Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Ramsey nodded. “I understand.”

  “Sergeant Byron and I were hoping to get some background information about your husband if you’re up to it,” Diane said.

  Ramsey nodded then picked up the cup and took another sip.

  Byron pulled out a notepad and flipped it open.

  “When did you last see him?” Diane asked.

  “Tuesday morning. He left for work about seven-thirty.”

  “Is that a normal time for him?”

  “There was nothing routine about the hours he kept. Paul is . . .” Ramsey paused, obviously trying to keep her emotions in check. “Paul was an accomplished trial lawyer. The law firm had him working ridiculous hours.”

  Byron scribbled in silence, watching Ramsey carefully.

  “Did he drive himself to work?” Diane asked.

  “Yes, he drove his black Lincoln. Did you find it?”

  Diane glanced at Byron. “We didn’t realize it was missing,” she said.

  “Is his Lincoln an SUV, Mrs. Ramsey?” Byron asked, remembering having recently seen Ramsey park a black MKX near the Cumberland County Courthouse.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what it was called. The model. But it had a vanity plate, ‘I Win.’”

  “I’ll call it in,” Byron said as he rose and excused himself.

  He stepped outside and hit the speed dial on his cell for the dispatch center.

  “Police Dispatch, Mary speaking.”

  “Mary, it’s John.”

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite detective sergeant,” she said. “How are you? Sexy as always, I imagine.”

  “I do my best,” Byron said.

  “If only I were twenty years younger,” she said in a husky voice.

  Mary O’Connell had worked as a dispatcher for the Portland Police Department since before Byron had joined the force. Back when Byron’s father, Reece, was still on the job. She had always treated Byron like family. During the past four decades O’Connell had seen it all, yet somehow she’d kept her humor.

  Dispatchers and emergency operators tended to be underappreciated. Neither one, Byron thought, seemed to garner the credit they deserved. Perhaps because they were unseen, only voices on the other end of the phone or radio. The people they dealt with were always in crisis, either witnesses to crimes or the victims themselves. Getting anything useful for information out of a crazed 911 caller was at times impossible. Likewise the stress of sending officers into harm’s way and then feeling helpless as they waited for news that the crisis had been averted and the officers were safe. Only voices. But as Byron and every other cop worth a damn would tell you, when you were outnumbered or outgunned those voices were the lifeline providing the officers hope. Hope that they might survive the encounter and return home safely to their families. Hope that they’d live to fight another day. Byron had learned many times over the years the value of those unseen allies. The voice of Mary O’Connell.

  “So, what can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I need you to have the area car swing by Jacob’s Wharf and see if they can locate a black MKX, Maine registration ‘I Win.’”

  “Certainly. And if it isn’t there?”

  “Put out a regional ATL,” he said, referring to an attempt to locate. “It’s registered to Paul Ramsey. If it’s found, I want it secured for processing.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Byron reentered the Ramsey home and returned to the living room where Mrs. Ramsey and Diane were still conversing.

  “Paul was under a great deal of stress at work recently,” Ramsey said.

  “How so?” Diane asked.

  “You saw this morning’s Herald?” Ramsey asked.

  “You’re talking about the civil trial?” Diane said.

  “Yes. Losing that case was devastating to Paul.”

  “Did you speak with him after the verdict?”

  “No, but I know. He had a great deal riding on it, including his position at the firm.”

  “His position?” Byron asked.

  “A full partnership,” Ramsey said. “You’d have to talk with Devon Branch about that.”

  “Do either of you own a gun?” Byron asked.

  She paused before answering. “What are you implying, Sergeant? Do you think Paul took his own life?”

  “I’m not implying anything, Mrs. Ramsey. But we have to look at every possibility.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Paul didn’t own a gun and neither do I. There have never been any guns in this house.”

  “Was it unusual for him to stay out all night?” Diane asked.

  Ramsey set her mug down on the table and removed her hand from Diane’s grasp. “Not particularly.” Ramsey clasped her hands together on her lap. “Paul had a dark side, Detectives. He had unusual ways of dealing with stress.”

  “Like?” Diane asked.

  “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Was your husband seeing someone else, Mrs. Ramsey?” Diane asked.

  Ramsey turned to face Diane. “Are you married, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “My husband loved me. But he loved his work more. It’s just a fact. Be careful you don’t fall for a man like that.”

  Byron shared an awkward glance with Diane.

  “Did Paul mention receiving any threats or seeing anyone suspicious recently?” Byron asked, quickly changing the subject.

  Ramsey’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, I’d completely forgotten about that. Yes, he’d been receiving emails at work from a man threatening him. Emails and maybe voicemails.”

  “Do you know who the man was?” Byron asked.

  She shook her head. “No, Paul never told me his name. It had something to do with a case he won. Years ago. That’s all I know. The firm would probably know. Do you think that man killed my Paul?”

  “It’s too soon to say, Mrs. Ramsey,” Byron said. “We will follow up with his employer.”

  “Did this man ever phone or send threatening emails to the house?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Do you remember having seen anyone strange following you recently or maybe coming by the house?” Byron asked.

  “No.”

  Ramsey turned her attention back to Diane. “Will my husband’s death be on the news?”

  “It’s very likely,” Diane said.

  Ramsey stood. “If you’ll please excuse me now, I must contact my children. I don’t want them finding out about their stepfather’s death on television.”

  “Of course,” Diane said. “Here is my card, Mrs. Ramsey. I’ve written my cell on the back. We may need to contact you further as the investigation proceeds. Is that okay?”

  “Certainly, Detective. Anything I can do.”

  They followed Ramsey back down the hallway to the front foyer.

  The detectives stepped out onto the porch and Byron turned to face Ramsey. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Ramsey.”

  Ramsey’s face hardened, once again showing her age. “Sergeant Byron.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I know that you had a history with my husband. I’m aware that he didn’t have many police friends, but you and Paul particularly didn’t get along.”

  “We just saw things differently,” Byron said, forcing a smile.

  “Regardless, I want you to make me a promise.”

  “If I can.”

  “Promise me that whoever killed my Paul will answer for their crime.”

  Byron hesitated a moment. He knew the cost of making such a promise. Many homicides are never solved. Often, even in cases where there’s little doubt as to the doer, the evidence may be insufficient to risk taking the case to trial. Double jeopardy only allows one bite at the apple.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  It was nearly three-thirty by the time Byron and Diane arrived at PD headquarters. Byron walked in on LeRoyer, who stood in front of the locker room mirror prac
ticing his statement to the press regarding the recovered floater.

  “. . . and that’s all we are prepared to say at this time. Are there any questions?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got one,” Byron said, startling the lieutenant. “How’d you get that spot on your tie?”

  “Dammit, John, you scared the shit out of me.” LeRoyer frowned and looked down. “Do I really have something on my tie?”

  Byron took a second look. “Let me guess, lunch at Geno’s.”

  “How in hell can you tell that by looking at my tie?”

  “Looks like barbecue sauce.”

  LeRoyer lifted the tie, examining it closely. “Shit.”

  Byron walked up to the urinal and unzipped. “Eloquent as always, boss. You should try and work that word into your press conference.”

  “You missed CompStat, again, Sergeant. Conveniently.”

  “Hey, what can I say? Death investigations take precedence over bullshit stat meetings. Besides, if it had been held yesterday, like normal, I’d have been there with bells on.”

  “Uh-huh. Seems like you’ve always got an excuse.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you can tell Chief Stanton I’m working on a plan to cut down on the number of dead attorneys in the bay. Should have something for him by next Wednesday.”

  “We’re sure it’s Ramsey?” LeRoyer asked, wetting a paper towel and dabbing at the orange-colored spot on his tie. “I heard the fish were already at him.”

  “Yeah,” Byron said as he flushed the urinal and moved to the sink. “In addition to having Ramsey’s wallet, Pelligrosso matched up the prints.”

  “And the preliminary cause of death is drowning?”

  “Not according to Ellis.”

  “What, then?”

  “Someone shot him in the face.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Nope. I’d never shit you, Lieutenant. He may have been assaulted beforehand. Somebody executed him. One round to the head,” Byron said, pointing at his own forehead.

  “Stanton expects me to give a press conference shortly, for the evening news. Now what the hell am I supposed to say?”

  “I don’t care what you tell the chief. As for the media, say what we always say. The matter is under investigation. We aren’t prepared to release the cause of death yet. Tell them we’re waiting on the medical examiner’s official report.”

  “When will we have that?”

  “Ellis agreed to wait until the tox screen is done before releasing anything.”

  “How long did he think that would be?”

  “I asked for at least a couple of days so we can get a head start on the interviews.”

  “You think I enjoy this shit, John? I’d like to see you try going up in front of those vultures and saying absolutely nothing.”

  “Sorry, Marty,” Byron said, tossing the wet paper towels into the overflowing trash bin. “Not my thing. Besides, that’s why you make the big bucks.”

  Byron pulled the door open and walked out of the locker room, leaving the lieutenant to clean up the press statement, and his tie.

  He was just passing through the doorway to his office when his cell rang.

  “Byron,” he answered on the second ring.

  “Sarge, it’s Hags.”

  “Hey, Sean. What’s up?”

  “Think I found what you’re looking for.”

  Chapter Six

  Thursday, 4:00 p.m., April 28, 2016

  Byron parked on Veranda Street’s paved sidewalk, short of the Martin’s Point Bridge. Haggerty was waiting for him. Pelligrosso had yet to arrive. As Byron exited the car he saw the top of the black MKX parked halfway down the gravel incline, exactly as Haggerty had described.

  “How’d you happen to find it?” Byron asked, looking around as he approached on foot.

  “Figured since we found him in the water, I’d start a coastline search,” Haggerty said.

  “Nice work.”

  Officer Sean Haggerty was what Byron fondly referred to as an old-school beat cop. He knew his area of the city inside and out, and did things by the book each and every time. Byron had seen plenty of uniformed officers fuck up crime scenes simply by being stupid. Hags was a breath of fresh air.

  Haggerty had already circled the wooded area widely, stringing bright yellow crime scene tape from nearby trees. Ramsey’s SUV was parked facing the water. The access road, normally used by day fishermen who’d park on the road then walk up to the bridge to fish for stripers and blues, was hidden from the view of passing traffic. The surrounding underbrush was littered with beer cans and broken glass bottles. Byron noticed a discarded prophylactic wrapper lying nearby, suggesting that fishing wasn’t the only recreation taking place here.

  “I assume I don’t need to ask,” Byron said.

  “Didn’t lay so much as a finger on it, Sarge,” Hags said. “Heard the kid didn’t make out so well at the autopsy?”

  Byron grinned. “He didn’t see half of it. Where is Officer Cody?”

  “I left him at 109 to write up his reports.”

  They both turned to the sound of the approaching diesel engine of the evidence van.

  Pelligrosso pulled up onto the sidewalk behind Byron’s Malibu and got out.

  “Ramsey’s Lincoln?” Pelligrosso asked as he walked toward them toting the oversized lab camera and his black evidence collection kit.

  “Yes,” Byron said. “I figured you could start with photos until I get the okay from Diane.”

  “The okay?”

  “She’s on her way to get consent from Ramsey’s widow.”

  The evidence tech nodded and got to work.

  “I’ll get out of your way and start on the paperwork, Sarge,” Haggerty said, retreating to his car.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Detective,” Mrs. Ramsey said to Diane.

  The two women were seated at Ramsey’s kitchen table. Diane noted the pad of paper next to the box of tissues. She could see that Ramsey had compiled a list of people she needed to contact regarding her husband’s death.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Diane said, pointing to Ramsey’s list.

  “It’s alright. I’ve done this before.”

  Diane tilted her head, indicating her lack of comprehension.

  “My first husband, Peter, died of pancreatic cancer twenty years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was about ten years older than me. When Paul and I married almost sixteen years ago, I thought, since he was younger, that I wouldn’t have to go through this again. Guess I was wrong.” Ramsey’s tears began to flow again. Diane waited while she composed herself.

  “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “As I mentioned, we’ve located your husband’s SUV, Mrs. Ramsey. We will need to process it for evidence.”

  “Julia, please,” Ramsey said. “Do you need me to sign some kind of consent?”

  “Yes, Julia, so we can search the Lincoln. The vehicle is registered to both of you.”

  “Well, I purchased it for him, but it was his vehicle.”

  “That’s why we do this. If we locate evidence, we don’t want it to become inadmissible later on.”

  “I understand.”

  Diane slid the form across the table to Ramsey and handed her a pen.

  “Do you need me to explain it?” Diane asked.

  Ramsey shook her head. “No. I’ve probably seen enough legal paperwork during my marriage to Paul that I could practice law.”

  Diane smiled. “I’m sure you have.”

  Ramsey pushed the signed consent to search form back across the table. “Can I ask where you found it?”

  “Near the Martin’s Point Bridge,” Diane said. “The Portland side. Can you think of any reason your husband may have had for going there?”

  “I don’t know. Is that near the medical building on Veranda Street?”

  “Martin’s Point Health Care, yes. Did Paul have some connection to them?” />
  “Not that I know of.”

  Ramsey’s cell began to vibrate on the table. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. It’s my daughter.”

  “I’ll go now. Give you your privacy.”

  Ramsey reached out and put a hand on Diane’s arm. “No. Please wait. I need to tell you some things about Paul. Things you should know.”

  Byron was watching Pelligrosso and thinking about his next move when his cell rang. He checked the ID. Assistant Attorney General Jim Ferguson.

  “Counselor,” Byron answered.

  “Well now, you’ve had a busy day, Sergeant,” Ferguson said.

  “And it isn’t over yet.”

  “I heard Paul Ramsey is no longer with us.”

  “You heard right. Fished him out of the ocean this morning.”

  “I’ll forgive the pun. What’s it look like?”

  “Looks like somebody punched his ticket then tossed him in the water. One to the head.”

  “Ouch. Robbery?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. He still had his watch and wallet.”

  “Any leads?”

  “We just located his vehicle, abandoned near the Portland-Falmouth line. Parked near the water.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “We’re playing catch-up at the moment, but I will need a subpoena for his cell records.”

  “Do you have the phone?”

  “No. It wasn’t on his person. It may be in the SUV—we haven’t gotten inside yet. If it isn’t, we’ll need access to the carrier’s digital records of his account history.”

  “How about a warrant for the truck?”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it. Diane Joyner is with Ramsey’s wife as we speak, getting a consent form signed.”

  “Okay. Give me the cell number and I’ll draft up what you’ll need and fax a copy to your office.”

  After filling Ferguson in, Byron ended the call, then checked his cell for texts. Still nothing from Diane. He punched in the nonemergency number for police dispatch.

  “Police Communications, Operator Gostkowski speaking.”

  “Dale, it’s Byron. Can you transfer me over to Parking Control, at city hall?”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.”