Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  At this point Travis stopped talking. Randall and I took it all in. You could have heard a pin drop.

  Randall finally spoke, “Can you describe Justin? Is there any chance you have a picture of him?”

  “Well, I don’t have a picture of him. I can describe him, of course, but I have something even better. I have his DNA.”

  “What,” I blurted out. “You have his DNA?”

  “Yes. He caught a small hammerhead shark and insisted on removing the hook by himself. The shark squirmed, and his teeth slashed the bottom of Justin’s right hand. I was standing next to him at the time, reaching in to steady the shark’s head. As he swung his hand up and away, he grazed the sleeve on my shirt and left a trail of blood near the cuff about six inches long. That shirt is now sitting in the hamper in my bathroom.”

  I interrupted Travis and asked, “Why didn’t you wash off the blood when that happened, while you were on the boat?”

  “I didn’t see the blood at that point. It’s a red flannel shirt, and the stain is on the underside of the sleeve. I first noticed it when I changed for dinner. By then it was dried on.”

  “Have you told the FBI about the shirt?” Randall asked.

  “No. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to even tell my story. It’s so unbelievable. I wanted to wait and hear what you’d suggest. At first, I thought I should take the shirt someplace safe, but even that would be suspicious. If I produced the shirt later, why did I hide it? So I decided to leave it in the hamper. At least it is in my house, which I’m sure has been cordoned off for evidence.”

  “You’re right about that,” Randall said. “Blood on a shirt in your hamper would be suspicious. They’d have it analyzed to see if it matches the governor’s.”

  “Right, but I took a precaution. On Monday, I cut off a three-inch piece of the shirt with the blood trail, put it in an envelope and mailed it to my sister. I wanted some control over the evidence if push came to shove. Who knows what the FBI might do with that shirt.”

  “OK,” Randall said. “Is there any way that Justin would have known where the governor would be on Saturday?”

  “Sure. It was in the papers. The governor was going to his summer home to finish writing his acceptance speech for his nomination. In fact, Justin mentioned that he knew the governor was at his summer home for the weekend. He also knew that my main job was to protect the governor. It’s fairly well known where his house is, but Justin asked if I knew its exact location. As we passed the turnoff from Route 24 which leads to his home, I pointed out that we were less than a mile from it.”

  “That’s Cundys Harbor Road,” I offered.

  “Yes,” Travis said. “Do you know the way?”

  “I’ve been there,” I replied. I didn’t want to bring up Cynthia’s name, so I left it at that. If Travis was involved—and clearly he might be—I didn’t want him to know that Cynthia was an eyewitness. The actual murderer was still at large, and Cynthia would very much be in danger.

  “Let’s have that description of Justin,” Randall said, pen in hand.

  “I’d say he’s in his mid forties. He’s not very tall, maybe 5’8”. Average build. About 160 pounds. He has light brown hair, and he’s clean-shaven. He has no special distinguishing marks, no scars or anything that stands out. He’s descent looking. His face is tanned, and his complexion is fairly smooth.

  “Incidentally, I called Police Magazine on Monday. They have no record of a Justin Cook. Now I wish I had called them sooner, but I had no reason to suspect he was misrepresenting himself. I hadn’t received a check yet, but he said they always pay when the story is submitted. He showed me his working ID, but he didn’t give me a business card. He said he prefers to contact potential subjects, but doesn’t want a lot of calls requesting interviews, so he doesn’t give out his phone number. He said, ‘You’d be surprised how many people want their pictures taken for the magazine.’”

  “We might be able to track his cell phone calls, if you supply us with the time and dates of the calls he made to you. My guess, though, is that he was using a prepaid phone, which is now in the trash somewhere,” Randall said. “But we can give it a try.”

  “I thought about that already. I made out a list of his calls. I put it in the envelope with the piece of shirt I sent to my sister.”

  “What is your sister’s name, address and phone number?” I asked.

  “Her name is Danielle Bacon. She lives at 133 Amber Road in Portland. I can’t recall her number, but it’s in my cell phone memory. She’s in the book; you can look it up. By the way, I told her to give the letter to you and no one else, Jesse.”

  “I’ll call Danielle,” I said. “My girlfriend lives in Portland. Do you think I could have her pick it up? She’s coming up here on Thursday.”

  “I’ll call her and tell her,” Travis said. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Angele Boucher.”

  “Travis, let’s go back to the murder scene,” I said. “From what I have heard in the news and read in the papers, the governor was alone in his home over the weekend, but went out to see the movie, Lincoln, in Brunswick on Saturday night. A few witnesses came forward saying they saw him at the theater. He was murdered at about 10:30, shortly after the movie let out. Pictures in the press show his car headed west at the intersection of Cundys Harbor Road and Highway 24, as if he were driving away from his home, not towards it. What do you make of that?”

  “How should I know? Plus, I’m not so sure he was alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cynthia was with him. He often would sneak out with his girlfriends. He even had Richard Merrill cover for him on dates and weekends. Check with Richard. He might know for sure. My guess is that Cynthia was in the car.”

  “Here’s what I think. Let me know if this sounds plausible,” I said. “I think there had to be two people involved in the killing—someone to keep track of the governor’s locale, and the killer himself. Justin was with you until 7:30 that evening, or perhaps a little later. He probably didn’t leave the Nestle Inn right away, or you would have heard him drive off. Correct?”

  “Most likely. Our rooms were side by side, and his car was parked out in front of his room. I suppose he could have left at about 8:00, but I didn’t hear him drive away.”

  “OK. Let’s say there was an accomplice. He knows the governor is in his summer home, so he positions himself somewhere along the road to the house, possibly at the intersection of Cundys Harbor Road and Route 24. The governor would have to drive past that point in order to get off the island. There is no other way out. So he waits there, looking for an opportunity. He knows the governor might go out for dinner, or whatever. He’s patient. He wants to kill the guy, but he wants to be as careful as possible. He sees the governor’s car drive past the intersection at about 8:00 on his way off the island, and he follows him to the Royal movie complex.

  “Once in the parking lot, he sees the governor get out of his car and walk into the theater. But it’s a crowded place. He couldn’t kill him there without being noticed. So he calls Justin and tells him what’s up.

  “Justin leaves the motel and joins his partner in the theater parking lot. They figure he’ll be going back home after the movie lets out, so one of them remains in the parking lot waiting for him to leave. The other one sets up at the intersection where the murder took place. The lookout calls his partner when the governor leaves the theater parking lot. The murderer stands by his car, pretending that he needs help of some kind…car trouble probably. He flags the governor down as he is turning off Route 24. It’s a quiet road late at night. The governor stops his car, makes a U-turn and parks behind the murderer’s car, heading west, away from his home. The governor then gets out of his car to help the guy, and is murdered on the spot.

  “This jives with the witness in the house across the street regarding the time of the murder. He saw two cars heading west, the governor’s and the assailant’s. What do you think?” I asked.

  “It could have happene
d that way,” Travis replied.

  “Yeah,” Randall agreed, “but something is puzzling me. Why would the governor go out to the movie, when he could have gotten it on Pay-Per-View, or Netflix?”

  “It sounds to me as if he had a date,” Travis said. “I bet he was with Cynthia. The governor was like that. He liked being out on his own. It was a nightmare guarding him. He would often sneak out without protection.”

  “I’ll give Cynthia a call and ask her about this,” I said. “As far as I know, she hasn’t volunteered anything to the police. Her name hasn’t come up in any of the reports I’ve seen. If she were a witness, the FBI wouldn’t release any information she had provided. Besides, they would need to protect her identity.”

  “Randall, how long can they hold me without charging me?” Travis asked.

  “Technically they can hold a material witness as long as it is necessary to ‘prevent a failure of justice.’ They can keep you here until the cows come home, if they can demonstrate to a judge that you are an important piece of the puzzle.

  “Travis, as your lawyer, here is my advice. Tell the authorities the whole story. Everything. If you hold anything back, they will likely hold you indefinitely. Besides, you have some important leads for them.”

  “To tell you the truth, I hated the governor,” Travis replied in a menacing tone. Two sets of ears perked up with that declaration. “I didn’t kill him, but I hated him. He smooth-talked women like he was fucking Don Juan himself. He’s a big part of the reason Cynthia and I got a divorce. I don’t even care if they find out who did it. Of course, I want to get out of here, but all they have on me is that my gun was used to kill him. If I tell them the whole fucking story, they will probably use the parts they want and convict me of something…as an accessory before the fact at the very least. No way I am telling that story. Not now anyway. I’m going to wait to see what develops.”

  “Travis, I’m sorry to hear that,” Randall said, “You are entitled to say as little as you wish. But whatever you say should be the truth. For example, you can tell them that someone stole your gun between Saturday morning and Sunday noon, when you discovered it missing.”

  “OK. I’ll tell them that, but the rest of the stuff is strictly confidential.”

  “Well, that about wraps it up for now,” Randall said. “Anything else, Jesse?”

  “No. I’ve got plenty to work on from my end. Travis, why don’t you call your sister and tell her that Angele will pick up the letter. I’ll get her number from information, and you can use my phone right now.”

  “OK,” Travis said.

  I got the number, and Travis made the call. After he explained his situation to his sister, he put me on the phone. She had received the letter in the mail at noon. I explained that Angele could come by to pick it up. I’d have Angele call her to arrange it. She said that would be fine, and we hung up.

  “We’ll talk again soon, Travis,” Randall said. “In the meantime, reconsider your position about remaining silent.”

  “I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath,” Travis said.

  “OK. Let’s tell the guards we are done here,” Randall said.

  We found both guards stationed outside the door. One of them took Travis away, and the other escorted us back to the entry room. I stopped briefly to say goodbye to Brock and told him I’d call him if the band were playing Friday in Gardiner.

  Randall and I chatted as we walked across the parking lot to our cars. “There’s a DNA testing clinic in Augusta,” I said. “We should get the blood sample tested as soon as possible.”

  “Right,” Randall replied. “I’m familiar with the place. They can usually get results in about three days. I’ve represented a number of men in paternity suits.”

  “I’ll contact Cynthia Dumais and interview her,” I said. “I’ll also track any leads I get from the list of women that Richard gave me.”

  “Here’s my card, Jesse. Keep me informed of anything significant.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  We shook hands and went our separate ways.

  15

  Jigs ‘N Things & A Peach Sundae

  “Jigs and Things, Kenneth Harper speaking.”

  “Hello, Mr. Harper. My name is Jesse Thorpe. I am a private investigator hired in connection with the murder of Governor William Lavoilette. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “OK,” he said tentatively. “How is Jigs and Things connected to the governor’s death?”

  “Mr. Travis Perkins was arrested this morning as a material witness in the case. He has informed me that he and another gentleman, a man named ‘Justin Cook,’ chartered a fishing trip last Saturday afternoon. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yes. I remember the two of them very well. They booked a charter for Saturday afternoon and a second one for Sunday morning. They never showed up on Sunday. They didn’t cancel. We never heard from them again.”

  “We are trying to get in touch with Mr. Cook. Do you have any information about him, his address, phone number, email?”

  “It seems we don’t have any reliable contact information on him. I know this because when he didn’t show on Sunday morning, I tried to reach him myself. I rang his phone number, and got no answer. I tried to locate him through his Maine driver’s license information; the address on his license is not valid. My guess would be that the license is fake. We have no email address for him either.”

  “Did you call Mr. Perkins?” I asked.

  “I didn’t have a phone number for Mr. Perkins. I tried to get his number from information, but it’s unlisted.

  “Normally we book over the phone, and the customer pays by credit card. In Mr. Cook’s case, he came here earlier in the week—Wednesday morning I believe—and paid cash in full for the two charters. He said he was staying in the area and wanted to drop by to see our boats before booking. We still accept cash…with proper ID of course,” he said, chuckling to himself.

  I’d heard that joke years before, but I thought it had gone the way of cassette tapes and Milli Vanilli.

  “Do you still have the information from Mr. Cook’s license?” I asked.

  “Sure. Before we can take anyone out to sea, we’re required by state law to see a valid ID, and to write down the name and home address. We keep the information on file for future bookings. Here it is.”

  Kenneth read it off to me, and I wrote it down.

  “Do you have any photographs of the two of them?” I asked.

  “We let the customers take the pictures. If they want us to do it, we will of course, but we leave it up to them. In the case of this charter, we didn’t have any requests.”

  While I was considering what more I might need from him, Kenneth continued, “But it’s possible that some of the other guests on the boat might have some photographs.”

  “Oh,” I said, rather excitedly, “they weren’t alone?”

  “No, no. We can handle up to seven fishermen on that particular charter. It was a Saturday afternoon in early June. It was fully booked. In fact, Cook and Perkins took the last two seats. The other five had booked weeks in advance. They were all from one party…from Boston I believe. They came in for the weekend.”

  “Can you provide me with their names and phone numbers? I’d like to see if they happen to have any pictures of Cook and Perkins.”

  “Who did you say you are?” he asked, now growing a little more cautious.

  “My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a private investigator. If you would like to see my website to verify that I am legitimate, I’ll be happy to give you that address.”

  “We don’t usually give out personal information, but this appears to be a special case. Let me think a moment.”

  He thought for several moments. Finally, he said, “Let me do this. I’ll contact the other party and discuss the situation with them. If they don’t mind talking with you, I’ll hook you up.”

  “Thanks so much, Mr. Harper.”

  “Call me, K
en.”

  “Ken.”

  “I have your number on caller ID. I’ll phone the other party and call you right back,” he said. “Investigating the murder of the governor, eh? I want to help if I can.”

  We hung up. I sat by the phone and waited for it to ring.

  There’s a corollary to the theory, “A watched pot never boils.” It’s “A watched phone never rings.” Of course, if you watch most phones long enough, you will disprove that supposition. On the other hand, some phones never ring…like the AT&T, two-line speakerphone I purchased years ago at WalMart. After a year and three days, it stopped working altogether. The warranty was good for exactly one year. I hoped that some day I might find a use for it, so I put it on a shelf in the shed—right next to my framing hammer.

  The only way that phone is going to ring now is if you bang it against a clapper attached to a bell. You should be able to hear a ring in that case. But if you just watch it, it’s not going to ring again…ever. One night a while back, Angele left my home in a huff. Having nothing better to do, I went into the shed, took that framing hammer and with one carefully placed swing, I pounded the shit out of that two-line phone. That was the precise moment it rang for the last time.

  • • •

  As I waited for a callback, I looked in on the surveillance videos at Cynthia’s place. All was quiet on the home front.

  Instead of sitting indefinitely by the phone, I took a stroll into the kitchen. It was nearly six o’clock. I decided to fix a drink. Cynthia was sitting in the living room watching the news. I asked her if she would like a margarita or a glass of wine. That’s pretty much all that I keep around the house.

  “Sure. I’ll have a margarita,” Cynthia said.

  “Two margaritas coming right up,” I replied.

  I put the mix, the ice and the tequila in a blender and was about to turn it on when I thought, “I’ll never hear the phone with the blender going.” So I called to Cynthia and asked her to monitor my phone while I blended. Then I cranked it up. In less than a minute the margaritas were ready, and the phone rang. Cynthia poured the drinks; I took the call.