Creaking steps led to a wide front porch where an old washing machine kept company with a pair of porch rockers, the wood grayed by weather. The front door opened into a narrow entryway. A living room furnished with a plaid couch and a couple of worn easy chairs was on the left. A big old tube TV sat on a nicked-up bureau.
A woodstove on a brick hearth was the only obvious heat source, but on that bitter day it was only taking up space in the unoccupied house. A small bookshelf crammed with paperbacks squatted next to the doorway. Louis L’Amour westerns and Robert B. Parker mysteries were mixed in with classic kids’ titles like Sarah, Plain and Tall and Black Beauty.
An open door across the hall revealed a bedroom short on adornment. A double mattress on a metal frame wore a tattered quilt. A mirror with age-speckled glass topped a maple bureau. The room’s only decoration sat on the dresser, a framed photograph showing a smiling woman holding a newborn. I recognized the pretty face as Karen Boothby. A sweet picture from a happier time, sharp conflict with the suffocating sadness that permeated the sparse bedroom.
My reverie was broken by voices from outside.
“Sorry to make you stay out here in the cold. I got lost.”
I moved to the window. The redheaded woman I’d noticed in the courtroom was stamping a heavy-duty pair of Sorels against the frozen ground and extending a mittened hand to the deputy. When I heard her step on the porch I opened the door before she could. Surprise registered on her face.
“Well, hey. Who are you?”
“Joe Gale, reporter with the Portland Daily Chronicle. Who are you?”
“Emma Abbott.”
I smiled. She didn’t smile back.
“I noticed you in the courtroom this morning,” I said. “What’s your connection to the case?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
I waited a beat but she did not elaborate.
“And psychologists check out crime scenes because...?”
Emma paused. “I’m part of a support team. Corrine—the defendant’s daughter—needs a lot of support, given what’s happened in her family.”
“So how come you’re out here at the house?”
“I’ve never had a chance to see the house where, ah, where the incident happened. So when I heard the jury was making a visit I asked the court clerk if I could take a look myself. She told me I could come after the jurors left. It wasn’t easy to find.”
“I took a wrong turn myself.”
“We’d better get looking around because that deputy out there isn’t going to wait all day.” She kept her purple down parka zipped as she walked into the living room. I climbed the stairs at the far end of the hallway, coming up into a low-ceilinged second floor that consisted of a basic but serviceable bathroom flanked by two small rooms with sloped ceilings. The one over the living room must have been Corrine’s. Neat as a pin, it held a twin bed with a flowered spread, a small desk with an old-fashioned lamp, and a wooden wardrobe painted robin’s egg blue. The two windows were framed by yellow-and-white flowered curtains. A poster on the wall pictured a teen heartthrob, hair combed across his eyes, singing into a cordless microphone. A grate in the floor made me look at the baseboards. Yup, no radiators up here. At least six months of the year that pretty bedspread must have been supplemented by a pile of quilts, or maybe an electric blanket.
Across the hall, a dusty table under the window held a big sewing machine and a stack of fabric. Cardboard boxes were stacked in the middle of the room and along the far wall. A sprung but empty mousetrap in the back corner was a testament to the futility of keeping field rodents outside where they belonged.
I went back down the stairs as Emma was heading up. In the kitchen, which extended across the back of the house, the winter sun shone through a large window over an enamel sink. I met her again as she was walking down the stairs.
“If walls could talk, eh?”
As soon as she opened the front door, the deputy stepped out of her car.
“Are you finished, Dr. Abbott?” The deputy ignored me.
“Yes, thank you for your patience.” Emma turned on a smile that could have melted the icicles hanging from the eaves.
The deputy passed us on the porch and went inside. I guessed she needed to verify that neither of us had taken anything or unlocked a door so we could return to the frigid little house later. I walked with Emma toward a Honda CR-V parked next to my car.
“Are you here for the entire trial?”
“I have to be if I’m going to be able to help Corrine.”
“Well, I’m in town the duration too. What are you doing for supper tonight?”
“I don’t know. Evaluate the local dining options I guess.”
“Last night I went with the Chinese and it wasn’t terrible, but I don’t think I want a steady diet of MSG. Do you want to join me for supper at the Old Fort Pub? Say six thirty?”
She opened her car door but didn’t get in. “It’d be nice not to eat alone, but I have no intention of talking to you about my client, my work, or my thoughts on the trial.” She gave me a slightly lower-wattage version of her smile. “Nada. Zip. Zilch. If you can deal with that, sure, I’d be happy to meet you at the pub.”
“I wasn’t assuming we’d talk shop.”
“Then I’ll see you over there. Say seven thirty. I have an appointment after court finishes up for the day that will take some time.”
I assumed her appointment was with Corrine Boothby but managed not to ask. The deputy slammed the front door, jiggled the knob to be sure it was latched, pulled a big padlock out of her parka pocket and fastened it through a shiny hasp on the outside of the storm door. Emma got into her green Honda, and I ran for my icebox of a car, slapping myself on the back for beating the odds and finding a pretty woman to have supper with me at the pub.
Pretty and willing to talk would have been better, but I’d take what I could get.
Chapter Six
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
When I returned to the courthouse, there was no sign of Andrea Veloute or any other reporter—at least not anyone I knew—and no TV types doing a live stand-up shot on the front steps of the courthouse either. Weird. As the jury was filing in, I heard the creak of the big rear door and turned around to see Emma tiptoeing past the court officer. She pulled her hat off her tangle of red hair and slid into the rear bench on the right side of the aisle.
Geoff Mansfield, still looking hyped up, called the medical examiner as his first witness. After being sworn in, Alwin “Bud” Troost settled in the witness chair like it had been custom-made for him. He pulled out a pair of half-glasses and perched them on his head so they would be at the ready when Mansfield handed him something to review.
He’d done this dance before.
Mansfield asked a series of questions that allowed Troost to introduce himself to the jury, detail his education and explain that he’d been the state medical examiner’s point man Downeast for more than forty years. Mansfield asked him about going to the Boothby house on May 22. Frank O’Rourke appeared to be dead when he got there, Troost said. He explained how he verified that fact, detailing his on-scene examination of the body. A knife handle and a small portion of blade protruded from O’Rourke’s chest, and his shirt was soaked with blood. The position of his body suggested he’d been standing facing the door when he was stabbed.
“It looked like he’d been knocking on the door and someone came out with the knife and caught him unaware,” Troost said.
Cohen jumped to his feet. “Objection! The witness is speculating.”
Justice Herrick agreed, and told the jury to ignore the medical examiner’s last comment.
Mansfield handed Troost a multi-page autopsy report. The medical examiner pulled his glasses down onto his nose and, at Mansfield’s prompting, read the pertinent
facts aloud. The knife had penetrated O’Rourke’s chest wall and kept on going, severing the coronary artery. Troost explained that this caused a large amount of blood to pool inside the pericardial sac, compressing and constricting the heart, causing O’Rourke to die within minutes.
“The cause of death was cardiac tamponade,” Troost said, pronouncing “tamponade” like it rhymed with “lemonade.” Mansfield then set about drawing out the technical details of the injury, treading the line between needed information and the grim details of how a person dies from a chest wound. After about fifteen minutes of medical lingo, Mansfield asked a practical question. “Did Frank O’Rourke have any chance to get away once he was stabbed, to get to his car perhaps and dial 911?”
“The wound was too severe,” Troost said. “Death wasn’t instantaneous, but Mr. O’Rourke wouldn’t have been able to move more than a dozen steps after the knife hit that artery.”
Cohen didn’t object when Mansfield moved the autopsy report into evidence. While they were doing that little dance I shot out a quick tweet about the cause of death, using Google to look up the spelling of “tamponade.”
Next Mansfield presented for inspection what appeared from my vantage point to be about a dozen blown-up photographs. Mansfield handed them to Troost one by one, and asked him to identify what he saw. Troost pointed out various locations around the Boothby property—front yard, living room, kitchen, hallway inside the front door.
Troost said he didn’t take the photos—an evidence technician was the photographer—but he testified the photos appeared to depict the crime scene on the May afternoon Frank O’Rourke died. It was clear Mansfield had prepped the M.E. to be respectful when referring to the deceased. “That’s the body—I mean, that’s Mr. O’Rourke,” Troost said, gesturing toward a photograph that had been marked as State’s Exhibit #7.
“You’ll notice there wasn’t a large volume of blood on Mr. O’Rourke or the porch,” Troost said when describing #11. “That’s because most of it was built up inside of Mr. O’Rourke, and it compressed his heart to death. This particular wound didn’t cause extensive external bleeding.”
“What kind of force would it have taken to plunge a knife into the chest of a man the size and condition of Mr. O’Rourke and sever his coronary artery?”
“Well, it depends on whether the victim was standing still or moving, and the angle of the victim’s body at the time, and the height of...”
Mansfield interrupted, realizing he wasn’t going to get the crisp answer he had anticipated. “Would you say it would take a lot of force?”
Cohen stood. “Objection, your honor. That’s a leading question.”
Justice Herrick sustained the objection.
Mansfield tried again. “Is the cause of death consistent with an accidental stabbing?”
“Well, it’s hard to say...” Troost began, but Cohen was on his feet.
“Lack of foundation, your honor. He’s asking the witness to speculate without any foundation for the scenario.”
Justice Herrick sustained the objection once again.
Mansfield walked back to the counsel table, shuffled some papers, then told the judge he was done questioning Troost. My watch said three fifty, ten neat minutes before the courthouse closed for the day.
The judge gave the jurors a good talking-to about not discussing the case with each other. The court officer escorted them from the room, and the judge departed after telling counsel to be ready to go the next morning at eight thirty sharp. As soon as the door closed behind her, I grabbed my parka, scooted down the stairs and stood inside the big front door as the spectators descended. About half the crowd left the building right away, a good number firing up cigarettes before stepping outside, the heavy door sheltering their lighters from the wind. Others milled about in the hallway, pulling on scarves and hats and talking with the fervor of people who’d been saving up things to say to each other.
I approached a stocky guy wearing an insulated camouflage jacket who looked to be in his mid-fifties. When I introduced myself, he eyed me for a moment before putting out his hand.
“Claude LeClair,” he said. “This here’s my wife Dolores.” He jerked his head at a rangy woman with salt-and-pepper hair who had a good four inches on him height-wise. She was wearing a khaki barn jacket and a distant look on her face.
I was about to mention that I’d met the Peabody twins, her friends from church, when Claude turned his body about ninety degrees so he was standing between me and his wife.
“How’d you know I was Karen’s father?” His voice was low and tense.
I scratched my memory for something that would explain the steamed look on his face. “I didn’t know that until you said your name. I’m trying to talk with people who are giving up their time to sit and watch the trial.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m here because it involves my family. My granddaughter.” He was biting off each word. “And I hope I don’t have to read a bunch of bleeding-heart stuff in your newspaper about Danny Boothby.”
“You don’t like Boothby?”
“Don’t now, never did.” His body was rigid with tension.
I let a moment pass. “So you think he’s guilty, I guess?”
“I’m not sayin’ that. I’m just sayin’ he’s an asshole.” He squared his big shoulders. “And you shouldn’t be surprised if people around here aren’t willing to talk with you, not with that head of hair.”
I puzzled a second at the non sequitur, then decided my best course was to agree with the guy. “You know, I sure do need a haircut.” I forced my face into a smile. “Where’s the nearest barber shop?”
“Down behind the hardware store on Main Street, other side of the parking lot,” he said. “It’s my shop, and if you come sit in my chair, I’ll clean you up good.”
“I’m pretty much tied up here with the trial.”
He cut off my excuse like an impatient vice-principal. “Tomorrow. Lunch break. I’ll see you at my barber shop.” He turned his bulky body back toward his wife and clamped his hand on her arm.
“Time to go home, Dolores.” As Claude led her away, she glanced over his head in my general direction, but her smile wasn’t aimed at me.
I drove down to Main Street to look for some coffee, puzzling about LeClair’s anger. Cohen had told me there was no love lost between Karen’s father and Boothby, and that LeClair had been angling for DHHS to give him and his wife custody of Corrine. On the other side of the ledger, Danny Boothby was Corrine’s father, and LeClair said he didn’t want to see him convicted. But he sure acted pissed about having to show up and support the man who’d married his daughter.
The Java Nook closed at four, leaving the gas station-convenience store where I’d met up with Eddie O’Rourke and his henchman as the only other coffee option. I pulled into a parking space across from a pair of pickup trucks positioned so their drivers could talk without having to get out of the warm cabs. As I walked toward the store, I heard a loud bleat of laughter. A burly guy flipped a cigarette butt out the window of the older truck through the open glass of the new one.
“Asshole!” the driver of the shiny pickup hollered as he hopped out of his truck and began pawing the seat to find the live ember. The butt-flipper floored it, causing his pickup to jump across the parking lot and careen off a curb before fishtailing onto Main Street.
I nodded at the skinny, bespectacled kid behind the counter. “A little rowdy out there tonight.” I poured myself a cup of coffee that I hoped wouldn’t burn a hole in my stomach.
“Mick likes to show off,” he said. “Thinks he’s tough.”
“Is he?” I pulled a buck from my wallet.
His eyes scanned the little store as though to verify there was no one listening. “If he was really tough he wouldn’t be so damned hot to prove it all the time.”
Five minutes later I was back at the inn, settled in front of my laptop at the desk under the window. First I banged out the main story—leading with the Troost testimony about the technical cause of O’Rourke’s death before touching on the highlights of the opening statements. When I was satisfied with that piece, I pulled together a shorter sidebar describing the forlorn Boothby house. On that story, the words fell together.
Echoes of a young, happy family are difficult to hear over the January wind. The Boothby home stood vigil during a lively woman’s unsuccessful battle with cancer then witnessed a man being stabbed to death on its front steps. The walls can’t talk, but lawyers on both sides of this case hope today’s visit to the scene of Frank O’Rourke’s death will help jurors evaluate the evidence.
I spent three quarters of an hour polishing then hit the send button, transmitting the stories to Portland along with the digital photos I’d taken at the Boothby house. The Peabody sisters would have two articles to discuss over their coffee the next morning, even if they were sharing a laptop instead of a broadsheet.
Scrolling through my inbox I found another message from scrapper64. I live a long way from Machias, but I know a shitload about Frankie. Call me if you want the details. I work a split shift. Best time tomorrow would be 2 p.m. The email ended with a phone number I recognized as a Biddeford exchange. There was no answer when I dialed the number, so I jotted it on the back of my notepad. The next afternoon would have to be soon enough.
I took a shower before dinner to shift from work to social mode and was toweling my hair dry when my cell phone rang from inside my parka pocket. I fumbled it free and found Leah on the other end.
“The scene sidebar is great. Sounds like an American Gothic kind of thing. I’m glad you wangled your way onto the view.”
Cover Story Page 6