Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  33

  Off to Pennsylvania

  Saturday was getaway day.

  I got dressed and ambled into the kitchen. Brock and Cynthia were already at the dining room table drinking coffee. I poured a cup and joined them.

  Cynthia smiled as Brock said, “You know, Jesse, maybe I should join you in Pennsylvania after all. I’m trained to deal with criminals.”

  “I’ve thought about it, Brock,” I said. “It would be nice to have you there for support and backup when we meet with Mark Prichard, but I think it’s better that you stay here. If things go badly, your career might be in jeopardy. We’re not exactly doing this by the book.

  “There’s also an important legal issue to consider. Suppose we pull this off and bring Prichard back to Maine. If a bona fide trooper were involved, any evidence we gathered in the process might be tainted. It could all be thrown out in court over procedural issues. Cynthia, Eric and I are not restricted in the same way. We will be running some risk by impersonating officers of the law, but as independent citizens, we won’t be undermining the legal case.

  “And let’s not forget, there’s been a threat to Cynthia’s life. I’ll feel more comfortable if you’re here. I’ve been assuming three people planned and executed the governor’s murder, but I could be wrong. There might be a broader conspiracy at work. We can’t let our guard down just because we are in Billy’s cabin on the lake. Keep your sidearm with you at all times. My 30-30 is in the living room.

  “Which reminds me…don’t let Billy smoke any pot. All three of you need to hunker down and be prepared for trouble.”

  Brock didn’t say a thing. He took it in and processed it. The wheels were turning; his facial expressions told the whole story.

  I made a mental note. “When this is all over, invite Brock over for poker night.” I could read him like a book.

  Angele walked into the room behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders, pressed her thumbs into the trapezius muscles on both sides of my neck and dug in; I tried to relax. I was wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch. Thirteen days on a murder investigation had taken its toll on my nervous system.

  “Angele, that’s marvelous. I need a full-time masseuse and a vacation.”

  I groaned as Angele intensified her grip. My back turned to putty.

  “I could sit here all day,” I said.

  “No, you can’t,” Angele countered. “We’ve got a job to do. Wake up Eric. We need to get moving.”

  She was right, as usual.

  I walked over to Eric’s bedroom door and knocked. He didn’t make a sound, so I knocked louder and hollered, “Eric, let’s go to Pennsylvania.”

  “OK, boss,” came a weak reply.

  Cynthia went to the kitchen and started a second pot of coffee. Angele joined her and made a smoothie. She combined bananas, pineapple, orange juice, soy milk and protein powder in a blender and turned it on high. Camp Billy jolted to life.

  Cynthia fixed eggs, bacon and toast for the non-vegans; Angele and I downed our liquid breakfast. By eight, Angele, Eric and I were on the road.

  We had settled on using Angele’s car for the trip. She owns a black, late model Buick LaCrosse. We decided that of all our vehicles, it was the best fit for prominent officials of the FBI.

  We had booked a two-bedroom suite at a Best Western in Sayre, PA for Saturday night. It was going to be an eight-hour drive. For the first two hours, we talked strategy and rehearsed our parts. In the middle of Massachusetts, we took a break and began enjoying the countryside. Angele and I shared the driving, while Eric tweaked our notes on his laptop.

  We reached Sayre at four o’clock and checked into our rooms. Angele and I took a dip in the pool. Eric took a nap. Getting up at eight in the morning had thrown off his internal clock.

  After dinner, we rehearsed again. By eight o’clock, we felt we were as ready as we could be. I turned on the television and scrolled to ESPN. We managed to catch the last inning of the Sox game. They were playing the Angels in Anaheim. Angele curled up with a book on the bed. Eric and I relocated to his room and continued watching the game. The Sox lost 4-3 on a ninth inning, two-run homer by Albert Pujols.

  “Don’t tell Angele how it turned out,” Eric said. “She might take it as a bad omen.”

  I agreed.

  When I returned to our room, Angele looked up and asked, “Is the game over?”

  “No, honey,” I said. “It’s going into extra innings. I want to get a good night sleep. We have our work cut out for us in the morning.”

  She studied me closely.

  “You’ve abandoned an extra inning Sox game for some shuteye. You’re taking your work very seriously,” she said.

  “I thought we could spend a little time in the sack before calling it a night,” I offered.

  “Hmm… Sounds like a plan,” she replied.

  She put down her book, slipped out of her clothes and slid under the covers.

  “Turn off the lights and come find me,” she said. “I’m in here somewhere.”

  My radar worked perfectly.

  34

  Expectations & Impersonations

  We checked out of our room bright and early Sunday morning and had breakfast at a local diner. We left Sayre at nine. It was a half-hour drive to Troy. We were parked in front of Mark Prichard’s house at nine-thirty. The first part of our plan was for Eric and Angele to meet with Mark. I remained out of sight in the back of the car while they walked up and rang the bell.

  “You must be Raymond McDaniels,” Mark said as he opened the door.

  “No,” Eric said. “My name is Leroy Cochrane; this is my assistant, Angele Richards. We are from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We are investigating a series of burglaries.”

  “Burglaries?” Mark asked.

  “Are you Mark Prichard?” Eric asked.

  “Yes,” he replied uneasily.

  “May we come inside to discuss this with you?”

  “The FBI?” Mark queried. “May I see some identification?”

  Eric and Angele produced their novelty badges, followed by some of Billy’s digital ID handiwork, freshly laminated.

  Mark studied the credentials briefly, then handed them back and asked, “Why is the FBI involved in burglaries in Pennsylvania?”

  “Four states are involved, sir. The burglaries have taken place in Ohio, Maryland and West Virginia. The stolen items have been fenced here in Troy. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to discuss this privately,” Eric said.

  “Sure. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Mark replied confidently.

  They walked inside, and Mark suggested they sit in the living room.

  “Why have you come to see me, exactly?” Mark asked.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Prichard, Mrs. Richards will record our conversation,” Eric said in a formal tone.

  Angele produced a small hand-held microphone from her bag and set it down on the coffee table. She monitored the volume levels as Eric continued to speak.

  “The burglaries in question have taken place over the past three months,” Eric said. “A couple miles northwest of Troy, on the Roosevelt Highway, there is a small farmhouse that has been used to receive the goods. We have reports that a late model, blue Ford Taurus has been spotted frequently going in and out of that farmhouse over the past two months. We ran a search of vehicles in the area and found that there are three cars registered in Troy that match that description. Yours is one of them. Is that your Taurus in the driveway, Mr. Prichard?”

  “Yes,” Mark replied without a hint of concern.

  “We are interested in your whereabouts during the past two months and in particular on three specific dates,” Eric said as he pulled out a notepad from the vest of his three-piece suit. “The dates in question are May 12th, June 1st and June 8th.”

  “I have just spent the past six weeks at my summer home on Seneca Lake, about twenty miles west of Ithaca, New York,” Mark said.

  “Can you show us some proof
that you were there? Do you have any receipts for purchases, groceries or gasoline for example?” Eric asked.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “I have most of them in an envelope in my desk. I’ll be happy to get them for you.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” Eric said seriously.

  Eric stood up, unbuttoned his jacket—suggesting in a subtle way that a service revolver was riding in a shoulder holster—and followed behind him. Eric did indeed have a revolver in a shoulder holster, none other than Rhonda, my own .38 Special.

  Mark opened his desk drawer, produced an envelope and handed it to Eric. Eric asked Mark to walk in front of him as they returned to the living room.

  Eric took the receipts and arranged them on the coffee table in chronological order. The date of the first receipt was May 3rd. After that, there were a number of receipts, mostly for groceries, until May 13th. On that day Mark purchased thirteen gallons of gas at a station in Ithaca. The next receipt was dated June 2nd from another gas station in Ithaca for fifteen gallons of gas. There were a number of other receipts including two for groceries, one on June 3rd and the other on June 8th.

  “If these receipts check out, you will have a strong alibi for at least two of the dates in question,” Eric said. “I noticed that there are no receipts from May 13th to June 2nd. Where were you during those dates?”

  “I was still at my summer home,” Mark replied. “I had purchased enough food and other necessities and spent most of that time inside my home or on the lake.”

  “Was anyone with you during that time?” Eric asked.

  “Occasionally a neighbor dropped over, but for the most part I enjoyed the solitude. I like fishing by myself during the day and reading or watching television in the evenings.”

  “So from May 13th through June 2nd you were at your summer home on the lake? Is that correct?” Eric asked definitively.

  “Absolutely. I spent every single night there,” Mark replied just as definitively.

  “Thank you, Mr. Prichard. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to call in another assistant, Detective Wilson Thorndyke,” Eric announced. “Wilson, would you come in please?”

  Mark was slightly startled by this development, as he now realized another investigator had been tuned in to their conversation. His eyes opened wide as I made my entrance. Brock’s uniform fit me to a tee. I especially enjoyed having a loaded .45 caliber Glock in a holster on my hip. I have to admit, I struck a commanding pose as I walked into the room. A silver Maine State Trooper badge rested nicely on my chest. I had donned a tall, dark gray hat with a round flat brim and a gold insignia in front. My epaulets, tie and pocket flaps matched the color of my hat. I was fully decked out, and if you looked at my shoes—though no one did—you could have seen your reflection.

  “Mr. Prichard, this is Detective Wilson Thorndyke,” Eric said. “He is a trooper from the state of Maine.”

  Mark took a deep breath and stood up unexpectedly. He remained absolutely rigid for at least ten seconds. If I’m not mistaken, his life flashed before his eyes. Then he asked nervously, “What is a Maine trooper doing here?”

  “I’m investigating the assassination of our governor, William Lavoilette,” I said stoically. “I assume you are aware he was murdered two weeks ago.”

  “Yes,” he stammered. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  “You are perfectly within your rights to have a lawyer present, Mr. Prichard, but I am confident that you will decide against it. If you will kindly sit down, I will be happy to explain the situation to you,” I said.

  Mark Prichard turned ashen white, and he buckled at the knees.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Prichard,” Angele spoke up. “We can get you some water if you like. You look rather pale.”

  “I’ll be OK,” he fired back indignantly. “What’s this about?”

  “This is about murder,” I said, “premeditated murder, planned and orchestrated by three people—Susan St. Claire, Aaron Miller and you, Mr. Prichard.”

  I allowed that statement to sink in while I put my briefcase on the floor and opened it. I pulled out a set of papers and stacked them on the coffee table. The papers had been carefully arranged in an order that would drive my story. On top of the pile was a photograph of Mark Prichard and Travis Perkins on Jigs and Things’ charter fishing boat. The photograph had a time and date emblazoned in orange along the bottom.

  I handed the picture across the table to Prichard and said, “As you can see, you were not in New York on June 1st of this year. You were fishing with Travis Perkins in the waters off Orr Island, Maine. That is you in the picture, isn’t it?”

  “Impossible,” he said. “That’s someone else. I admit it looks a bit like me, but it couldn’t be.”

  I picked up a second photograph, handed it to him and said, “Take a look at this picture carefully, Mr. Prichard. You received a cut on your right hand when you tried to remove a fishing lure from the mouth of a hammerhead shark. Please notice that the left sleeve of Travis Perkins’ shirt is now stained red. It’s your blood on that shirt. That blood is loaded with your DNA.”

  Prichard instinctively covered his injured hand as he responded to my statement, “How do you know it’s my DNA? I’ve never been tested.”

  “We’ll get to that a bit later,” I said patiently. “What is it they say? Oh yes, ‘Every picture tells a story.’ Here’s another.”

  I handed him one of Billy Mosher’s finest—a Photoshopped image of me purloining a .45 caliber Glock from the bureau drawer in Travis Perkins’ bedroom. It was my body and my denim jacket, but the head on my shoulders belonged to Mark Prichard. The digital work was absolutely seamless.

  “That picture is a fake. I was…”

  He stopped speaking suddenly, swallowing his thought. I suspect the sentence would have ended with “…in that room by myself.”

  “Then why is Travis Perkins still in jail?” Prichard asked in a fiery tone.

  Angele spoke right up, “He is still in jail for two reasons. First, he has not been entirely cooperative. He is worried that he might be accused of being an accessory to murder. Travis Perkins provided Susan St. Claire with important information that she used to plan the murder of Governor Lavoilette. Travis is embarrassed by this.

  “The primary reason that Trooper Perkins remains in jail is for his own protection. He can testify in court against Susan St. Claire and you. His testimony is vital to our case. We don’t want anything to happen to him while Susan St. Claire is still at large.”

  “I demand to see a lawyer,” Prichard shouted.

  “Mr. Prichard,” I replied, “Let me remind you of something I said earlier. I am confident that you will choose to not contact a lawyer. If you will sit quietly and listen to what I have to say, I think we can wrap this up rather easily. I’ll begin with the evidence we have that connects you to the crime—several crimes actually: conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder before the fact, lying to a federal officer, and obstruction of justice.

  “You approached Travis Perkins on May 15th, posing as Justin Cook, a story writer for Police Magazine. You indicated you wanted to write a human-interest story about Maine State Troopers. On May 18th, you visited Travis at his home and took some photographs of him. You even asked him to put on his uniform and wear his gun for the pictures. That’s how you discovered where he keeps his service weapon when he is off duty.

  “On June 1st, the day of the murder, you returned to Trooper Perkins’ home and had breakfast with him. You had made reservations to go fishing together on Saturday and Sunday. The two of you got into your car to leave, but you asked to return inside to use the bathroom. Travis gave you his key, and you went back in alone. That is when you stole his .45 caliber Glock from the bureau.

  “Incidentally, the photograph of you stealing his weapon was extracted from a video. There are four video cameras set up in the Perkins’ home. We have video of you entering the front door, walking through his living room, and, of
course, removing the Glock from the bureau drawer. Many policemen have video cameras and alarm systems set up in their homes. These public servants are often threatened with violence for the service they provide.

  “You returned to your Taurus with the Glock concealed in your denim jacket. You then put that jacket with the weapon in the trunk of your car. You also intentionally did not lock the front door of the Perkins home, as you had promised. We suspect that you intended to have Aaron Miller return the Glock in the event that your assassination plan did not work. That way you would remain in good graces with Trooper Perkins for any further attempt on the governor’s life.

  “You and Travis then drove to Jigs and Things on Orr’s Island and went fishing for the afternoon. The two of you had dinner that evening and retired to the Nestle Inn at eight o’clock. You registered under the name Justin Cook and wrote the license plate number on the form. It was a Maine plate, number 622-JVT. That plate was stolen on or about May 15th from Victor Audet in Augusta.

  “You received a call on your cell phone and drove away from the motel at approximately 8:30 PM. That was shortly after the governor’s car left his summer home. The governor and his date drove to Brunswick to see the movie, Lincoln, at a cinema complex a few miles away. You drove to the theater and met with Aaron Miller. At that time, you gave him the Glock, and you remained to stake out the governor’s car.

  “The movie let out a little after 10:00 PM. Aaron then drove to Sebascodegan Island and positioned his silver Honda CRV by the side of the road at the intersection of Highway 24 and Cundys Harbor Road and waited. He knew that the governor had to pass there on his way home.

  “You probably called Aaron just as the governor’s vehicle left the parking lot. It is a five-minute drive from the theater to that intersection. When the governor drove by, Aaron flagged him down. William Lavoilette, ever the Good Samaritan, stopped to help a man stranded on the side of the road.