Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “Thanks for lunch, Jesse,” she said softly.

  I could taste the bacon. Canadian, I believe.

  As I walked to the car, a debate took shape inside my head.

  My right-brain shouted, “What’s wrong with you, pal? You’re a man, and she’s quite a woman.”

  My left-brain retorted, “Shut the **** up! You are a professional detective working a murder investigation, and you’re a gentleman. Take your saliva sample to Paternal Affairs and go home. Oh, yes…and drive carefully; you’ve been drinking.”

  I suspect my right-brain would have slapped me a good one if it could have.

  My left-brain usually wins arguments. My right-brain rarely gets involved intellectually. More often than not, it performs subtle, non-verbal maneuvers. Usually it prevails, but not today.

  I dropped off the sample and drove home. I kept the loaner under the speed limit all the way.

  29

  Matching DNA

  Wednesday came and went uneventfully. Thursday was another story.

  It began quietly enough…breakfast with Cynthia…bacon and eggs. Lots of bacon. I needed to use up every last strip by late afternoon. Angele would be arriving in the evening; she managed to get Friday off. I would also have to run the exhaust fan in the kitchen long enough to clear the air.

  Things began to get noisy about nine forty-five in the morning. That’s when the first call came in on my cell. The Caller ID indicated it was from Susan St. Claire. I let it go to voice mail. I wanted to be fully prepared before making a response. She left no message.

  Five minutes later, it rang again. This time she did leave a message. She shouted a string of obscenities but eventually became cogent, “I’m not sure who you are, but I have a good idea. If you taped our conversation on Monday, you’re in for more trouble than you bargained for.”

  Gulp!

  She railed on with more obscenities and finally hung up.

  About ten minutes later my cell rang a third time. It was from a Stephen Grimes. That name was not familiar, so I let it go through again. The message clarified the first two calls.

  “Mr. Williams, this is Stephen Grimes. I have just spoken with Susan St. Claire. She indicated that you represented yourself as an aide to Governor James Frye. We have turned the matter over to the Maine State Police. If you wish to discuss this, call me. I work for the governor. He is not pleased.”

  I, on the other hand, was pleased—not by this sudden turn of events—but rather because I had taken the precaution of using a prepaid cell phone for my call to Susan St. Claire. My Boy Scout training was paying dividends.

  Cheryl Greenwood, at the bottom of my list, was not a likely suspect. That affair lasted all of two months, five years ago, and she had not been heard from since. Furthermore, Rebecca had referred to her as “sweet,” and Richard wrote “harmless” beside her name.

  The next several hours were spent trying to track down Barbara Davis. She was the sixth name on the list of seven women who had affairs with Governor Lavoilette. I tried the phone number listed on Richard’s sheet; it was no longer in service. There was no phone listing for a Barbara Ann Davis, her full name, in the state of Maine. There were thirty-two “Barbara Ann Davis’s” with Facebook accounts. Some were “Barbara-ann.” Others were “Barbara Ann.” Still others had a hyphen either before or after the “Davis.” I called Richard and asked to see if he could identify her from any of the Facebook profiles. He looked for fifteen minutes and came up empty.

  By four-thirty my search for Ms. Davis was moot. That’s when I found out who killed William Lavoilette and why.

  • • •

  I received a call from Brenda, of Paternal Affairs, at four o’clock. She had the results of my “paternity search.”

  “Paternity search?” I said. “What paternity search?”

  “You provided us with four samples for DNA analysis, didn’t you, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Yes. But there’s no paternity involved,” I replied.

  “Perhaps you should come down to our office and pick up the DNA analyses. Mr. Fleck will discuss the results with you,” Brenda said.

  I drove my loaner to Ben’s Body Shop and picked up my renovated Forester. I was happy to have my own car back. I was a little tired of motoring with extreme caution. It was a short drive from there to Paternal Affairs.

  Brenda was at the main desk. She directed me to the office of Larry Fleck. Larry stood up at his desk when I entered the room.

  “I understand there is some mix up with your DNA results,” he said. “Brenda tells me that your samples were not intended to be a paternity search.”

  “That wasn’t my intention, but I’m definitely interested in what you have found,” I replied.

  “Well, we assumed that the first sample you submitted was the child. Granted, it was a little peculiar that the sample was a blood stain on a piece of cloth, but then, over ninety-five percent of our clients want to determine the paternity of a child, either a newborn or in utero. You didn’t actually indicate your purpose for the tests, so apparently we made a false assumption,” Larry said.

  “I see,” I replied. “So what did you find?”

  “We discovered that there is a 99.8% chance that the donor of your first sample is directly related to the donor of your fourth sample. It is almost certain that they are parent and child, or siblings. There is a very slight chance that they are cousins, but either siblings or parent and child are far more likely.”

  So Susan St. Claire and Justin Cook are brother and sister. Ergo, Justin Cook is either Mark Prichard or another brother.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Within the stated probabilities…yes,” he replied firmly. “Our method of sampling usually produces a result that is approximately 99% certain. In this case, we have a much higher correlation. As you probably know, DNA profiles of siblings are not perfect matches, but they show strong similarity and common banding patterns. In the case of identical twins, of course, the DNA matches perfectly. The degree of certainty of a match depends on whether we find inherited genes that are not ordinarily present in the general population. When two samples have a match for one or more rare genes, the certainty of the biological relationship increases. In this case, we found two gene matches that are exceptional. Our 99.8% certainty is a cautious estimate. It is probably more like 99.95%, but we prefer to err on the conservative side.”

  “Mr. Fleck, you have performed an invaluable service. When my investigation is completed, I will share the outcome with you. I’m sure you will be interested. For now, I can’t thank you enough,” I said.

  “We do this every day, Mr. Thorpe,” he said. “We are delighted we were able to assist you.”

  I was absolutely giddy as I left the building. There was little doubt in my mind that “Justin Cook” was Mark Prichard, and I was convinced that Aaron Miller pulled the trigger on William Lavoilette. Susan St. Claire probably orchestrated the whole affair.

  My giddiness gave way to sobriety as I reflected more closely on the situation. While it appeared conclusive that this trio was responsible for the governor’s death, there was very little evidence to support this “fact.”

  If my assumptions were correct, then Mark Prichard stole Travis Perkins’ gun, but we had no direct proof of that. All we had was a bloodstain on a shirt and some photos of Mark and Travis fishing together on the day of the murder. That, and Travis Perkins’ claim that Mark must have stolen his weapon. In fact, Travis Perkins’ home was unlocked the entire day of the murder. Anyone could have stolen his gun. As far as the FBI was concerned, it would be just as plausible that Travis Perkins arranged the fishing trip to set up Mark Prichard. Although it would seem ridiculous for Travis to use his own gun in the murder, nevertheless he had a more clearly defined motive for wanting the governor killed. His ex-wife was William’s mistress. Travis might have chosen Mark because he was Susan St. Claire’s brother, and Susan had had a brief, though fiery, affair with William Lavoilette.r />
  All this logical thinking caused me to briefly doubt my own conclusions…but only briefly. Susan St. Claire, the “vamp,” had the real motive. Two, in fact. She was a jilted lover, and she needed money. Killing Governor Lavoilette could resolve both of those unpleasantries. Revenge would be immediate. The money would begin piling up in short order.

  By Susan’s own admission, she had known James Frye for years. She knew he was next in line to be governor if William Lavoilette died, and even I was aware that Frye was eager to begin hydraulic fracturing in Maine. He had been promoting it for years. If Susan waited to act until the gubernatorial election was over, all bets would be off. James Frey might not be Senate President any longer. Furthermore, as acting governor, James Frey would have a much better chance of winning the general election than as an independent candidate opposing a popular governor. No—Susan St. Claire most definitely was the mastermind. All the facts and intuitions pointed to her.

  Angele “predicted” it. Misty more or less “saw” it. Kathleen told me to “look for the woman.” And, in my bones, I knew it.

  All I had to do was to stay alive and prove it.

  30

  Hatching a Plan

  Angele met me on the porch when I got home.

  “Great news,” she said. “I’m off till next Wednesday. We’ll have five whole days together. We can work on our murder case during the day and dance the nights away.”

  She planted one of her patented lingering kisses on my left ear lobe and whispered a breathy “hello” that traveled down my auditory canal and into my chest. For a few moments I forgot my own “great news.”

  Basic instincts collided and socialized. Elation, apprehension and anticipation was the soup du jour. Elation came with the breakthrough in the Lavoilette case. Apprehension followed on elation’s heals in light of the accompanying danger. Anticipation erupted with the kiss on my ear lobe.

  “Angele, let’s get together with Cynthia and talk,” I said, trying to coordinate my mixed emotions. “There’s been a breakthrough.”

  Angele’s eyes widened as I put my arm around her shoulder and walked her into the house. Cynthia was in the living room with a book. I sat down in my bark-a-lounger, and Angele settled next to Cynthia on the couch.

  “I know who killed William,” I announced in a moderately triumphant tone.

  All eyes stayed on me as I told my tale of facts and supposition. The enthusiasm that emerged at the outset gradually ebbed into consternation as it grew more and more clear that knowing the particulars of the murder and proving them were entirely different matters. It was especially disquieting that at least two, and probably three, members of the deadly trio realized that Cynthia Dumais and I were distinct threats to them. They had killed to get what they wanted. They would surely kill to keep what they got.

  “We have come to a definite fork in the road,” I said. “We have an important decision to make. Either we go to the FBI with a few facts and a theory and try to disappear in the shadows, or we press on as independent operators. My instincts are to press on,” I concluded.

  After a few quiet moments, Angele responded, “Mine too.”

  I smiled at her and said, “Angele, I love you.”

  “I’d rather live righteously on the edge, than passively in the valley,” she replied.

  We looked at one another. My heart rested and soared at the same time. Angele is a jewel.

  Cynthia joined in, “Yes. Let’s press on. I owe it to William.”

  “All right then,” I said, “we need to pool our talents. I’ll call Randall this evening and set up a meeting with Travis in the morning. I want to inform them of what I have discovered. There is also another piece of the puzzle that I want to clarify with Travis. When I last spoke with him, he mentioned that his girlfriend had deserted him when he was arrested. He only used her first name, ‘Susan.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I suspect that it might be Susan St. Claire. That would go a long way in explaining how the trio used Travis to execute their plan.

  “I also want to arrange a ‘board meeting’ with Eric and Billy. Think what you will about those two hombres…they are brothers in arms. I’m brewing a plan that will require help from both of them. I want to consider it a little more carefully for now, and run it by them when we get together.”

  We sat quietly for a minute, then Cynthia got up and announced that she was going to get supper started. Angele followed her into the kitchen. I retired to my office to make some phone calls.

  “Hello.”

  “Randall, this is Jesse. There are some interesting developments in Travis’ case that I would like to share with you. I believe we will want to meet with Travis in the morning.”

  I discussed the surprising DNA results and my theory regarding the murder. Randall was enthusiastic about what I shared, but as a lawyer he appreciated the gulf between hypothesis and proof. Nonetheless, he agreed that we should convene with Travis as soon as possible.

  “I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow morning,” he said.

  We hung up, and I called Billy.

  “What’s up, Jesse,” he said.

  “There’s a break in the case. I would like to get together with you and Eric tomorrow. Are you free?”

  “Well, you know I’m not free, but I am available. By the way, a letter arrived today for you from Dennis and Michelle Jackson. I held it up to the light, but it’s in a security envelope. I figure it’s your check.”

  “Bring it with you when you come. How early can you get here?”

  “I’m usually up by noon.”

  “Let’s plan on one o’clock. You and Eric are on a compatible schedule. Also, do your parents still own their summer home on Cobbosseecontee Lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is their any chance we could use it this weekend?” I asked.

  “Sure. They don’t move in until early July. A few weeks ago I helped them get it cleaned up for the summer. Why do you want to go out there?”

  “For security, Billy. The developments in the Lavoilette murder case present some risks for Cynthia and me. Is it set up for the Internet?” I asked.

  “It’s set up for everything. In the seventies they built a fallout shelter in the back, which now doubles as a root cellar. My parents are survivalists, but they lost their way in the sprawl of Portland and the breakup of the Soviet Union. There’s WiFi, generators, rifles, surveillance equipment and cases of beans, rice and canned goods. Except for the boaters on the lake, we could hole up there for months without seeing another soul.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “We’ll call it ‘Camp Billy.’”

  “How long do you think we’ll need to stay there?” he asked.

  “That will depend on whether or not my plan works.”

  “So…you have a plan?” he queried enthusiastically.

  “Sort of. It’s percolating now. We’ll talk about it with Eric, Cynthia and Angele. Is it OK if I invite Brock to join us there?”

  “Will I have to hide the pot? He’s a nice guy, Jesse, but he is a cop.”

  “I think it will be fine. First, I’ll have to see if he is free for the weekend. He could be very helpful to us. He smoked marijuana back in the day, Billy. He sets his sights on real crimes,” I said.

  “He is likeable; I’ll give him that,” Billy admitted.

  “OK, then. I’ll call Eric. If you don’t hear back from me, be at my place by one o’clock. Oh, yes…and bring Alonso. We’ll want a guard dog.”

  “Alonso goes where I go, Jesse. He’s my partner until I find a woman who is willing to stay past seven in the morning.”

  “Bring your 35mm camera with you when you come,” I said.

  “Will do.”

  “Good night, Billy. And thanks. I have the balance of your finder’s fee waiting for you.”

  I knew that would be incentive enough for him to get here on time.

  • • •

  “Jesse!” Eric said.

  “Eric, wha
t are you doing for the next five days?” I asked.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?” I asked.

  “On what you have in mind,” he responded.

  “Are you up for an adventure?” I asked.

  “Always.”

  “I know you own a pistol. What kind is it?”

  “When I heard about the Glock used in the Lavoilette murder, I decided to get one for myself. I picked up a beauty on Tuesday at the pawn shop.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Do you have a holster and ammunition?”

  “Both.”

  “Bring it all with you tomorrow. Be at my place by one o’clock.”

  “Do I need to get a Kevlar body suit?”

  “I hope not. I think you’ll be safe.”

  “My daily rate goes up when danger is involved,” he suggested.

  “Mine too,” I replied. “If everything works out, you will be generously rewarded. Bring that dark three piece suit I saw hanging in your closet; you’ll need to look like a professional.”

  “I haven’t worn that since Uncle Ned’s funeral two years ago.”

  “And a pair of dark shoes, dark socks, a white shirt and a conservative tie,” I added.

  “Jesse, am I auditioning for a Quentin Tarantino movie?”

  “Not that I know of,” I replied.

  “I’ll be there,” he said and hung up.

  I needed to make one more call.

  • • •

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Brock, this is Jesse.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Are you free this weekend?”

  “Yes. I get off work at five tomorrow, and I’m not scheduled again until Tuesday morning.”

  “How would you like to spend the weekend at Billy’s summer home on Cobbosseecontee Lake?” I asked.

  “Are we goin’ fishing?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s more important stuff to do. I could really use your help and your expertise.”

  “Count me in.”