“Okay. I’m heading outta town for an interview shortly. If you need anything, Nuge and Mel are both running around down here.”
“Roger that. We’re gonna do a grid search from the end of the road directly out toward Falmouth. We’ll go back and forth between the bridge and a point about a hundred feet to the east.”
Byron was visualizing the coverage area in his mind from the previous day’s visit. “What if they tossed it off the bridge while fleeing toward Falmouth?”
“If they did, you’re pretty much fucked, John. Martin’s Point Bridge is a quarter mile long with strong tidal currents underneath it. Christ, as it is we’ll have to tether our divers to keep them on line. Our best shot is that they tossed it from the shore near where you recovered Ramsey’s SUV.”
“All right,” Byron said.
“Aside from the gun is there anything else we should be looking for?”
“A .380 shell casing would be nice. And anything else you can find that doesn’t belong.”
“You’ve obviously never been at the bottom of Casco Bay. You wouldn’t believe the shit we find down here. You remember that stolen Honda we found at the end of Holyoke Wharf?”
“Best you can do, Jamie.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Twenty minutes later Byron and Diane were on Interstate 295 headed north toward Bowdoinham.
“You cooled off any?” Diane asked.
Cool wasn’t exactly the word he would’ve used to describe how he was feeling. “Not much.”
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking Branch is holding out, but I don’t know why. Ramsey’s wife is talking about her dead husband’s extracurricular activities but she probably doesn’t know the half of it. Someone is leaking intel to Billingslea and I don’t know who. And you want to know the worst part?”
“What’s that?”
“That fucking news story is directly impacting this case.”
“Because Billingslea is making us look bad?” she asked.
“No, because his story is controlling the way we have to investigate it. You know as well as I, we solve these cases methodically, patiently, piece by piece, until we’ve built a mountain that can’t be eroded by a defense attorney, at least not entirely. That’s how it’s supposed to work. But not on this case. Right now, the only reason you and I are headed to see the Elwells is because Billingslea is steering this ship. And that’s bullshit.”
It was nearly three as Byron turned onto the cracked asphalt drive of the run-down Cape Cod owned by the Elwells. There was more vegetation growing in the driveway than on the desolate patch of ground that passed as a lawn. A rusted silver Camry sat in front of an unattached two-story garage. Parked off to one side, in among the weeds, was a black primed four-by-four with flat tires. Byron looked over at Diane, who was already jotting notes, a trait she’d possessed since the day he’d first met her at the scene of an unattended death.
“Mrs. Elwell?” Diane asked the bathrobe-clad woman standing in the open doorway. “We spoke earlier on the phone. I’m Detective Joyner and this is Detective Sergeant Byron.”
Elwell looked briefly at both IDs. “Please, come in.”
She looked significantly older than the forty-one years indicated by the records at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Byron guessed stress from the trial and her lack of makeup probably had something to do with it. They followed her into the kitchen.
The table was buried beneath a pile of mail and file folders. A quick glance and Byron could see that most of it was legal correspondence bearing the letterhead of Newman, Branch & DeWitt. Atop the opened envelopes and letters were several framed pictures of a good-looking young man, and a mountain of used tissues.
Diane followed Elwell’s lead and sat opposite her. Byron cautiously settled into a rickety wooden chair at the end of the table, wondering whether or not it would support his large frame. The wood groaned in protest.
Elwell lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and held her breath for a tick before exhaling a plume of bluish smoke. Even had the tissues not been present, the red eyes and puffy cheeks made it obvious she’d been crying.
Byron broke the awkward silence. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mrs. Elwell.”
Elwell fixed him with her hollow eyes. “Paula, please.”
“We are very sorry for your loss, Paula,” Diane said.
Byron nodded at the sentiment. “Our condolences.”
“Thank you both. That’s very nice.” Elwell’s eyes widened and seemed to clear as if she had just come out of a trance. “Where are my manners?” She stood up, bumping the table, knocking over a stack of papers. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble on our account,” Byron said, holding up his hand.
“It’s no trouble, really. I was going to make some more coffee for myself anyway.”
“Okay,” Byron said.
“Can I help you?” Diane asked.
“I’m fine, thank you, Detective,” she said with a weak smile.
Byron picked up one of the framed photographs from the table and studied it. He recognized the boy’s picture, having seen the same one in the newspaper. A handsome young man wearing a blue and white Mount Ararat High School football uniform. “Is this your son, Paula?”
Elwell turned away from the sink where she was busy filling a glass carafe with water. Her expression softened. “That’s my Robbie’s senior class picture.”
Byron couldn’t help but notice how much the young man in the picture resembled his mother, with the same hazel eyes and deep dimples when he smiled.
“He was a good-looking boy,” Diane said as Byron passed her the picture.
“My friends think he looks like me, but I’ve always thought he got his looks from his father.”
“What position did he play?” Diane asked.
“Safety. He set the Eagles’ single season record for interceptions. I still remember how proud he was the day he made the team. We were all so proud of him.”
She finished setting up the coffeemaker and returned to the table carrying three empty mugs and a small glass pitcher of cream. “He didn’t get sick until after graduation,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Can you tell us about the lawsuit?” Byron asked.
Elwell lit a fresh cigarette. “It started when Robbie got sick. He began having nosebleeds and getting rashes on his shins. They said that it was bleeding into the skin. He was diagnosed with ITP, immune thrombocytopenia. I still can’t pronounce it right. The doctor said that his body was producing too many antibodies. They said the antibodies were attacking his blood platelets so his blood wouldn’t clot. So, they performed a splenectomy. His doctor removed his spleen. A month later Robbie was dead.”
Byron and Diane sat in silence as Elwell continued to explain.
“We found out afterward that he’d been misdiagnosed. They could have treated Robbie with medications first. Apparently, taking out the spleen is a last resort. We didn’t know. We figured that Robbie’s doctor knew what he was doing. You know, it’s almost a relief that it’s over.”
“A relief?” Diane asked.
“Our lives have been consumed by this, Detectives. For the past three years.”
“So you filed a wrongful death suit against the hospital?” Diane asked.
“Attorney Ramsey assured Justin, my husband, and me that we had a good case. His firm filed a wrongful death suit against the hospital on our behalf.”
“How did you happen to choose Paul Ramsey?” Byron asked.
“His firm approached us. Mr. DeWitt actually.”
Like sharks, attorneys always pick up on the scent of blood, Byron thought.
“We understand there was some kind of settlement offer,” Diane said.
Elwell nodded and flicked the ash off her cigarette into an empty mug. “They offered to settle just before the trial started. Paul advised us to turn it down,
said we’d prevail at trial.” She paused and picked up a picture of her son. “He said we’d definitely get justice for Robbie.”
Byron felt the anger rising in him again as he watched the fresh tears streaming down Elwell’s cheeks. He could hear the pompous attorney saying those exact words to the bereaved family. He knew from personal experience that justice was the last thing Ramsey gave a shit about.
“Where is Justin?” Diane asked.
“Back to work. He’s a long haul trucker. He had to take the last three weeks off on account of the trial. We didn’t have any money coming in.” She scanned the cluttered tabletop. “The bills have been piling up.”
“How is he handling all of this?” Byron asked, trying hard to remember that the Elwells were still possible suspects in Ramsey’s murder.
He saw the fog return to Elwell’s eyes as she thought about her husband.
“He handles these things much better than I do. Justin’s strong like that. He’s torn up about this same as me, but he doesn’t show it.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a fresh tissue. “Losing this lawsuit was like losing our Robbie all over again. Justin will hide in his work. That’s how he’ll get through it.”
“What about you, Paula?” Diane asked. “How will you get through it?”
“I’m not sure. One day at a time, I guess.”
The coffeemaker gave a shrill beep, signaling that it was done.
Elwell got up and returned with the pot, filling each of their mugs with an unsteady hand. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine,” Byron said.
Elwell shifted her attention to Diane. “Half-and-half okay?”
“That’d be great, thank you.”
Elwell finished pouring the creamer into the remaining mugs then returned to her chair and sat down.
“You mentioned a settlement offer,” Byron began. “Can you tell us about that?”
Elwell set her mug on the table and began absently scratching at the back of her left hand. “Paul came to Justin and me about a week before the trial started. I remember it was just before they were going to pick a jury. He came to the house and showed us a letter he’d received from the hospital’s insurance company.”
“What did it say?” Diane asked.
“They were offering us one million dollars if we’d agree to settle the matter out of court. They wanted us to drop the suit and release them from any further liability. And they wanted one more thing, something about not discussing the amount.” She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her forehead. “I can’t remember the exact term.”
“A nondisclosure agreement?” Byron asked.
Her eyes flew open. “Yes. That was it. They wanted us to sign that too.”
“You obviously didn’t accept their offer,” Diane said.
Elwell shook her head. “No, I told you Paul advised us not to. He said it meant that the insurance company was getting nervous. Told us it was insulting and that we should go for the whole thing. Said it was the only way to get justice for Robbie.” Elwell’s voice cracked again as she said her son’s name. Her eyes leaked fresh tears.
Byron exchanged glances with Diane. He wondered how Ramsey could so easily screw this poor couple over, when they so clearly had nothing. The money wouldn’t have brought their son back but it might have provided some closure, some measure of justice, real or imagined, for Robbie. If nothing else, it would have provided for the Elwells during their remaining years.
Elwell recomposed herself and lit another cigarette. “When we spoke on the phone, Detective, you said that you wanted to talk to me about a case that you’re investigating.”
“Did you know that your attorney, Paul Ramsey, died?” Diane asked.
“Yes. I saw it on TV.”
“Have you seen today’s paper, Mrs. Elwell?” Byron asked.
“No. I’d planned to go out shopping for groceries but as you can see I haven’t left the house.”
“Paul Ramsey was murdered,” Byron said.
“How?”
“Someone shot him in the head then dumped his body in the ocean,” Byron said, intentionally being blunt, watching closely for her reaction.
Elwell remained stoic as she digested what she’d been told.
He caught Diane glaring at him.
“Where were you and Justin Tuesday night?” Byron asked, ignoring his partner’s obvious displeasure with the tactic.
“Do you think we killed Mr. Ramsey, Sergeant Byron?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think, Mrs. Elwell. We have to explore every possibility. And a million dollars is more than enough motive for some.”
“Tuesday evening Justin was on his way to Kansas City. I spent the night at my sister’s in Brewer.”
“We’ll need to confirm that information, Paula,” Diane said.
“Of course. I understand.”
“Uh-oh,” Nugent said, looking over at McVail, who was seated on a prisoner bench in Intake.
McVail looked up but said nothing.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Donny,” he said, holding up one of McVail’s steel-toed black leather boots. The heel had detached and was lying in Nugent’s other hand. “What have we got here? Who do you think you are, 007?”
“Those aren’t my boots,” McVail said.
Nugent looked at one of the intake deputies who was leaning across the counter grinning. “Betcha never heard that one before?”
“Nope. First for me,” the jail guard said.
Nugent turned his attention back to McVail. “I guess this isn’t yours either?” He removed a small clear baggie of white powder from a hollowed-out cavity within the rubber heel.
“Never seen it before,” McVail said.
Byron and Diane drove back toward the interstate in silence. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left the Elwell home.
“What’s eating you?” he asked.
She turned and faced him. “Did you have to be so hard on that poor woman? Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, surprised by her reaction. “I was questioning a possible murder suspect.”
“Did you really have to be so direct with her?”
“Direct? Don’t you mean uncaring?”
“You said it.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. Sometimes this job requires a direct approach.”
“You used her, John. A woman already fragile from all she’s been through, and you used her to get what you needed.”
“Don’t you mean we? What we needed? We need to either rule her and her husband out or put them under a microscope. I’m trying to put a murderer away. I did what I had to. Period.”
“You sound like Ramsey.”
“What the hell is your problem? We catch killers, Diane. That’s what we do. I don’t know how you did it in New York, but up here we like to pull out all the stops to see that justice is served.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“So, where is Paula Elwell’s justice?”
He opened his mouth to respond then stopped. Diane was one of the best detectives he’d ever encountered, tough with suspects but gentle with witnesses, when it was called for. She could be equally tough with witnesses when it wasn’t. Whatever it was that had taken Diane off of her game, it certainly wasn’t the Elwells, nor was it his handling of a possible suspect. No, something else was going on with her and arguing about it was an exercise in futility.
Byron’s cell rang. He checked the ID. Nugent.
“Hey, Nuge.”
“You guys still out of town?” Nugent asked.
Byron glanced over at Diane, who was busy ignoring him, again.
“On our way back. What’s up?”
Chapter Thirteen
Friday, 4:30 p.m., April 29, 2016
Byron dropped Diane off at 109, after she’d curtly agreed to follow up with Levesque Trucking and confirm Justin Elwell’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Sh
e had maintained her coolness toward him for the remainder of their trip back to Portland and he had figured it might be best for all parties if they did some sleuthing separately. He jumped back onto the interstate and drove toward the dive site. Nugent was waiting on him at the county jail but Byron wanted to check in with Sergeant Huntress first. He was forced to park in the lower paved lot of 331 Veranda Street as the access road and sidewalk were jammed with marked police units and several personally owned vehicles belonging to members of the dive team. A number of gawkers had gathered on the bridge to watch the proceedings. Byron couldn’t help but notice Davis Billingslea standing among them.
He walked down toward the shoreline, passing a bearded cameraman and what looked to be a teenaged female reporter from one of the local news affiliates.
“Sergeant Byron,” the reporter shouted excitedly upon recognizing him. “Can I get a few words?”
“No,” Byron said. “You want a statement, call Lieutenant LeRoyer.”
“Is this dive related to the death of Attorney Ramsey?” she continued, undeterred by Byron’s brush-off.
“Gee, I don’t know. What do you think?” He hated investigating outdoor scenes during the daytime. News reporters were as plentiful as seagulls, and just as annoying. Fighting for any scraps the police might toss their way. Byron was more than happy to leave the scrap tossing to someone else. Ignoring her next question, he stepped under the bright yellow crime scene tape and winked at the uniformed officer standing post to keep the onlookers away. “Regular circus, huh?”
The officer nodded, grinning as he crossed his arms. “They won’t get by me, Sarge.”
Byron spotted Huntress at the water’s edge. He was standing beside a man with curly gray hair and a pot belly. Byron recognized the second man as one of the local dive instructors. They were monitoring the two divers still in the water. Off to the right were two others seated on the open tailgate of a pickup, half in and half out of their wetsuits, taking a break and hydrating. Byron knew they were only allowed thirty minutes in the water at a time.
“Hey, John,” Huntress greeted.
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