Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  Cynthia was still at the kitchen table, gazing out the window, sipping the last of her coffee.

  “Cynthia, Angele and I will be going to the murder scene today. I’d like you to join us if possible. Are you up for it?” I asked.

  “Definitely. I’m feeling more angry than sad now. I want to help with the investigation. Besides, I’m going stir crazy sitting here day after day.”

  “I have a few errands to run this morning. We’ll go to Brunswick later in the day.”

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  “Angele, I need to talk to Travis’ lawyer first. We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.”

  I wanted legal advice from Randall, but it might prove to be a little tricky. I didn’t mind Randall knowing about Cynthia, but I still didn’t want Travis to know. He could be a leaky boat when it comes to information, and I wasn’t sure if Randall would mention her name to Travis or not. He might lay all the cards on the table for his client. I decided it was best to keep Cynthia’s name under wraps for the time being.

  What I wanted to find out from Randall was my own status as I uncover evidence leading to other suspects. If that information compromises attorney-client privilege, what is the right course of action? Can I talk freely with the police and the FBI, or do I have to remain silent?

  I called his number. When he picked up, I asked him my question.

  He asked, “What do you have so far?”

  “I have some photographs of Justin Cook,” I replied. “The problem is that I couldn’t have gotten those photographs without Travis’ help.”

  “It’s an interesting legal question, but I think that the highest priority is to find the real killers. So we need to help the authorities in whatever way we can. One way to skirt the issue is to provide the photographs and supporting information anonymously. You could also crop the images to exclude Travis. If you could do that in a way that doesn’t identify the precise location of the photographs, you’d protect your own identity. If the FBI could determine where the picture was taken, they might easily work their way back to you.

  “On the other hand, if you only show Mr. Cook’s face, your photographs might not be taken very seriously. They receive hundreds, if not thousands, of anonymous leads on notable cases. Without a convincing argument to support your theory about the man in the picture, they might never move on your tip. They have lots of other ground to cover.”

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll give it some careful thought. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m going to see Travis again this morning at ten,” he said. “It would be good if you could join us. I’m sure he’d like to see the photographs himself. We could ask him directly if he wants us to give them to the FBI.”

  “I’ll see you there,” I said, and we hung up.

  I printed out the best of the pictures and said, “Let’s roll, Angele, I need to be at the Kennebec County Jail by ten o’clock.”

  We drove straight to Misty’s shop.

  There was a stand-up sign on the sidewalk in front that read, “Psychic Fair Cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.” That can’t be good for business, I thought, as we walked through the front door.

  Misty was expecting us.

  Misty Starbird is in her late twenties or early thirties. She’s rather plain looking except for her piercing eyes. Her glare might stop you in your tracks, were it not for her unkempt hair, thick glasses and tie-dyed clothing. The whole package makes quite an ensemble. She smiled when she recognized my better half, and called out, “Angele, honey, where have you been lately?”

  “In Portland. I assume you know my significant other.”

  “Jesse? Sure, we’ve met a few times. Investigating the Lavoilette murder, eh? I can’t figure why the Maine State Police hasn’t called me on this one. I’ve done work for them in the past.”

  “It’s a high profile case,” I offered. “Maybe they think it will make them look helpless if they bring you in too quickly.”

  “Psychic leads grow cold, just like physical leads. They should have called me on Saturday night,” she said disdainfully. “We don’t need them anyway. Come on into my Inner Sanctum.”

  We followed her to another room, and she closed the door behind us.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  There was a table in the middle of the room. Angele and I sat on one side, and Misty sat on the other. She lit a candle and put it on the table.

  “Before we start, Misty, I was wondering about that sign out front that says your psychic fair is cancelled. What’s up with that?” I asked.

  She laughed, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s my job to know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the sign is bad for my business.”

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “It’s not. I put that sign out quite frequently. It draws attention. And I need attention. Bad advertising? There’s no such thing. Advertising is advertising. I need people to remember who I am and where I am, otherwise they won’t come around. Often when that sign tickles a funny bone, all the bones in that skeletal package walk through my door. Once the carcass is inside, I work my magic.”

  Both our carcasses were inside now, I thought. Let the show begin.

  She turned off the lights. The candle dimly lit the room.

  “The envelope, please,” she said. She sounded like Whoopi Goldberg at the Oscars.

  I pulled out the envelope, set it on the table and then said, “It’s best if you don’t actually touch the blood sample. I don’t want to compromise the DNA.”

  “I don’t need to touch it. I can already feel it,” she said. Then she closed her eyes, and the room went silent. I, for one, held my breath.

  After two minutes had passed, I was running out of air, so I decided to breathe normally for the time being. Two more minutes passed. Then Misty said, “This is the short guy. Find the tall one.” Then she added, “Wait.”

  Two more minutes passed until she said, “There are two dead men.”

  “Two?” Angele blurted out.

  “One is gone and the other is going,” Misty replied. “The second one is either recently dead or soon to be. The signs are too fresh to see the exact timing. The governor is either number one or number two. I just can’t tell which.”

  She blew out the candle and cautioned, “Hold on, I’m going to listen.”

  We all listened for a long time. All I could hear was the faint traffic outside on Western Avenue.

  “Nothing,” she said, after a long spell. “I can’t hear a thing. No clairaudience today.”

  She got up, turned on the lights and walked us back into the main room.

  “How much do I owe you, Misty?”

  “Normally I charge $75 a reading. But here’s the deal. Don’t pay me anything now. When you nab the murderer, and the press asks you to tell your story, mention my name. If you do that, there is no charge. If you don’t mention my name, the charge will be $200. If you don’t get the guy at all, you can pay me $50 instead of $75. I doubt that will happen, because my readings are usually very good. But if you can’t find the guy, I figure I owe you a discount.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “Misty, can you come with us to the scene of the crime this afternoon?” Angele asked.

  “Are you kidding? I’ll close up shop and be right with you. Wednesday is always slow around here anyway.”

  She grabbed a coat, led us out the front door and locked up.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  “You tell us,” I replied with a wink. There were four cars parked in the lot.

  “Good one,” she said.

  She stood perfectly still and closed her eyes for about fifteen seconds. Then she opened them and led us to my Forester. She put her hands on the hood and said, “This is it.”

  Angele gave me that “I told you so” look, and we climbed in.

  17

  A Moose on the Loose

  Randall Bradford, J.D. was waiting for me when I pul
led into the Kennebec County Jail fifteen minutes after ten.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” I said. “The séance lasted longer than I expected.”

  “Séance?” he said, furrowing his brow.

  “One of my methods,” I replied.

  “Do you have the photographs?”

  “Right here,” I said, pulling them out of my jacket pocket.

  “Good. Let’s go. Travis is waiting for us in the same room as before.”

  I signed in and said hello to Brock at the front desk.

  “Any word on Friday night, Jesse?” he asked.

  “Not yet. But I won’t forget to call you,” I said.

  Brock escorted us down the hall and into the room. Travis was handcuffed to the table. We sat down, and Randall dismissed the guards.

  Travis spoke first, “What’s happening?”

  “We have some pictures of you and Justin Cook on your fishing trip,” Randall replied. “Show him, Jesse.”

  I pulled out the pictures and spread them on the table for Travis to see. Right away he got very excited. After he studied the pictures a little he said, “See there? He’s got a bandage on his right hand. That picture was taken late in the day, after that shark raked him.”

  “I noticed that, Travis,” I said. “I’m happy we have some photographic corroboration of your story.”

  “Catch him, and we’ll have the real murderer,” he said. “Or one of them.”

  “Here’s the rub,” I replied. “All we really have are some photos of a guy who went fishing with you on Saturday…that, and your story.”

  Travis sat back in his chair deflated.

  Randall spoke, “Travis, I have a question to ask you. What should we do with these photos for now? We can either use them in our own private investigation or turn them over to the FBI.

  “If we give them to the FBI, it would place you within a few miles of the scene of the crime. The photos were taken Saturday afternoon. The governor was shot at 10:30 PM that night. It would establish opportunity, if they decide to prosecute you for murder. That, along with your gun’s ballistic fingerprints, would be two damning pieces of evidence. What do you want us to do?”

  Travis thought for a bit and said, “Keep the photographs for now. Where do we go from here?”

  “Travis,” I said, “there is one way we could steer them to Justin without implicating you. I could crop the pictures to show only him. Then I could send his picture to the FBI with an anonymous note. How about that?”

  “Yeah. That’s good,” he said.

  “I could also say he stole your gun. Would that work?” I asked.

  “Sure, just so long as I’m not placed near Brunswick on Saturday.”

  “OK,” I said. “Now this is very important… Don’t talk to the FBI or the Maine Police. If you do, you might blow my cover on the anonymous tip. They might come looking for me anyway, but I’ll hide behind attorney client privilege. Is that clear, Travis?”

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he said.

  “I have a few other leads I want to check out,” I added. “First, I need to interview the women who had affairs with the governor.”

  “You know about them?” he asked.

  “Richard Merrill told me everything he knows.”

  “Did he mention Cynthia?”

  “Yes he did,” I replied.

  Travis’ shoulders slumped. Obviously he was concerned that this could become common knowledge. The prosecution would argue that her affair with the governor was motive enough for murder.

  “OK, Jesse,” Randall said, “interview the women on your list, and see if you can get samples of their DNA.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised by this suggestion. “Why?”

  “I made some inquiries. Apparently there are a couple of different hair samples taken from the governor’s summer home. Forensic experts are analyzing them. The two samples are long strands. They are probably from women, and they don’t match Rebecca’s hair. Depending on how this case unfolds, it may be important to determine who spent time with the governor in his summer home. There’s no official record of any woman being there recently, except for Rebecca.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Do you have any suggestions for capturing DNA?”

  “Saliva or hair samples are your best bet. If the woman smokes, try to get a cigarette butt. Snip a locket of hair when her back is to you. Whatever you need to do,” he said. “But saliva is much better than hair. Saliva contains nuclear DNA, while snipped hair does not. You’ll need the hair’s root to get a full DNA profile.”

  I had already considered those possibilities, but I was amused to hear them from a lawyer. Any port in a storm, I guess.

  “I’ll see what I can come up with,” I said.

  “Travis, you know about the governor’s habit of driving alone in his car without protection,” I said. “I’m assuming that’s not common knowledge. Whoever killed the governor planned it out carefully. He, or she, must have been familiar with some of his routines. Who else might have known about this? Did you say anything to Justin?”

  “Absolutely not. If he knew about it, he found out from someone else.”

  “That’s why I’m asking. Who else might have known?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Travis stammered. He appeared to be hiding something. This probably was evident to Randall as well, because we both just waited quietly, as if expecting him to tell us more.

  The next thing Travis said was, “My girlfriend won’t even talk to me. She thinks that because I’ve been arrested, I must be guilty.”

  “Who’s your girlfriend, Travis,” Randall asked.

  “Oh, just a woman I’ve been dating for a while. Her name is Susan. I called her yesterday afternoon. At first, she talked normally, but when I told her I was in jail, she clammed up. At the end of our conversation, she told me not to call her again. I guess it’s over.”

  “When we clear you, she’ll probably come around,” I offered.

  “Maybe. But it sounded final over the phone.”

  “Well, that’s all I have for now,” I said. “I’m going out of town to follow a lead this afternoon, and I will probably be going to Portland within a few days to interview Dennis and Michelle Jackson. Michelle was one of the governor’s most recent affairs. Dennis and the governor had a heated argument about a year ago.”

  “Yeah. I was there,” Travis said. “That’s a really good idea. Dennis has quite a temper. I had to escort him out of the governor’s campaign headquarters.”

  “One last item, Travis,” I said. My rate is normally $320 a day plus expenses. I’ve decided to charge $400 on this case because of the added danger. After all, it is a murder case. You and Richard can split my fee. It will be $200 a day for you.”

  “I can pay you. I’ll have your check next time you come.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I think we are done for now,” Randall announced.

  We said our goodbyes and left the room.

  • • •

  I dropped off the blood sample at Paternal Affairs on our way home. When we arrived, Cynthia was in the kitchen preparing some sandwiches for our trip to Brunswick. When Cynthia saw her, she said, “Hi there, Allison. How have you been?”

  “Just dandy, Cynthia.”

  “So you two have met?” I said.

  “Oh yeah,” Cynthia replied.

  Thinking that it might be helpful to get all our cards on the table before going to the scene of the crime, I said, “You’ll have a chance to catch up later, but first, if you don’t mind, Misty, I’d like to speak with Cynthia privately.”

  We slipped into my office, and before I could say a word, Cynthia handed me a check for $2000.

  “Thank you,” I said, and put it in my desk drawer. “I think it will work out better for all of us if we can share the details of your situation with Angele and Misty. I know we can trust Angele to be discreet, and you seem to be friends with Misty. What do you think?”


  “Yes,” she said. “I know that Misty has unusual powers of perception. If I tried to hide my involvement, she’d pick up on it anyway. So let’s tell them both, and explain the need for secrecy.”

  We all gathered in the living room for a chat.

  “Cynthia has something to tell you,” I said.

  Cynthia captivated them with her story. When she described the actual shooting, they both could hardly believe it.

  Misty was the first to comment.

  “We’ll get that son-of-a-bitch, Cynthia. God almighty, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  I capped off her story by explaining in detail where some important evidence might be located, and how we will need to conduct ourselves at the crime scene.

  “If we find anything significant, we can’t touch it. We’ll be looking for the murder weapon, which happens to be Travis Perkins’ gun. It’s a .45 caliber, Glock 21 pistol. We’ll also be looking for a Maine license plate that reads, ‘GOFURS,’ a white towel and possibly some gloves and a fake beard. We’ll be searching along a road that will probably have some traffic on it, and we don’t want to attract attention. We need to get in, make our search, and get out as smoothly and as quickly as possible.

  “The area might still be cordoned off. If that’s the case, we’ll drive on by and wait for another day. If we are able to find any of these things, I will bring them to the attention of the authorities anonymously.

  “Are we in agreement on this?” I asked.

  Three “yeses” hit the airways simultaneously.

  I took the women into my office and brought up a picture of a Glock 21 on the Internet.

  “This is what the gun looks like,” I said.

  I then went to Google Maps and located the area of our search. We checked out both the aerial and ground views. We would cover only a short section along the side of the road. I pointed out the exact spot where I intended to park.

  “We need to canvass this area thoroughly,” I said, as I panned up and down the highway. “If we are lucky, we’ll find most, or all, of the items close together.

  “OK. Let’s pack those sandwiches and get out there.”