Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  Richard chuckled. “What did you think of Jean Pierre?” he asked, with a wink.

  It didn’t require Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the two of them were similarly aligned, though I doubted they were a couple. Jean Pierre had been rather formal when speaking to Richard, calling him “Mr. Merrill.” Nonetheless, I felt the need to answer Richard’s question in a politically correct way. After all, I was sitting in the Capitol Building.

  “Jean Pierre is a piece of work,” I said. “But I liked him immediately. I hope he realized I was pulling his leg about the ribs.”

  “He’s a little over the top. I liked the way you placed your beverage order. I believe your finger gesture got under his skin just a bit. Don’t worry, though. Lots of stuff gets under his skin. That’s just who he is. I would wager twenty dollars, that if you went back there a month from now, he’d put a ‘glass of water with a lemon twist’ in front of you when he greets you at the table.”

  I removed a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to Richard. “That’s a bet,” I said. “You hold the money. We’ll go back a month from now, and you can give me forty if he forgets the lemon twist. I’ll simply ask for water, and we’ll see what he delivers.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  “And Richard, I’m sure you are an honorable man, so I assume I don’t have to mention that there will be no prepping Jean Pierre in the interim.”

  “You are right. There is no need to mention it.”

  “I’m glad that I didn’t.”

  Richard smiled as we shook hands.

  14

  Oh, That Shark Bites

  I find it interesting that the Augusta Spiritualist Church is located directly behind the Kennebec County Jail, and both have a bird’s eye view of the Kennebec County Superior Court, situated across the street. I could imagine a symbiotic relationship between the church and the jail. From the church’s point of view, there are a lot of potential customers hanging around with time on their hands—a captive audience, so to speak—seeking redemption. On the flip side, the Sheriff might figure that if a prisoner can find religion on his way to the courthouse, he’d be less likely to commit perjury when he gets there.

  For the moment, Angele provides me with all the religion I can handle, so I went straight to the jail without stopping at the church. Besides, I wanted to arrive a little early for my meeting with Randall Bradford, Attorney at Law. My friend, Sergeant Brock Powell, works in the Sheriff’s department. He’s often stationed at the jail to receive prisoners. When I arrived, there were TV news trucks lining the street, and inside, the place was swarming with officers and plainclothesmen. I managed to spot Brock at the main desk.

  “Brock,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  “Jesse, what are you doing here? You know we always have a bed waiting for you when you need a place to stay.”

  “I’ve been keeping my nose clean, Brock. But it’s good to know I have a friend here, if I’m ever hauled into the neighborhood.”

  “Playing any gigs in town these days?” he asked.

  “We are playing in Bangor on Saturday. I got a call from Billy last week. He said there was a possibility that we’ll be playing at the Raincloud in Gardiner on Friday, but that’s not firm yet.”

  “Let me know about Friday. I might be able to make it. So…what brings you here?”

  “I have a client who is staying in your hotel.”

  “Really? A VIP arrived just this morning.”

  “I figure he’s the one. Travis Perkins. He is either a current or former member of the Maine State Police.”

  “Jesse, we never rush to judgment. He’s on temporary leave.”

  Brock scratched his head for a second and screwed up his face, “I seem to recall that once, a couple of years ago, you confronted Travis outside his ex wife’s house.”

  “He’s my ‘friend’ now, I guess. Well, I should say, ‘He’s paying to be my friend.’”

  “He sure was hot when they brought him in.”

  “Can you give me any inside scoop on the evidence they have against him?” I asked.

  “I’m not at liberty, Jesse. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to try. I could get you some free tickets for Friday night, if you’ll loosen your tongue just a bit.”

  “I thought you said the gig wasn’t a sure thing yet, Jesse.”

  “For you I could arrange it,” I replied, showing a little more swagger and pull than I really have.

  “How about free beers?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “We’ll talk later.”

  I think he actually might have meant that, which would be nice. But maybe he was joking. Brock is friendly enough, but after all, he is a cop.

  “I’m just waiting for Travis’ lawyer to arrive. The three of us have a meeting at 3:30. I’ll leave you to your deskwork. Nice seeing you again. I’ll give you a call if the Friday gig materializes.”

  I took a seat near the front entrance and waited. Randall Bradford arrived precisely at 3:30. Randall was a short, somewhat rounded man, probably in his late 50’s. What little hair he had was located on the sides of his head and was graying at the temples. He wore a three-piece suit, thick glasses and carried a briefcase. He took a quick look around the place. He spotted me right away, came over and introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Randall Bradford. You must be Jesse Thorpe.”

  “That’s what my mother keeps telling me.”

  Randall eyed me suspiciously, as if I might not be the right guy for the job. On the other hand, I wanted to see if he was the right guy for me to be working with as well. Sure, this was serious business, but all work and no play has never been my modus operandi.

  As we shook hands, I said, “Sorry, Mr. Bradford. That’s something I learned to say when I was a teenager. It just slips out now and then.”

  “No problem. I checked your website. You seem qualified for this kind of work. This is, however, a very high profile case. We need our wits about us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I liked his choice of the word, “wits.” I had been “witty,” and now he was suggesting we needed our “wits.” But I let that slide without comment. One injudicious remark every fifteen minutes was more than enough for a capital murder investigation.

  “I’ll check in at the front desk,” he said. “We should be able to go right in.”

  “Sergeant Brock Powell is there. He’s a friend of mine.”

  We walked over and spoke to Brock. He looked at his log and saw that Mr. Bradford had an appointment to visit with Travis Perkins, along with one other person. I was that guy.

  Brock escorted us through the bowels of the jail to a private room with no windows, a table and a few chairs. He told us to wait there until the prisoner arrived. We sat on the same side of the table, anticipating that Travis would sit on the opposite side.

  We had a few minutes to ourselves. Randall wanted to hear about my involvement in the case. I told him that Richard Merrill had hired me to investigate the murder, and that he had provided me with a list of six women who had affairs with the governor. I didn’t produce the list, which actually had seven names. Cynthia’s name was on it, and she still wanted to remain anonymous. I also mentioned that I had called Travis Perkins on Monday to ask him some questions, but that he had hung up on me. Then, after he was arrested, he did an about-face and hired me early this morning.

  At that point, two uniformed officers led Travis into the room. He was wearing the standard orange jumpsuit, handcuffs and leg irons. They set him down in a chair opposite us, and one of the officers asked Randall if we wanted an officer to stay in the room. Randall indicated it would just be the three of us. So they left.

  Randall initiated the conversation.

  “Mr. Perkins, you are a Maine State Trooper, so I assume you have some legal understanding about the relationship of a lawyer and his client. I am talking about ‘Attorney-Client Privilege.’ Let me briefly ex
plain this to you so there is no misunderstanding. You are free to tell me whatever you wish about your involvement in this case. Whatever you communicate to me is entirely confidential. I am not at liberty to disclose this to anyone, except to those who are working with me on your behalf. In that event, you are also protected by what is known as ‘Joint Defense Privilege.’ Typically this includes secretaries who might take dictation from the lawyer about a case. It also includes Mr. Thorpe, who will be working with me. Nothing you say here can be used against you in a court of law, and the state and federal authorities have no right to listen in on our conversation. Is that entirely clear to you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Travis replied.

  “Good. Perhaps the best way to proceed is for you to tell us both everything that you know about this case, and your involvement in it. As we go along, if Mr. Thorpe or I need clarification, we’ll let you know.”

  “OK.”

  Travis took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly and corralled a determined look on his face before he proceeded.

  “I am being held as a material witness in the murder of Governor Lavoilette. As far as I know, the only reason I am here is because they believe that my gun was used to murder him. My gun was stolen from my house on Saturday morning, but I didn’t discover that it was missing until Sunday noon.

  “I know the bloody guy who stole it from me. His name is Justin Cook, or at least that’s what he called himself, the bastard.”

  Both Randall and I wrote that down in our notes.

  “I first met Justin on May 15th. He called me while I was on duty one afternoon and said he was from Police Magazine. It’s a monthly magazine, and I happen to subscribe to it, so I knew it was legitimate. He said that he would be in Maine for several weeks doing a human-interest story about Maine State Troopers. He asked me for an interview. He said I would receive a small amount of money for my trouble, but if the story actually got printed, I would be paid a handsome bonus. I told him I’d be happy to help out.

  “Justin said the story was going to emphasize the home life of troopers, what we do after hours, things like that. So I gave him my home address and phone number. He asked me about my schedule, and I told him I would be off on the following weekend. We arranged to meet at my house.

  “On Saturday, he came over at ten in the morning. I believe that would have been May 18th. I’d have to check a calendar, but I’m pretty sure it was the 18th. He took a bunch of pictures, and we chatted. He asked me what I liked to do when I wasn’t working, and I told him I like to fish. He thought it would be a great idea for us to go fishing together. He said he’d try to arrange a fishing trip with the publishers of the magazine. ‘Free of charge,’ he said. Sounded good to me.

  “Justin asked me what kind of weapon I used on the force, and I told him I had a Glock 21 Gen4. That’s a .45 caliber pistol, standard issue. He asked me if I had it at home, and I said that when I’m off duty, I keep it in my dresser. He wanted a picture of me with it in full uniform if he could, so I went to my bedroom, alone, put on my uniform and came out with my gun. We went outside to get some natural poses with me holding the Glock. Then we went back inside, I put the gun away and changed back into civilian clothes.

  “Later in the week, he met me after work, and we went to a bar to shoot pool and watch the Sox play. He was from California. That’s where they publish the magazine. He said he was a Dodgers fan, but he especially liked the Red Sox, because he hated the Yankees. We seemed to hit it off. We shot some nine-ball, watched the game and had some drinks.

  “Last Tuesday, Justin called me and asked if I was free for the weekend. I told him I was. He said he had been in Portland for a week, but would be back in Augusta on Friday. He said he got the OK from his publisher for us to take a fishing charter on the weekend. I told him I’d be happy to go. He said he would make reservations for both Saturday and Sunday, and he’d call me once the reservations were confirmed.

  “He called back on Wednesday to say that he had made reservations for tuna and shark fishing at Jigs and Things on Orr’s Island. That’s about ten miles south of Brunswick.”

  “Very close to where the governor was killed,” Randall noted.

  “Yes,” Travis replied sharply. “Justin arranged for us to spend Saturday evening at a bed and breakfast nearby. Fishing on Saturday would start at noon. We figured it would take a little more than an hour to get there, but to be on the safe side, we would leave Augusta at ten in the morning. He asked me if it would be possible to have breakfast at my place, because he was getting tired of restaurant food. I said that was fine. Justin came over at nine o’clock. I fixed some eggs and toast.

  “After we ate, we went outside and got in his car. I locked the house on my way out. He started the car then turned to me and said he needed to use my bathroom. He said the coffee moved him; he had to go right then.

  “I handed him my keys and asked him to lock up after himself. He came out about five minutes later, locked the front door and got in the car. I’m sure he had my gun on him then. Actually, before he got back in the driver’s seat, he took off his jacket, rolled it up and put it in the trunk. In retrospect, I’m certain the gun was in his jacket.”

  At that point Randall stopped the monologue and asked, “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “It was a late model, blue Ford Taurus. I figured it was a rental. I remember it had Maine plates, but it never occurred to me to get the number.”

  “OK, go on, Travis,” Randall said.

  “We drove to Harpswell. On our way through Brunswick, we picked up some sandwiches and drinks for the afternoon. I brought two styrofoam coolers, one for drinks and a larger one for any fish we’d catch.

  “We got to Jigs and Things by eleven thirty. We fished that afternoon and got back in at six o’clock.

  “We caught several sharks, some striped bass and a few bluefin tuna. We kept the tuna. We had them filleted, and we put them on ice in my larger cooler. Then we checked into our rooms and had a quick supper. We finished eating about 7:30. We wanted to get to bed early; our next day’s charter started at six in the morning.

  “We retired to our separate rooms at the Nestle Inn at about 8:00 PM. I watched a little television and was asleep by 9:00. I set my alarm for 4:30 AM.

  “When I woke up in the morning, I looked out the window and noticed that Justin’s car was gone. I figured he was out getting something, so I called his cell number, but he didn’t pick up.

  “I got dressed and waited till 5:30, but when he hadn’t returned, I went to his room. The curtain was wide open. I could see that the room was empty. He cleared out in the middle of the fucking night.

  “Justin had paid cash for our two rooms. Now that I think about it, he paid cash for everything and always asked for receipts. At the time, I thought it was odd that he didn’t use a credit card, but he was so fussy about the receipts, that I didn’t give it much thought.

  “I went into the motel restaurant to get some breakfast. I was still hoping he had just gone out for something and would return. When I sat down to eat, the waitress took my order and then said, ‘Did you hear about the governor?’

  “I said, ‘I don’t think so. What about him?’

  “‘He was murdered last night seven miles north of here on Sebascodegan Island.’

  “I asked her what details she had heard. She said there were no arrests as yet. When I asked her the exact location where the murder took place, she said he was murdered on Route 24, just south of the bridge going back to Brunswick.

  “I went numb. I was stuck on Orr’s Island, with no car, and the governor had just been murdered close by. I began wondering if Justin Cook might have been involved. I replayed the events of the weekend in my mind, and then I remembered that he had gone back into my house by himself, and he knew where I kept my gun. I thought, ‘Good God, maybe he took my gun and killed the governor.’ It seemed impossible, but I had a slipping feeling that it might be true.

  “Here I was,
near a federal crime scene and without transportation. My instincts told me to call in to my office and explain my situation. But then I wavered. I had no alibi. The governor had been having an affair with my ex wife, and now he had been murdered. I might well become a suspect. If I were found in the vicinity, it would appear that I had both motive and opportunity. I decided to get back to Augusta any way I could without informing anyone and hopefully without leaving a trace. I might be able to explain away a stolen pistol, but why was I here? Anything I said would sound very bad.”

  Randall stopped him for a moment and inquired, “The governor was having an affair with your ex wife? How long did that go on?”

  “For about a year. We were divorced two years ago.”

  “I see,” Randall said. His bushy eyebrows lifted noticeably as he jotted this down. Then he said, “OK. Go on.”

  “There are only two ways to drive off the island. The quickest route is on Highway 24, which cuts directly through the murder site. The other way is to take Mountain Road west off of 24 and then go north on Route 123, Harpswell Road. I decided to walk to Route 123—that’s five miles—and then hitchhike off the island. I put my coolers into a dumpster and set out on foot.

  “Along Mountain Road, a guy stopped his car to ask me if I needed a lift. I told him my car had broken down on Orr’s Island, and I was trying to get to Brunswick to get a bus home. He gave me a lift. He wasn’t planning to go to Brunswick, but he had some spare time and drove me right to the bus station. We chatted along the way, but I didn’t give him my real name.

  “I caught a bus for Augusta, and took a cab home.

  “I got back about noon. When I walked up to my door, I found it was unlocked. Justin never locked the fucking door. He just pretended to lock it. I rushed to my bedroom and opened the dresser where I keep my gun. My heart sank. The gun was gone.”