Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  “Pack your things tonight, and be prepared to stay at the lake until Tuesday morning. Also, if you don’t mind, could you bring at least one complete trooper uniform? You do have extras don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, but his voice turned up into a question. “We are issued three complete sets. But what’s this all about?”

  “I can’t spell it out for you now. Besides, I don’t have all the details worked out yet. By Friday night, you will be up to speed. Trust me. It’s important.”

  “I’ll pack tonight and call you when I get off work.”

  “Thanks, Brock.”

  • • •

  Angele rang the dinner bell. I made a quick check of the surveillance videos at Cynthia’s home. Everything there was still fine.

  Over soup and salad, I shared the arrangements I had just made and explained that we would be spending several days at Camp Billy. It would be a safer location, and the six of us could put the finishing touches on my plan.

  The excitement was palpable. It carried over into the bedroom till midnight. Then I slept like a log.

  31

  Into the Woods

  The smell of java got me out of bed at seven o’clock. I dressed, poured a cup and went to my office. I pulled up the videos at Cynthia’s home and was jolted awake. Only two of the cameras were actively producing images, and the one in her bedroom displayed a room that had been turned upside down. Bureau drawers and clothing were strewn across the bed and the floor.

  I rolled the videos back in time hour by hour until I reached 2:00 AM. At that point, all four cameras were producing images. At 2:21 the camera positioned to view the back yard displayed a figure, probably a man, approaching the door. The moon was nearly full and provided enough light for an adequate image. He was wearing a ski mask and appeared to be holding a pistol in his right hand.

  Another video showed him entering the living room at 2:23 with a small flashlight in his left hand and the gun, now very clearly, in his right. The bedroom camera found him in the middle of that room at 2:24. For the next five minutes he went through the drawers and shelves and randomly tossed things around the room.

  At 2:31 his flashlight shined directly on the camera in the living room, and within fifteen seconds the video image went blank. At 2:35 the image from the camera in back stopped working as well.

  I went to my bedroom and took my .38 Special from the nightstand. Angele was still sleeping. I slipped out the back door and circled the house quickly to look for possible intruders. I looked in the barn and down the driveway. Everything seemed normal, so I went back inside.

  I must have woken Cynthia because she was in the kitchen. When I came in through the back door with a gun in my hand, she gasped.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked excitedly.

  I took a breath and said, “Unfortunately, your home has been ransacked. A man with a gun broke in at 2:20 this morning. He searched your entire house. Your bedroom is a mess. Two of the four security cameras have been knocked out.”

  Her face went pale.

  “They know who I am!” she exclaimed.

  Angele joined us moments later.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Cynthia suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’d rather go on the offensive. If we go to the authorities, we’ll have to explain everything. That will put us in the position we discussed last night. We’ll be forced into hiding while the authorities try to resolve the case.”

  I gave her a little time to consider that, and then I added, “But it’s up to you. You can ask for protection, and I’m sure the FBI or the Maine State Police will provide it. However, we will almost certainly lose the element of surprise that I am counting on. I can’t promise that my plan will work, but there’s an excellent chance it will. I suggest that we move to Camp Billy as soon as we can, and discuss our options with Eric, Billy and Brock. If my plan doesn’t work, we can call the FBI.”

  Cynthia stared at me for a while and finally said, “OK.”

  “Wait here,” I said.

  I went to the barn and found my dad’s hunting rifle in a cabinet. It had not been fired in twenty years. I brought it into the house and opened the case.

  Cynthia and Angele eyed each other cautiously. Then Angele said, “Show me how it works.”

  The Winchester 30-30 was in remarkably good condition, and there was a box of ammunition in the case. I checked the chamber and the magazine to make sure it was not loaded. Both were empty. I tried the lever action; it worked smoothly. I handed the rifle to Angele and asked her to pump the lever, aim and pull the trigger. She did it several times. Then Cynthia did the same.

  “OK. I’m going to fill the magazine with cartridges. It holds seven bullets. Once the magazine is full, we won’t pump the lever unless we intend to point the gun at a live target. Is that clear?” I asked.

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  I loaded the magazine and placed the rifle on the kitchen table.

  “I will probably be going to the Kennebec County Jail sometime this morning to see Travis. I should be away for a couple of hours. You’ll have the rifle here while I’m gone. I’ll be carrying my handgun with me at all times from now on. Eric and Billy are coming over at one o’clock. We’ll leave for Camp Billy as soon as we get organized.”

  • • •

  Cynthia made breakfast, Angele sat at the table with the rifle, and I went to my office. I had not yet found a photograph of Mark Prichard to confirm he was Justin Cook. His picture did not appear on the Keystone State Natural Gas website. After searching the web for about fifteen minutes, I came across a four-year-old news story in the Mansfield Weekly. Mansfield is a town fifteen miles west of Troy, Pennsylvania. The story featured Keystone’s natural gas operation and had a picture of all three owners, Susan, Aaron and Mark. I enlarged the image. There was no doubt about it. Justin Cook and Mark Prichard were one and the same.

  After breakfast, I went to Keystone’s web page and extracted the phone number and address of their office. Then I called Brock.

  “Kennebec County Jail, Sergeant Brock Powell speaking.”

  “Brock, this is Jesse. I need another favor.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I need the home address and phone number of a Mark Prichard who lives in or near Troy, Pennsylvania. He is one of the primary owners of Keystone State Natural Gas and Pipeline Company.”

  “Hold on,” Brock said. “What was the name again?”

  “Mark Prichard.” I spelled it out for him and repeated the company name.

  “I should be able to get that for you, Jesse,” he said.

  “Bring that information with you when you come to the lake. We’ll be leaving here before you get off work, so drive directly to Billy’s cabin.”

  I gave him the address and told him to call my cell if he had trouble finding the place.

  As soon as I hung up, I got a call from Randall Bradford. He had set up the meeting with Travis for nine-thirty.

  I got there on time, and we went right in.

  “Travis, I have some interesting news to share with you, but first I have a question,” I said.

  “What is it?” Travis asked.

  “What is Susan’s last name?”

  Travis knitted his brow and asked, “My girlfriend? Why do you ask?”

  “Travis, it’s a simple question, and I would like to know. Is it ‘St. Claire’?”

  “Yes,” he said tentatively. “What about her?”

  “She arranged to have William Lavoilette murdered,” I said.

  Travis slumped in his chair. Then he glared at me and asked, “How do you know that?”

  I proceeded to tell him the full story. When I was finished, I asked, “Did you tell Susan that Cynthia was having an affair with the governor?”

  “Oh my God,” he said. “I thought she was interested in me, but all the time she was plying me for information.”

  He sat back and the
n said, “She set me up. Call in the detectives. Let’s tell them the full story so I can get out of here.”

  “Not so fast, Travis,” I cautioned. “It’s your word against hers. The facts still point to you. Mark Prichard’s DNA on your shirt proves nothing.”

  I turned to Randall and asked, “What do you think?”

  “Jesse’s right. We couldn’t get you out of here based on the information we currently have. All of this may prove important if we go to trial, but we need solid evidence to get you released.”

  “Travis, sit tight for now. I may be able to get the proof we need, but it will take a little time and a trip to Pennsylvania. I also need to get into your home. Can I do that?”

  I addressed that question to both Randall and Travis.

  “I have a key,” Travis said, “but I don’t know if the FBI will allow anyone inside.”

  “I can arrange that,” Randall said. “You won’t need the key. The FBI will open the door for us. When do you need to go there?”

  “One-thirty this afternoon,” I replied.

  “I’ll make a call. It should be no problem. The defense has a right to search the premises once the FBI has gathered its evidence. What are you looking for?”

  “I need to take a few pictures,” I said.

  “That’s fine,” Randall replied.

  “I would like to know a few more specific things, Travis,” I said. “First, when Mark Prichard returned to your house alone on Saturday morning, while you were sitting in the car, did he have his denim jacket on? Was he wearing a hat of any kind? I need to know exactly how he was dressed as he went in and came out.”

  “Let’s see… He had his jacket on; it was chilly. But he wasn’t wearing a hat. He looked the same going in and coming out.”

  “Like this?” I asked, as I showed him one of the fishing pictures.

  “Yes. Just like that,” Travis replied.

  “Secondly,” I said, “Exactly where in your home did you keep your .45 caliber Glock?”

  “I kept it at the far right end of the upper right drawer of my dresser,” Travis said.

  “Did he take your holster or only your gun?”

  “Only the gun. The holster was still in the drawer when I got home. Why do you need to know all this? What’s your plan?”

  “I’d rather put it in motion without talking about it. Loose lips sink battleships, you know. If it works, you might be free in a week. If it doesn’t, we’ll pursue other possibilities,” I said.

  “All right,” Travis said pensively. He then added, “Susan St. Claire—she is a piece of work.”

  I resisted the urge to laugh at his choice of words.

  • • •

  Billy and Alonso arrived at my house promptly at twelve-thirty. The thought of having a guard dog boosted my morale. He handed me the envelope from Dennis and Michelle Jackson. Inside was a check for two thousand dollars and a short note expressing their apologies for Dennis’ aggressive behavior.

  “Let’s see, Billy, I gave you a hundred dollar advance on the three-fifty finder’s fee. I owe you two hundred-fifty dollars. Right?”

  “I believe that’s correct, Jesse.”

  I handed him two more of Dennis Jackson’s fresh C-notes and another fifty I had tucked away in my wallet.

  “Do you have your laptop, Billy?” I asked.

  “I never leave home without it, Jesse.”

  “I assume you have a printer at the lake house, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Eric arrived at one-fifteen.

  “Eric, where is your Glock?” I asked.

  “It’s right here,” he said and pulled it out of his backpack.

  “We’re all set then,” I said. “Billy, you and I have to go for a short ride and take some pictures. But first I need to change.”

  I went into my bedroom and put on a pair of jeans and a denim jacket.

  When I returned, Billy said, “It’s a little warm for that coat isn’t it, Jesse?”

  “It can’t be helped,” I replied. “Bring your camera, but leave Alonso here. Eric, please stay with Angele and Cynthia. There’s been some trouble at Cynthia’s place, so stay on full alert. The Winchester in the kitchen is loaded.”

  Billy and I drove over to Travis Perkins’ home. Randall had arranged with the FBI for me to take some pictures at one-thirty. An agent greeted us as we arrived. I showed him the Glock right away to preclude any misunderstanding. I explained that we would be taking some pictures for a possible trial.

  He asked to check the weapon for bullets. When he saw that it was not loaded, he unlocked the door and followed us in.

  Billy and I recreated Mark Prichard’s theft of Travis’ gun. Billy took pictures of me entering the house, removing the weapon from the bureau drawer, leaving the bedroom and exiting the house. Billy took lots of shots from varying angles. After fifteen minutes, we had what we needed.

  I thanked the FBI agent, and we drove back to my place.

  I had an extra surveillance camera I could use for my own home. I set it up with a view of the living room and the hallway, and linked it to the same web page that I used for Cynthia’s videos.

  The five of us packed up our belongings, food, drinks and weapons. There were five cars in the driveway. I left my Forester home. We caravanned in the other four cars to Camp Billy.

  32

  Camp Billy

  A slight breeze drifted over the lake from the south. Horseshoe Island sat half a mile to the east. Camp Billy was surrounded by maples and pines. We unpacked our gear and settled in.

  There were four bedrooms. Angele and I took the one with the biggest bed. Cynthia’s room was next to ours. Eric and Billy shared the third. Brock would be consigned to the small one in the back. After we unpacked, we assembled in the living room. Everyone was eager to discuss the plan.

  I laid it out. Eric and Angele offered a number of amendments. Billy grumbled about not going, but acknowledged that he wasn’t about to cut his hair, which was absolutely necessary if he were to play a role in Pennsylvania. Within half an hour, we were all on the same page.

  Billy went to work at his computer preparing documents and photographs. Angele used my all-in-one grooming set to transform Eric. Cynthia withdrew to the kitchen to survey our options for supper. I went out on the porch and called my cousin, Raymond, in Philadelphia.

  “Hello.”

  “Ray, this is Jesse,” I said.

  “Hi, Jesse. What’s up?”

  “I have a favor to ask you,” I said.

  “Shoot,” he replied enthusiastically.

  It took fifteen minutes to describe the situation. Eventually, I got to the part that involved him.

  “I need you to call Keystone State Natural Gas and Pipeline Company and ask for Mark Prichard. All our phones have a 207 area code. If Prichard sees that on his caller ID, he’ll know we’re calling from Maine. That might give him pause, and we don’t want him to pause. Your phone has a Pennsylvania area code. It won’t seem out of the ordinary,” I said.

  “OK,” he replied. “What should I say?”

  “First, find out if he is in town. If he’s away from the office, ask for his cell phone and call him directly. When you reach him, tell him you will be passing through Troy over the weekend, and you’d like to discuss a natural gas drilling project. He may want to set up an appointment in his office. Tell him you’ll be there on Sunday, and to make it easy on him, you’d be happy to drop by his home for a preliminary discussion. My first choice is to arrange a meeting at his home sometime during the day on Sunday. If that doesn’t work out smoothly, don’t worry. Set up a meeting in his office.”

  “Who am I supposed to be, Jesse?”

  “Tell him you are a lawyer, and you represent a number of individuals with farmland in central Pennsylvania. If he presses you for specifics, tell him that you aren’t at liberty to give out any individual names.”

  “All right,” Ray said. “I’ll call you back as soon as I arrange it.�
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  “Before you call him,” I said cautiously, “do a little research on drilling for natural gas. Don’t provide him with a specific location for your project. Be a little mysterious. To get his competitive juices flowing, tell him you will be visiting a number of other drilling companies in the area. We want him to bend over backward for you… not the other way around.”

  “Got it,” he said, “Anything else.”

  “That will do it. Good luck.”

  • • •

  It was four o’clock. All I could do was enjoy the view of the lake and wait.

  My phone rang a half-hour later.

  “Jesse, I managed to reach Mark Prichard on his cell phone. He is at his summer home on Seneca Lake in upstate New York. But there’s good news. He’ll be back home Saturday evening. I’ve arranged to meet him at his home at ten o’clock Sunday morning.”

  “Perfect, Ray. Thanks for your help.”

  Raymond provided me with his home address and phone number, and bid me farewell. I entered the address in my GPS and checked out the driving time. It would take us a little over eight hours to get there.

  Things were falling into place. It was a perfect time for a cold beer. I opened three bottles of Narragansett. Angele and Eric joined me on the porch. The lake was beautiful. For the moment, the world seemed to be spinning in our favor.

  • • •

  Brock arrived at five-thirty. He was eager to get the full scoop. I walked him down to the lake, told him the news and laid out our plan. I had to spend ten minutes convincing him I wasn’t completely nuts. In the end, he shook his head and said, “I think you’re crazy, but who knows… it just might work.”

  When we got back to the house, supper was ready. It was a lively affair. Everyone commented on Billy’s excellent photographic work. We all were keyed up. I poured a second glass of wine for Brock. He raised his glass and offered a toast, “Here’s to a group of creative numbskulls. If I weren’t on the force, I’d drive to Pennsylvania and back you up. Cheers and good luck!”

  When the sun went down, Angele and I sat on the dock and watched the moon rise over the lake. Our legs dangled over the edge. Gentle waves lapped the shore. Words were unnecessary.