The fog had retreated from the coastline to a point slightly beyond the larger islands of the bay. It hung there like something from a Stephen King novel about secret government programs gone awry, always threatening to return and blind Casco Bay’s many pleasure boaters and day sailors. Sunshine sparkled on the water’s surface like diamonds.
The COP IV cut effortlessly through the water, her cabin filled with the heady aromas of coffee, salt air, and diesel fuel. Byron stepped out onto the bow for a moment of privacy, nodding to veteran officer Sean Haggerty as he went. Haggerty was aboard with his charge, a still wet behind the ears sandy-haired rookie named Cody.
The wind whipped Byron’s hair and clothing. His tie danced about his head absurdly, like one of those tall thin cartoon balloon people that auto dealers are so fond of. He moved to the rear of the boat, out of the wind, and removed his cell from the breast pocket of his suit coat and punched in the number for Dr. Ellis, the state of Maine’s chief pathologist. Following their brief conversation, the decision was made to transport whatever remains Byron found straight to the medical examiner’s office in Augusta, where a thorough autopsy would be performed.
Byron looked down at the recent text messages on his phone. He still hadn’t responded to Katie’s message. Katie Whitehill, his niece, was the youngest of three children of Janice and Thurston Whitehill, his well-to-do ex-in-laws from Cape Elizabeth. Janice was the sister of Byron’s ex-wife, Kay. He knew it wasn’t proper to admit to loving one relative more than another but Katie had always been Byron’s favorite, and not just because the other two couldn’t be bothered to stay in touch. She’d been like the daughter he never had.
Katie’s text read, “U R coming to my party, right, Uncle John? It won’t be the same without U.” Her parents were throwing a big shindig on Sunday to celebrate her high school graduation. A bright young girl, she’d been accepted to Colby.
He began to type. “Katie, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it but I promise I’ll try. I’m very proud of U. Luv U, kiddo.” His thumb hovered over the send button on his cell. Don’t be an asshole. You need to be there for her. It wasn’t her fault her parents were dicks.
Thurston, a pompous, materialistic, well-known Portland surgeon, had never attempted to hide his disdain for Byron or his chosen profession. As if law enforcement was an undignified career path. Janice, only slightly less judgmental, had remained cordial with him, at least until her sister and John had divorced. Byron wanted to be there for his niece but he knew full well what kind of a shit show her party would likely be. He thumbed the backspace button until the entire message was deleted, then shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Byron steered his mind back to the floater. What would it be this time: young, old, male, female? As long as it was an adult. He despised working the deaths of children. Victims in his cases often played an active role in their own demise. Befriended, stole from, or just pissed off the wrong person. With kids it was damn hard to lay any blame at their feet. More often than not, if a child ended up on the wrong side of the grass, it was due to a lack of supervision, or worse.
It took twenty minutes to reach Wharf Cove. As the COP IV rounded the bend, Byron saw the Dorian Grey and the U.S. Coast Guard vessel Shackle floating next to each other, about two hundred yards from shore. A large flock of gulls soared above the boats; haloed by the sun’s rays they resembled angelic vultures.
The Shackle, a sixty-five-foot tug, housed at the South Portland Coast Guard Station, was responsible for maritime security and all search and rescue operations throughout Portland Harbor and outlying areas of Casco Bay. Captain Thomas carefully maneuvered the fireboat alongside the Shackle while the crews worked quickly to lash the two vessels together.
Sergeant Huntress greeted them with a wave from the deck of the Shackle. Already dressed in his maroon dive suit, he was assisting one of the other officers with his. “Nice day for a swim,” he hollered. “Wanna join us?”
“All set, thanks,” Byron hollered back.
“What’s the plan, Lord Byron?” Huntress asked.
“Strictly recovery. The M.E. isn’t coming, so let’s extract as much as we can.”
“All right. We’ll bag it up before the gulls can make breakfast out of it.”
The detectives stood on the deck looking over the side at the submerged corpse. The dark-haired male body was dressed in a light-colored suit and tie. The right foot was encased in a brown wing tip; the other shoe was missing.
“Can’t really see much from up here,” Officer Cody said excitedly. “I’ve never seen a floater before. You guys must see a lot of these, hey, Sarge?”
Byron nodded and looked to Haggerty for help.
“Cody, why don’t we get a statement from the lobsterman?” Haggerty said. “While they oversee the recovery.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with obvious disappointment.
Haggerty winked at Byron as he and Cody trotted off to find the witness who’d found the body.
Most of what Byron knew about the young towheaded officer he’d gleaned from reading his reports. Cody was a bright kid with a promising career in law enforcement, if only he could get past his impetuousness. Byron had seen his kind before. Officers so anxious to save the world from itself they tended to miss the little things, things like a concisely written report. If anyone could turn him around it would be Haggerty.
During the half hour that followed, Byron and Diane looked on while Huntress and the other divers worked carefully to recover the remains. The body was photographed from two different perspectives. Pelligrosso captured the surface shots while Huntress took care of everything below.
Huntress surfaced, removed his mouthpiece and mask, and used his hand to wipe the water from his face.
“Well?” Byron asked.
“The fisherman’s rope is just barely holding him up,” Huntress said.
“How’s he look?” Byron asked. “Anything obvious?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Okay, let’s bag him and get him on deck before we lose him.”
Pelligrosso lowered a bright yellow vinyl body bag down to the divers and they carefully worked John Doe into it.
With the help of the fireboat crew, the divers were able to hoist the bag containing the remains onto the deck of the COP IV. Byron requested that they take the trap and check the ocean floor beneath for any evidence.
“John, this bay is a murky fucking mess,” Huntress said. “The sun doesn’t penetrate more than a few feet below the surface. Pretty hard to see anything down there.”
“Humor me.”
“Your ball game.”
The divers resumed their search while Byron and Diane helped Pelligrosso open the body bag. Pelligrosso needed to perform a visual inspection and to photograph the face and clothing. The remainder of the fireboat crew had gathered on deck to watch the proceedings. As the bag was opened, several dozen crabs, varying in size, skittered from various parts of the body and onto the deck. Two of the firefighters jumped back, trying to avoid the scavengers as they made their way to the edge of the deck and back into the ocean.
Byron suppressed a smile as he observed the frightened reaction of grown men. Portland’s bravest.
Carefully, Byron and Diane helped Pelligrosso reposition the body, rolling it face up.
“How long do you think he’s been in, Gabe?” Byron asked.
“Tough to say, but if I had to guess, no more than a day or so. Any more than that, the sea creatures would have done a lot more damage.”
And the face was damaged, eyelids and lips were missing, forever altering the man’s expression.
“There’s not much in the way of decomp either.”
“What’s that mark?” Diane asked, pointing to the corpse’s forehead. “Looks like an entry wound.”
Pelligrosso leaned in for a closer look. “It is.”
“Where’s the exit wound?” Byron asked.
“I don’t see one,” Pelligrosso sa
id.
“Done,” Officer Cody said, walking up and interrupting them. “We finished with the lobsterman. Hey, cool.”
Byron looked at Haggerty, who just rolled his eyes. “Anything?” Byron asked the rookie.
“Not really, Sarge. Said he knew the trap was caught on something big, but he just figured it was a log.”
“How did he seem?” Byron asked.
“Seem?”
“Yeah. Normal, crazy, drunk?”
Haggerty stepped in. “I got this, Junior. He seemed sober, Sarge. Nothing weird about the guy so far as I could tell. Name’s Earl Nesbit,” Haggerty said, referring to his notebook. “He’s a Peaks Islander. Lived here his whole life. I had Dispatch run him. Nothing in-house and nothing in NCIC.”
“Thanks, Hags,” Byron said.
Pelligrosso put his camera down for a moment and turned to look at Byron.
“You’re never going to believe who this guy is.”
“Who?” Byron asked.
“See for yourself,” the evidence tech said, passing him a waterlogged leather wallet.
Byron, who had donned rubber gloves, opened the wallet and looked through the fogged plastic at a state of Maine driver’s license. He recognized the picture on the license immediately.
“Well,” Diane said. “Who is it?”
“Take a look,” Byron said, handing her the wallet.
“Paul Ramsey,” she said. “Holy shit.”
“Who’s that?” Cody said.
Fire Captain Thomas, watching the proceedings, chimed in. “Big-shot attorney. He’s on the front page of today’s Portland Herald.”
“You know what Bill Shakespeare would have called this?” Pelligrosso asked with a grin.
“Yeah,” Byron said. “A good start.” He turned to face Diane. “This is gonna be a shit storm.”
“Yup,” she said, nodding her agreement.
“Let’s get the body to shore,” Byron said, addressing Thomas.
“You got it, Sarge.”
Byron turned his attention to Pelligrosso. “Gabe, I want you to follow the funeral home transport to Augusta. Diane and I will meet you there. I’ll tell Ellis we’re coming.”
“Sarge, would it be okay if Cody went up with you guys?” Haggerty asked. “He’s never attended a post.”
Byron looked at Cody. “You in?”
“I’m going to an autopsy?” Cody asked excitedly.
Byron pulled out his cell and dialed the CID commander, Lieutenant Martin LeRoyer. “Unless that’s a problem?” Byron said as he waited for LeRoyer to pick up.
“No, sir. Sweet.”
Chapter Four
Thursday, 10:30 a.m., April 28, 2016
Byron and Diane stopped in Falmouth for a quick coffee and a paper before jumping onto the interstate for the sixty-mile ride north. As they neared Yarmouth, he pulled out his cell, hit the speaker button, and dialed the number for Detective Dustin Tran.
“Detective Tran speaking.”
“Dustin, it’s Byron.”
“Hey, Striped Dude. Heard you had a floater. Whatcha got for me?”
Tran was anything but the stereotypical detective. Opinionated, and much too informal when addressing superiors, but he was good. When it came to computer forensics, there was none better. For that reason alone, Byron, who was results-oriented, allowed his unorthodox detective more leeway than he allowed the others.
“Diane and I are headed up to the post. I need you to dig up everything you can on Paul Ramsey while we’re gone.”
“The attorney?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead? Wowza. You know he’s on the front page of today’s Herald?”
Byron looked over at Diane, who was already reading the article about Ramsey’s big loss. She didn’t appear to be listening.
“So I’ve heard,” Byron said. “Just get me all you can, okay? I’ll reach out to you after the autopsy.”
“You got it, Boss Man.”
Byron ended the call and slid the phone back into the pocket of his suit coat. “How did that kid ever make it through the academy without being murdered by his cadre?”
“Uh-huh,” Diane said absently.
Byron and Diane had been seeing each other casually for months. Their attraction was mutual but Diane had been the one to make the first move. To her credit, she’d waited until Byron had been served with divorce papers from his ex-wife, Kay. While their relationship had been a good thing, at least in his opinion, it carried with it the additional baggage of their being coworkers in a stressful occupation. Actually, he thought, not even coworkers. He was her sergeant, a no-no by any professional standard and the reason they’d been forced to keep their relationship a secret. He suspected that her moodiness might be a sign that she wanted more from their time together. A commitment on his part. Although going in she’d clearly stated that she wasn’t looking for anything long term, he knew all too well that changing one’s mind was a woman’s prerogative. Hell, it was probably genetic.
“You okay?” Byron asked. “You seem a little off today.”
“Fine. Why?” she said, sounding defensive, and making his point.
“No reason. You just seem a little distant.”
“I’m fine.”
“I do something to piss you off?” he asked.
Still holding the Herald, she dropped her hands to her lap, crinkling the paper. “It’s not always about you, John.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up his hand in mock surrender. He tried changing the subject. “Anything useful in the story?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to finish it yet.” She picked up the paper and resumed reading.
Byron shook his head and sighed. He wondered why it always had to be this way. All of the women in his life, at least the ones he’d cared about, had a knack for not saying what was on their minds. He knew she’d eventually share whatever was bothering her, but not until she was ready.
He glanced over at her again as she flipped the newspaper to the last page of the section, where he assumed the article continued. She maintained her silence, sipped her coffee, and read. His eyes returned to the road, his thoughts to the floater. Why would Ramsey be in the bay? Suicide? Maybe. Murder? More likely. Byron knew from firsthand experience that the photogenic attorney was a son of a bitch with plenty of enemies. With any luck, Dr. Ellis, as he had so many times before, would point them in the right direction.
Augusta, sixty miles to the north of Portland, houses the office of Maine’s chief medical examiner, a small nondescript brick building tucked behind state police headquarters, in a lower lot, almost as an afterthought. Byron had always found the building’s placement odd. In the grand scheme of homicide investigation, cause of death was just as essential as proving who had caused it.
Byron slid the charcoal gray Malibu into the vacant space next to the PD’s black and white evidence van. Pelligrosso and Cody were already inside.
Diane had hardly uttered two words during the forty-five-minute drive, and apparently had no desire to break precedent. They walked toward the service entrance in silence.
Byron pressed the delivery buzzer. After several minutes the heavy steel door swung open exposing a pale, diminutive young man.
Nicky, Dr. Ellis’s lab assistant, gave a silent nod upon recognizing the detectives.
“Hey, Nicky,” Byron said. “We’re here for the Ramsey autopsy.”
The skinny lab tech, dressed in light green scrubs and booties, looked at each of them and mumbled something that may or may not have been a greeting. He nodded at Byron. “Follow me.”
Byron had never been able to figure out what made Nicky tick, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Nicky was to Dr. Ellis what Igor had been to Dr. Frankenstein. Nicky hardly spoke unless spoken to, and given Diane’s current mood Byron thought they’d make a great pair. Dark circles under his eyes made him look ghoulish. Byron wondered if Nicky had an actual residence or if Ellis just locked him in a cage at the end of
each day.
They followed him down a long stark corridor into the viewing room, a glass-walled area that overlooked the examination area.
“Greetings and salutations, Detectives,” Ellis said in his usual theatrical manner. “Welcome to the humble abode of the good Dr. E.”
“Morning, Doc,” they said simultaneously.
Ellis might have sounded like a stage actor but he looked more like an aging rock star. Dressed in medical scrubs, the top of which barely hid his ample belly, he looked somewhere between Neil Young and Elvis: shoulder-length black hair, combed straight back, with sideburns.
“Who is it today, Doc?” Byron asked, referring to the vintage rock concert tees Ellis always wore. “AC/DC, or maybe Lynyrd Skynyrd?”
Ellis shook his head. “I went online and purchased some new ones.” He lifted his smock and smiled proudly. “Foghat.”
Byron nodded his approval. “Classic.”
Pelligrosso and Cody stood on the opposite side of the cavernous room near one of the stainless steel exam tables. Cody was pacing like an expectant father. On top of table lay the bright yellow body bag containing the remains of their floater. Byron looked at Cody’s face, noting with amusement that the flushed excitement previously occupying the rookie’s cheeks, while they’d been aboard the boat, had been replaced by a sickly green pallor, similar in hue to Ellis’s scrubs.
The examination room was spotless. The twelve-foot-high concrete block walls were painted entirely in white, with the exception of the bottom four feet, which were covered in subway tile. Scores of white metal cabinets and rows of shelving had been affixed to the walls, each containing various supplies and implements of deconstruction, or destruction, depending on one’s point of view. A half dozen gleaming stainless steel exam tables were scattered throughout the room, each with its own digital hanging scale for weighing organs. The harsh fluorescent lighting made everyone in the room look clinical and cold, even the living.
In the world of police investigations, postmortem examinations were considered a rite of passage, albeit a morbid one. With the exception of Cody, they’d each attended countless autopsies. And although they were all focused on the matter at hand, Byron could see from the expressions on everyone’s faces, including Ellis’s, that they were all secretly looking forward to the rookie’s reaction. Even Diane’s mood seemed to have improved as she eyed the young officer.
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