The Sixth Man kam-5

by David Baldacci

  “No exit wound, contact round, small-caliber gun probably,” noted Michelle.

  “But still deadly,” replied Sean.

  “Any contact wound to the head usually is. Crack the skull, soft brain tissue pulverized by the kinetic energy wave, massive hemorrhaging followed by organ shutdown. All happens in a few seconds. Dead.”

  “I know the process, thanks,” he replied dryly.

  As they sat there they could see the members of the Maine constabulary look over at them from time to time.

  “Are we suspects?” asked Michelle.

  “Everybody’s a suspect until they’re not.”

  Some time later the lieutenant came back over to them. “The colonel is on his way.”

  “And who is the colonel?” asked Michelle politely.

  “Chief of the Maine State Police, ma’am.”

  “Okay. But we’ve given our statements,” she said.

  “So you two knew the deceased?”

  “I did,” answered Sean.

  “And you were following him up here?”

  “We weren’t following him. I explained it to your troopers. We were meeting him up here.”

  “I’d appreciate if you could explain it to me, sir.”

  Okay, we are suspects, thought Sean.

  He went through their travel steps.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t know he was here? But you just happened to be the first ones on the scene?”

  Sean said, “That’s right.”

  The man tilted his wide-brimmed hat back. “I personally don’t like coincidences.”

  “I don’t either,” said Sean. “But they sometimes happen. And there aren’t a lot of homes or people around here. He was going to the same place we were, using the same road. And it’s late. If anyone was going to happen on him, it would probably be us.”

  “So not such a big coincidence after all,” added Michelle.

  The man didn’t appear to be listening. He was looking at the bulge under her jacket. His hand went to his sidearm and he gave a low whistle, which brought five of his men instantly to his side.

  He said, “Ma’am, are you carrying a weapon?”

  The other officers tensed. Sean could tell in the fearful looks of the first two troopers on the scene that there would be hell to pay later for them missing such an obvious fact.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Why didn’t my men know this?”

  He gave a prolonged look at the two troopers who had turned about as pale as the moon.

  “They didn’t ask,” she replied.

  The lieutenant drew his pistol. A moment later a total of six guns were pointed at Sean and Michelle. All kill shots.

  “Hold on,” said Sean. “She has a permit. And the gun hasn’t been fired.”

  “Both of you put your hands on your heads, fingers interlocked. Now.”

  They did so.

  Michelle’s gun was taken and examined, and they were both searched for other weapons.

  “Full load, sir,” said one of the troopers to the lieutenant. “Hasn’t been recently fired.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t know how long the man’s been dead, either. And it’s only one bullet. Just replace it to make a full clip. Easy enough.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” Michelle said firmly.

  “And if we did, do you think we would have hung around and called the police?” added Sean.

  “Not for me to decide,” said the lieutenant, who handed Michelle’s gun to one of his men. “Bag and tag.”

  “I do have a permit to carry it,” said Michelle.

  “Let me see it.”

  She handed it to him and his gaze ran swiftly over it before he handed it back. “Permit or not, doesn’t matter if you used the weapon to shoot that man.”

  “The deceased has a small-caliber entry wound with no exit,” said Michelle. “An intermediate range shot would have left powder grains tattooing the skin. Here the powder was obviously blown into the wound track. The muzzle end was burned into his skin. Looks to be a .22 or maybe a .32-caliber. The latter’s an eight-millimeter footprint. My weapon would have left a hole nearly fifty percent bigger than that. In fact, if I’d shot him at contact range, the round would have blown through his brain and the headrest and probably shattered the back window and kept going for about a mile.”

  “I know the weapon’s capabilities, ma’am,” he said. “It’s an H and K .45—that’s what we use in the state police.”

  “Actually, mine is an enhanced version of the one you guys just pointed at us.”

  “Enhanced? How?”

  “Your weapon is an older and more basic model. My H and K is more ergonomic and it’s got a ten-round mag box versus your twelve because of the restyling. Textured, finger-grooved grip and backstraps let it sit lower in the hand web, translating to better control and recoil management. Then there’s an extended ambidextrous slide, a universal Picatinny rail instead of the H and K proprietary USP rail for accessories that you have. And it has an O-ring polygonal barrel. It’ll drop pretty much anything on two feet all in a compact twenty-eight-ounce model. And it’s built right across the border in New Hampshire.”

  “You know a lot about guns, ma’am?”

  “She’s an aficionado,” replied Sean, seeing the look of growing anger in his partner’s eyes at the officer’s condescending tone.

  “Why?” she said. “Are girls not supposed to know about guns?”

  The lieutenant abruptly grinned, took off his hat, and swiped a hand through his blond hair. “Hell, in this part of Maine pretty much everybody knows how to use a gun. My little sister’s always been a better shot than me, in fact.”

  “There you go,” said Michelle, her anger quickly receding at his frank admission. “And you can swab my hands for gunshot residue. You won’t find any.”

  “Could’ve worn gloves,” he pointed out.

  “I could’ve done a lot of things. You want to do the GSR or not?”

  He motioned to one of the techs, who performed the test on both Michelle and Sean and did the analysis on the spot.

  “Clean,” he said.

  “Wow, how about that,” said Michelle.

  The lieutenant said, “So you two are private investigators?”

  Sean nodded. “Bergin engaged us to help with the Edgar Roy case.”

  “Help with what? Man’s as guilty as they come.”

  “Just like you said, not for us to decide,” said Sean.

  “You licensed in Maine?”

  “We’ve filed the paperwork and paid the fee,” said Sean. “Waiting to hear back.”

  “So that’s a no? You’re not licensed?”

  “Well, we haven’t done any investigative work yet. Just found out about the job. We filed as fast as we could. The jurisdictions where we’re licensed have reciprocity with Maine. It’s just a formality. We’ll get the approval.”

  “People looking to be PIs need some sort of special background. What’s yours? Military? Law enforcement?”

  “United States Secret Service,” said Sean.

  The lieutenant eyed Sean and then Michelle with a new level of respect. His men did the same.

  “Both of you?”

  Sean nodded.

  “Ever guard the president?”

  “Sean did,” said Michelle. “I never got to the White House before I left the Service.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  Sean and Michelle exchanged brief glances.

  Sean said, “Had enough. Wanted to do something else.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Forty-five minutes later another car pulled up. The lieutenant looked over and said, “That’s Colonel Mayhew. Must’ve put the pedal to the metal, think he was over near Skowhegan tonight.”

  He hurried off to greet his commander in chief. The colonel was tall and broad shouldered. Though in his fifties, he had retained his trim figure. His eyes were calm and alert, his manner brisk and businesslike. He looked,
Sean thought, like a Hollywood-inspired poster for police recruitment.

  He was briefed on the situation, took a look at the body, then came over to them. After introductions Mayhew said, “When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Bergin?”

  “Phone call earlier today, around five thirty p.m. A little while before we got on the plane.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he was going to meet us at the B-and-B where we’re staying.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Martha’s Inn near Machias.”

  The colonel nodded approvingly. “It’s comfortable, food’s good.”

  “Nice to hear,” said Michelle.

  “Anything else from Bergin? E-mails? Texts?”

  “Nothing. I checked before we got on the plane. And then when we landed. I tried calling him around nine o’clock but he didn’t answer. It went right to voice mail and I left a message. Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

  The colonel ignored this. “See any other cars?”

  Sean said, “None, other than Bergin’s. Pretty lonely stretch of road. And we didn’t see any evidence of another car having pulled up to his, although unless it leaked some fluid there probably wouldn’t be leave-behind trace.”

  “So you have no idea where he might have been going tonight?”

  “Well, I presume he was going to meet us at Martha’s Inn.”

  “Do you know where Bergin was staying? At Martha’s?”

  “No, she didn’t have any more rooms, apparently.” Sean searched his pockets and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through some pages.

  “Gray’s Lodge. That’s where he was staying.”

  “Right, know that one too. It’s closer to Eastport. Not as nice as Martha’s place.”

  “I guess you get around,” said Michelle.

  “I guess I do,” replied the colonel impassively. He looked over at the car. “Only thing is, if Bergin were coming from the direction of Eastport, his car would have been going in the opposite direction. You were coming from the southwest. Eastport is to the north and east. And he never would have come this far. The turnoff for Martha’s is five miles further on this road.”

  Sean looked over at the vehicle and then at the colonel. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s how we found him. Car was pointed the same way as ours.”

  “Complicated,” said the lawman.

  Sean looked over as a black Escalade screeched to a stop and four people in FBI windbreakers literally leaped out. The federal cavalry from Boston had just arrived.

  And it’s about to get a lot more complicated, he thought.

  CHAPTER

  4

  THE LEAD AGENT’S NAME was Brandon Murdock. He was about Michelle’s height, a couple inches under six feet and rail-thin, but his grip was surprisingly strong. His hair was thick but cut to FBI standards. His eyebrows were caterpillar-sized. His voice was deep and his manner was compact, efficient. He was briefed first by the lieutenant. He then spent a few private minutes with Colonel Mayhew, who was the highest-ranked Maine police representative on-site. He checked out the body and the car. Then he walked over to Sean and Michelle.

  “Sean King and Michelle Maxwell,” he said.

  Something in his tone made Michelle remark, “You’ve heard of us?”

  “Scuttlebutt from D.C. makes its way up north.”

  “Really?” said Sean.

  “Special Agent Chuck Waters and I went to the Academy together, still keep in touch.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Yes he is.” Murdock glanced over at the car. The chitchat was over. “So what can you tell me?”

  Sean said, “Dead guy. Single GSW to the head. He was up here repping Edgar Roy. Maybe somebody didn’t like that.”

  Murdock nodded. “Or it could’ve been a random thing.”

  “Any money or valuables missing?” asked Michelle.

  The lieutenant answered. “Not that we can tell. Wallet, watch, and phone intact.”

  “Probably not random, then.”

  “And he might’ve known his attacker,” said Sean.

  “Why do you think that?” asked Murdock quickly.

  “The driver’s side window.”

  “What about it?”

  Sean motioned to the car. “You mind?”

  They trooped over to the Buick.

  While they all looked on, Sean pointed to the window and then to the body. “Entry head wound, lot of blood splatter. No exit wound, so all the blood was driven out of the front of his head. It would have been a gusher. The steering wheel, Bergin, dashboard, seat, and the windshield all have splatters. I even got some on my hands when I opened the car door and he slumped out.” He pointed to the clear window. “But not here.”

  “Because it was lowered when the shot was fired,” said Michelle, as Murdock nodded.

  “And then the killer raised it back up because obviously Bergin couldn’t,” said Murdock. “Why?”

  “Don’t know. It was dark, so he might not have noticed that the window was clean, or else he could have smeared some blood on it to throw us off. But blood splatters have reached such a level of forensic sophistication now that the police would see right through something like that. And maybe the shooter also initiated the flashers, to make us think Bergin had broken down or stopped of his own accord. But if you pull off and lower your car window on a lonely road at this time of night? Well, that’s very telling.”

  “You’re right. That means you know the person,” said Murdock. “Good observation.”

  Sean eyed the troopers. “Well, there could be another explanation. The person who stopped him might have been in uniform.”

  To a man, all the state troopers angrily stared back at him. Mayhew said indignantly, “It wasn’t one of my men, I can tell you that.”

  The county officer said, “And I’m the only unit in this sector tonight. And I sure as hell didn’t shoot the man.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone,” said Sean.

  Murdock said, “But he is right. It could have been someone in uniform.”

  “Only an imposter,” amended Michelle.

  “Hard to pull off up here,” said Mayhew. “Getting the uniform, police cruiser. And they could have been seen. Big risk.”

  “It’s still something we have to check out,” said Murdock.

  “How long has he been dead?” asked Sean.

  Murdock glanced at one of the Maine forensic techs. The person said, “Best guess right now, about four hours. We’ll have a firmer number after the post.”

  Sean checked his watch. “That means we missed the killer by about thirty minutes. We saw no car pass us, so whoever did it must’ve gone the other way or else turned off the road.”

  “Unless they were on foot,” said Murdock, looking around at the dark countryside. “But if it was an imposter in uniform they would’ve been in a car. I doubt Bergin would have stopped just because he saw someone in a uniform walking down the road.”

  Mayhew cleared his throat. “My men did a perimeter search in all directions. Found nothing. We’ll be able to do a far more thorough search in the morning.”

  “What’s the closest road to here?” asked Sean.

  “About a half mile in that direction,” said the lieutenant, pointing east.

  “The shooter could’ve walked to his car, parked there,” said Murdock.

  “Too risky,” said Michelle. “Leaving a parked car on a road like this would invite instant suspicion. They couldn’t be sure a cop wouldn’t stop and check it out.”

  “An accomplice then,” said Murdock. “Waiting in the car. The person walks through the woods to avoid anyone on the road seeing them. Gets to the car and off they go.”

  Sean looked over at the Washington County lawman who’d been first on the scene. “You see any other car parked like that on your patrol tonight or when you were heading here?”

  The cop shook his head. “But I came from the same direction
you did.”

  Mayhew said, “We’ve got cars patrolling the nearby roads looking for anyone or anything suspicious. But it’s been hours now, so the person could be pretty far away. Or else holed up somewhere.”

  Murdock said, “I wonder where Bergin was going?”

  “Well, he was supposed to be meeting us at Martha’s Inn,” said Sean. “But now we know he was heading in the wrong direction for that. He would have turned off for Martha’s Inn before he got to this point. If he was coming from Eastport.”

  Murdock looked thoughtful. “Right, so we still don’t know where he was headed. If it wasn’t to meet you, then where? And with whom?”

  Michelle said, “Well, maybe the answer is as simple as he was somewhere south and west of here for some reason and was driving up to Martha’s Inn to meet us. That would put him on the same road and in the same direction as we were.”

  They all considered this. Murdock looked at the colonel. “Any thoughts on where he might’ve gone if that theory turns out to be correct?”

  Mayhew rubbed his nose. “Not much down that way unless he was visiting someone at home.”

  “How about Cutter’s Rock?” asked Sean.

  “If he was leaving from Gray’s Lodge to go to Cutter’s he wouldn’t be on this road at all,” said the lieutenant, as Mayhew nodded in agreement.

  Mayhew added, “And Cutter’s is locked down now. No visitors after dark.”

  Murdock turned to Sean. “Did he know anyone up here that he talked to you about?”

  “The only one he talked to us about was Edgar Roy.”

  “Right,” said Murdock. “His client.”

  The way he said it made Sean remark, “We understand that Roy was on a federal tag list. Anything happens remotely connected to him, you guys get called in.”

  Murdock’s expression showed how plainly he disliked Sean knowing this. “Where did you hear that?” he snapped.

  Behind him Sean could almost sense the heat rising from the face of the trooper who’d let this fact slip to him.

  “I think Bergin told me when we talked a couple days ago. You guys knew all about him repping Roy, correct?”

  Murdock turned away. “Okay, let’s finish processing the area. I want pictures, video, every fiber, hair, blood splatter, print, DNA residue, footprint, and anything else out there. Let’s roll.”