oh, yes,” Cynthia replied. “He went to Harvard. He got both his undergraduate and law degrees there.”
I filed that away.
“I have a little more research to do this morning before meeting Richard for lunch. Has anything else occurred to you about William’s life that might help with our investigation?” I asked.
“Not really. Other than the two women I already mentioned, and, of course, Rebecca, I don’t know of any other women that William might have known personally. As I told you, he and I didn’t talk about women or politics. All that I know about his political fights, I gleaned from the media. Probably the two most contentious political issues he faced involved gold mining on Bald Mountain and fracking for natural gas.”
“I have researched both of those issues,” I said. “It seems that William was opposed to the mining of gold, and he wanted the state to wait and see about fracking. He was delaying his decision until more definitive studies were done to determine how that process might affect our drinking water and the water in lakes and rivers.”
“Right. I’m sure there are dozens of other political issues lurking about. Fortunes are made and lost by political decisions,” Cynthia noted.
“Yes, that whole area of the investigation is virtually limitless. Until something obviously political pops up on the radar, I’m going to pursue the personal angle. The state police and the FBI are much better equipped to survey the political landscape. I’ll look into the money, personal grudges and women.”
Cynthia didn’t flinch. I wondered if she plays poker.
I excused myself and went to my office. The fatal car accident had happened at 11:00 PM on October 17, 1987. That was a Saturday night. Richard was probably home from Harvard for the weekend. Since he apparently had a date that evening, there was a good possibility that it was a high school friend. I pulled up Ancestry.com, a popular site in the PI trade, and ran a search for both Lisa Hilliard and Virginia Latham. I began by assuming they were both from Bath. I knew they were born in 1968, give or take a year.
In short order, I was able to locate information on both women—their birthplaces, dates, and their parents’ names. I also discovered that Virginia graduated from Morse High School, just like William. Bob and Laura Latham were the parents of Virginia Latham, and they still lived in Bath. I decided to give them a call. Laura picked up on the second ring.
“Good morning.”
“Hello, is this the Latham residence,” I asked.
“Yes it is. I’m Laura Latham. Can I help you?”
“My name is Jesse Thorpe,” I said. “I live in Augusta, and I am investigating the murder of William Lavoilette. I’m looking into his early life to get a better idea about his background. I understand that William and your daughter, Virginia, were friends in high school. Is that correct?”
“I can’t believe someone would want to kill William. He was such a great guy. Yes, Virginia knew William well. They dated for two years in high school and for another year while William was in Bowdoin.”
“I see. Do you remember William very well?”
“Certainly. He was very pleasant and bright. Both Bob and I liked him a great deal. We were disappointed when Virginia and William broke up. But that was a long time ago.”
“Did you see much of William after he graduated from Bowdoin?”
“Occasionally we would see him around town. But it wasn’t long before his charter boating business expanded along the coast. After that, he wasn’t around here that much. And, of course, he was married by then. Virginia was married as well. They didn’t stay in close contact at that point. I remember talking to Virginia about William when he was running for governor. She said she hadn’t heard from him in nearly ten years.”
“Well, Mrs. Latham, thank you so much for your time. I hope I didn’t disturb you so early in the morning.”
“No problem. I’m an early riser. Go
odbye.”
Next came the Hilliards. Frank and Jennifer Hilliard were Lisa’s parents. According to Ancestors.com, Frank Hilliard passed away in 2004. I was able to locate five Jennifer Hilliards in Maine, but only one seemed to be the right age. She lived in the Portland area. I gave her a ring.
“Hello.”
“Jennifer Hilliard?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Jesse Thorpe. I live in Augusta, and I am investigating the murder of Governor Lavoilette. I am doing some research on the governor’s friends and associates while he was in high school. I came upon the tragic story of the traffic accident that took Lisa’s life. First, I just want to be sure if I have the right Jennifer Hilliard. Are you Lisa’s mother?”
There was a long pause, and then she said, “Yes. Lisa was my daughter.”
“I’m sorry to dredge up painful memories for you, Mrs. Hilliard. Would it be all right if I ask you a few questions?”
“It’s OK. This all happened very long ago.”
“Thank you,” I said. I hesitated a moment and then asked, “How well did Lisa know William?”
“I don’t really know. Lisa was dating Richard Merrill at the time of the accident, and Richard was a good friend of William. I have no idea how well Lisa knew William.”
“I’m puzzled by something,” I said. “The accident report indicated that William was driving and Lisa was sitting in the front passenger seat. William’s date was in the back seat, and it was Richard’s car. I wonder if William really was driving the car?”
“No. He wasn’t. Richard was driving. We all knew that. William’s parents knew. Richard’s parents knew. We all knew. But Richard was drunk, and William was sober. Frank wanted Richard punished, but I persuaded him to just let it go. Nothing was going to bring Lisa back. By the time the police arrived on the scene, William and Richard had already agreed to change the story. Even if we had spoken up about it, I doubt it would have changed anything. We had no direct proof anyway. Years later I spoke with Virginia Latham. She confirmed that Richard was driving.”