Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  Diane tailed the cruiser onto the wharf, racing down the left side of the building until neither vehicle could go any farther. She stood on the brakes, popped her seat belt, jammed the transmission into Park. She was out of the car before it had ceased moving.

  Byron burst through the gray steel door onto the rear steps. Brilliant sunshine assaulted his eyes. He squinted as he scanned the area, waiting for them to adjust.

  Nugent and Stevens were standing in the alley, thirty feet away, next to a stack of wooden pallets. McVail lay on the ground at their feet, moaning.

  Byron holstered his sidearm just as Diane and a uniformed officer came sprinting around the corner of the building. “What happened?” Byron asked.

  Nugent grinned. “Mel was just giving young Mr. McVail a lesson in physics. A body in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by an equal or greater force.” Nugent looked on as the uniformed cop helped Stevens search and handcuff McVail. “End of the lesson, punk.”

  Stevens stood up and looked at Nugent. “Who are you supposed be, Clint Eastwood?”

  “Dirty Nugent,” he said in a deeper than normal voice.

  Byron keyed the portable radio mic. “Suspect in custody.”

  “Ten-four, 720.”

  Byron turned to Diane.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Byron was sitting on a bench in the CID locker room, changing out of his wet socks and dress shoes, when Lieutenant LeRoyer walked in.

  “Heard you guys had a foot chase,” LeRoyer said. “What happened?”

  “Not much of a chase, I’m afraid,” Byron said without looking up. “It was over when McVail met up with Mel’s elbow.”

  “So he’s not here voluntarily?”

  “Did you really think he would be?” Byron raised his head. “Any chance you’re done playing secret squirrel with my detective?”

  “Ah, she’s still my detective, Sergeant. And, in answer to your question, yes. I’m done. For the time being.”

  “Great,” he growled. “When is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “That’s up to Diane.” LeRoyer directed his gaze toward Byron’s replacement footwear. “Nice sneakers. Very stylish. Business casual?”

  “Very funny. They’re the only thing I have that doesn’t smell like fish.”

  LeRoyer approached the sink, and checked himself in the mirror. “Think he’ll talk?”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Byron said.

  “Can we hold him?”

  “For a while. He’s on probation. I just spoke to the PO. He’s on his way over.”

  “What about evidence?”

  “He’s got cuts on his hands. I’ll have Gabe photograph those and take his boots and the ring he’s wearing.”

  LeRoyer crinkled his brow. “Ring?”

  Byron stood up and closed his locker door. “With any luck we’ll find some of Ramsey’s DNA embedded in it.”

  Diane entered the interview room where McVail sat handcuffed. An odiferous combination of fish and body odor permeated the air. She acknowledged the uniformed officer standing in the corner. “Thanks, I’ll be okay,” Diane said.

  The uniformed cop shot McVail a menacing glance then looked back at Diane. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  Diane nodded, sat down opposite McVail, established eye contact, and waited for the door to close before speaking.

  “Donny, my name is Detective Joyner.”

  McVail looked her up and down. “So, what, they send a good-looking lady dick in here and think I’ll just give up the goods?”

  “Something like that,” she said, ignoring his lame attempt to sound like a Hollywood badass. “Can I get you anything?”

  He extended his arms out across the table. “Ya. How about getting these cuffs off?”

  “’Fraid I can’t. Regulations. Anything else?”

  McVail shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Had to try, right?”

  “You know why you’re here?”

  “I guess. Cop brought me in said you wanted to question me about some assault or something.”

  “That’s right, but that isn’t the only reason.”

  McVail lowered his gaze to the tabletop. “What else?”

  “I’ll explain everything but first I have to read you your rights. Are you familiar with the Miranda warning?”

  McVail nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I got the right to remain silent, and if I don’t you’ll use it against me, right?”

  “That’s pretty good, Donny. But my bosses expect me to read it verbatim. Okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  Diane read each line from a printed page and recorded McVail’s verbal response next to each. After finishing, she pushed the paper toward him, along with a pen. “I need you to sign at the bottom, acknowledging that you understand your rights.”

  McVail reached up with his hands still cuffed in front, signed the document, then slid both items back. “What do you want to know?”

  Byron sat bookended by Mike Nugent and Melissa Stevens in the CID conference room. He scribbled notes onto a legal pad as they monitored Diane’s interview on the large wall-mounted flat screen. He’d have preferred sitting right in there with her, grilling McVail about his Tuesday night activities, but given the recent pursuit and McVail’s high opinion of himself as a ladies’ man, Diane was clearly their best hope at keeping the young punk from lawyering up.

  Evidence Technician Gabriel Pelligrosso appeared in the conference room doorway. “Sarge, you wanted to see me?”

  Byron turned in his chair. “Gabe, I need you to gather some evidence off an asshole.”

  Pelligrosso looked up at the monitor. “Would that asshole’s name happen to be Donny McVail?”

  “Yeah,” Stevens said. “You know him?”

  “Arrested him a few times when I was still patrolling a beat. Likes to run.”

  “Maybe I was at the Fox the other night,” McVail said. “I go there a lot. Can’t remember.”

  “Well, let me refresh your memory,” Diane said. “You got into a beef with an older gentleman at the bar.”

  “The asshole in the suit?”

  Describing Ramsey to a tee was definitely an admission, Diane thought. “So you do remember?”

  “Yeah. It was Tuesday night. I was in there with Debbie, my girlfriend. We was watching the basketball game ’cause I had some money on the Cs. This asshole at the bar just keeps bitchin’ and whining about some broad. He won’t shut up. Finally, I say something to him like, ‘Shut the fuck up.’”

  How original. “How did he respond?”

  “He started talkin’ down to me, like that suit made him somebody. He made fun of my GED, called me a hummingbird or something.”

  “A hummingbird?”

  “I don’t really know what he was talking about but I know when someone’s fucking with me.” He stabbed the tabletop with an index finger, accentuating his point.

  “What happened next?”

  “I challenged him to a fight but Tony told us both to knock it off or he’d call the cops.”

  “Tony?”

  “Yeah, he’s the night bartender at the Fox.”

  “And then?”

  “Asshole keeps running his yap but Tony made him leave.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I sat down and finished my drink, with Debbie.”

  Diane looked up. McVail trailed off as he said the name, almost as if he’d tried to pull it back. “What’s Debbie’s last name?”

  He squirmed in his chair. “Why do you need that?”

  “We’re gonna need to talk to her, Donny. To verify your story.”

  “Hey, guys,” PO McNamara said as he strolled into the CID conference room, sporting a thick auburn-colored handlebar mustache which would have been more at home on a firefighter.

  “Kevin,” Byron said extending a hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “We got yo’ boy,” Nugent said, giving
McNamara a mock salute. “He’s in a heap o’ trouble, is that lad.”

  “What’s my little lost lamb done this time?” McNamara said as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  Byron gave him a thumbnail sketch of the incident at the Red Fox.

  “So, you think he killed Ramsey?” McNamara asked.

  “Honestly? I don’t think he even knows Ramsey’s dead,” Byron said.

  “He certainly doesn’t act like he knows,” Stevens added.

  “Yeah,” McNamara said, looking up at the monitor. “Donny’s not one for keeping abreast of current events.”

  “Huh? You mean he doesn’t have the Herald delivered to his door?” Nugent asked, grinning.

  “So, what do you need from me?” McNamara asked.

  “He’s reluctant to give us anything further without talking to an attorney,” Byron said.

  “Lawyered up, did he? Shocker.”

  “I assume you’ll authorize a hold?” Byron asked.

  “Sure, but I can only stall his release for a week without a probation violation hearing.”

  “Maybe you could have a chat with him. Explain how much trouble he’s in for running from us, failing to tell us that he was on probation, possession of a dangerous weapon, resisting arrest.”

  “Wasn’t the knife part of his employment?”

  “I’ll still charge it,” Byron said.

  “Pretty thin, Sarge,” McNamara said, shaking his head and twirling the ends of his mustache as he thought it over.

  “He’s invoked his Miranda rights, Kev,” Byron said. “We can’t entice him to talk with us now, not unless he changes his mind. Maybe if you went in, on your own, not because I asked you, and explained how much time he’s facing. Maybe he’ll feel differently. Tell him if he cooperates you’ll talk to us about dropping the new charges.”

  “Will you?”

  “If he comes clean about the fight with Ramsey.”

  “What if he really did kill Ramsey?”

  Byron looked up at the monitor. “Well, if he did, nothing you say is gonna mean much anyway, is it?”

  Following a brief back-and-forth between McNamara and McVail, Byron and Joyner stepped into the interview room. McVail was pouting.

  “My PO says if I tell you what happened the other night you’ll drop some of the charges against me,” McVail said.

  “We can’t promise anything,” Byron said. “Not until we hear what you’ve got to say.”

  “What did the asshole in the suit tell you?” McVail asked, referring to Ramsey.

  “We wanna hear your side of it, Donny,” Diane said. “Are you waiving your Miranda rights?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you.”

  McVail recounted the entire night, including following Ramsey out of the bar and sucker punching him.

  “Tony the bartender said you didn’t follow him out,” Byron said.

  McVail shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

  “How many times did you punch him?” Byron asked.

  “I don’t know. A couple.”

  “Looking at your eye I’d say he got one good one in,” Diane said.

  McVail nodded. “Lucky.”

  “What happened next?” Byron asked.

  “Nothing. I told him to watch who he made fun of, then I left.”

  “What was the other guy doing when you left?” Byron asked.

  “Bleeding.”

  “Was he conscious?” Diane asked.

  “Yeah. He told me to fuck myself.”

  “Did you know the guy?” Byron asked.

  “Not personally. I’d seen him at the Fox before. Think he’s some big-shot attorney. So what, is he pressing charges?”

  “No,” Byron said. “He isn’t. He’s dead.”

  The two detectives stepped out of the interview room and retreated to the CID conference room, giving McVail time to contemplate his future.

  “What do you think?” Diane asked Byron. “I thought his eyes were gonna pop out when you told him Ramsey was dead.”

  Byron looked at McNamara. “Ever known him to carry a gun?”

  The probation officer shook his head. “Nah. Donny’s stupid but he’s not that stupid.”

  Diane raised a brow. “Coulda fooled me.”

  “He likes to sling a little dope, fight, and get drunk, but that’s about it.”

  “We still only have his word about what happened,” Stevens said.

  “Mel’s right,” Byron said, addressing McNamara. “Can you authorize holding him for a few more days so we can work this case? I don’t want to release him, then find out later that he’s the shooter.”

  McNamara continued to toy with the ends of his mustache. “What about the concealed weapon and resisting charges?”

  “Give me a few days. If nothing else points to McVail as the shooter, I’ll have the DA drop those charges.”

  “Assuming he makes bail on your current charges, most I can give you is five days. After that he gets a hearing or goes free.”

  LeRoyer stuck his head in the door to the conference room, looking directly at Byron. “John, I need to see you and Diane in my office.”

  “Give us a second, Lieu. We’re almost f—”

  “Now!” LeRoyer barked.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday, 1:35 p.m., April 29, 2016

  “How the fuck did Billingslea get this information?” LeRoyer said, pointing at the computer monitor on his desk where a Portland Herald article filled the screen.

  Byron and Diane leaned over his desk trying to read the article. The headline read Prominent Local Attorney Murdered After Losing Case.

  “I’ll save you two the trouble of reading the whole thing,” LeRoyer said. “Somebody leaked information about the manner of Ramsey’s death.”

  Byron could feel himself getting hot. “It wasn’t any of my people.”

  “No?” LeRoyer said. “Because he also writes about Ramsey turning down the hospital’s offer of a seven-figure settlement a week before the trial started. How many people knew about that?”

  “We didn’t even know about that,” Byron said.

  “Branch is wild. Stanton is wild. And frankly, I’m a little pissed off myself, John.”

  “Branch might want to check himself,” Byron said. “If that little shit Billingslea got inside information about a settlement, it came from the firm.”

  Diane attempted to weigh in. “Lieutenant, I can assure you that—”

  LeRoyer held up his hand, signaling her to stop. “Can it, Detective. Don’t want your assurances. What I want is an end to these goddamned leaks.” He turned his attention back to Byron. “This story makes the plaintiffs in the lawsuit against Maine Med look like the prime suspects in this murder and you guys are up here fucking around with some street punk. Has anyone even talked to the people who brought the suit?”

  “The Elwells. Not yet. We’ve been running down Ramsey’s last evening and a building contractor who’s been threatening him first.” Byron pointed his thumb back toward LeRoyer’s closed office door. “By the way, that street punk you’re talking about just confessed to following Ramsey out of the bar and assaulting him, Tuesday night. That may have been the last time anyone saw Ramsey alive.”

  “Did he confess to shooting him?” LeRoyer asked.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then you still don’t have anyone we can charge with the murder. And Davis-fucking-Billingslea looks like he’s doing our job better than we are,” LeRoyer said, pointing toward the monitor. “I want the Elwells interviewed by the end of the day. And if that leak is coming from here, I want it plugged. We understand each other?”

  Diane nodded in silence.

  Byron, resisting the urge to get in LeRoyer’s face, or worse, joined her. “Got it.”

  Byron assigned Detective Nugent to get a written statement from McVail before transporting him to the county jail for booking. He tasked Diane with making contact with the Elwells to try and set up a meeting for ea
rly afternoon. Byron retreated to his office and closed the door. He picked up the receiver on his desk phone and punched in the number for the Portland Herald.

  The young reporter answered on the second ring. “Newsroom, Billingslea.”

  Byron clenched his jaw. “It’s John Byron.”

  There was a brief pause. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  He heard the faintest crack of nervousness in Billingslea’s voice. “Why are you fucking with my case?”

  “I’m not fucking with anything. I came by some solid information and I ran with it. Don’t we both do the same thing?”

  “No, Davis, we don’t. I’m trying to solve a murder and you’re grandstanding. Maybe you’ve forgotten how badly you nearly screwed up my last case. Where the hell are you getting your information?”

  “I’m not gonna share that with you. You know as well as I, unless they tell me otherwise, my sources are protected.”

  “My bosses think you’re getting your intel from inside the PD. And I’d better not find out that’s the fucking case.”

  Another pause. “Maybe if you and I were to share information it could be mutually beneficial,” Billingslea said.

  “Share this,” Byron said, slamming the receiver back onto its cradle.

  There was a knock on Byron’s office door.

  “What?” he snapped.

  The door opened and Stevens stuck her head in. “Hey, Sarge. Don’t mean to bug you. Did you want me to drive down to County with Nuge?”

  “No,” he said, composing himself. “I’ve got another job for you. Grab Dustin and head down to the Old Port. I want the entire area between the Red Fox and where McVail said he fought with Ramsey canvassed for outside security cameras. The Fox doesn’t have any working surveillance but I know some of the nearby businesses do. See if you can find anything.”

  “You got it.”

  Byron’s cell began to vibrate on the desk. He picked it up and checked the caller ID. Huntress. “Hey, Jamie. Any progress?”

  “Not yet. We just got on scene. One of my guys had to testify in Grand Jury and the other had a sick babysitter. We’re getting ready to dive now.”