Elwell pointed to the pages. “If you flip to the last page you’ll see I photocopied the ticket I got for fudging my logbook so I could drive longer than I was supposed to. State police pulled me off the road for ten hours until I was eligible to drive again.”
She examined the summons, confirming what he had told them.
Sighing, Elwell leaned back against the corrugated metal of the building’s siding. He slid his hands deep into the front pockets of his pants and stared out toward Warren Avenue. “Detectives, I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t pissed off at Attorney Ramsey. He told us not to take the settlement offer. We should never have listened to him.”
Diane exchanged a glance with Stevens, but neither spoke.
“Our son is dead,” Elwell continued. “Nothing’s going to change that. Even if we’d won at trial. There are a lot people I could blame for Robbie’s death: the hospital, the surgeon, probably others as well. Truth is, I can’t do this anymore. The grieving is killing my wife and me. Our marriage. Our lives. We’ve got to move on.” He looked up, making direct eye contact with Diane. “You’re both welcome to any information you need. I’ll sign anything. Okay? I didn’t have anything to do with murdering Paul Ramsey.”
It was after four by the time Byron had obtained Mrs. Ramsey’s signature on the consent to search. He met Diane in the DiMillo’s parking lot and she brought him up to speed on Elwell.
“Literally hundreds of miles away when Ramsey was last seen leaving the Fox,” Diane said.
“Guess we can cross Elwell off the list,” Byron said. “What about Babbage’s daughter?”
“We talked to her and the ex-husband. She did sleep over at Babbage’s apartment Tuesday night.”
“Of course, she still could’ve gone out to meet Ramsey after her daughter went to bed.”
“True.”
“Did her ex know about her hooking up with Ramsey?”
“Not Ramsey specifically but he told us Joanne had a habit of chasing the money.”
They walked into the marina office building together. The space served multiple purposes: part slip rental, part general store, where the owners of million-dollar vessels could purchase necessary goods, and summer tourists and restaurant-goers could send postcards from the Maine coast to friends back home. The woman at the counter scanned the consent form then directed them to a dockhand named Evan.
Evan wore the long curly locks of a young man who either moonlighted as a musician or just thought the long hair made him look cool. He led them back outside to the parking lot and around to the steel security gate at the head of the docks.
“So, you guys wanna see the Ramsey boat,” Evan said as he punched a code into the keypad on the gate.
“You familiar with it?” Byron asked.
“Sure, blue and white Sabre,” Evan said. “I know all the boats out here.”
“How long have you worked here?” Diane asked.
“This is my fourth year.”
“Seasonal work?” Byron asked as they followed him down the ramp.
“My first year it was. Now I’m year-round. Summertime there’s about eight employees. Winter we cut back to five.”
“There’s enough work to keep five of you busy?” Diane asked.
“You’d be surprised. Some people live on these boats.”
“How many boats are kept here?” Byron asked.
“When we’re up to full capacity in the summer it’s about one hundred and forty. Right now, we’re just shy of a hundred.”
“When exactly does summer start for the rich folks?” Diane asked.
Evan grinned. “Depends. If you’re from Texas, might not be till the beginning of July. Gotta be warm enough for those southern bones.” Evan stopped walking. “Here she is.”
Not Guilty was the name adorning the stern in large block letters. Prosaic until the end, Byron thought. He turned to Evan as Diane climbed aboard. “You said some of the people live on these boats. Did Ramsey?”
“No. The Ramseys pulled theirs out every fall. It actually just went back in the water. Couple of weeks ago.”
Byron pulled out his notepad and jotted some of what Evan had said. “How often do the Ramseys use the boat?”
“Not too often. I’ve only ever seen Mrs. Ramsey twice, my first year on the docks.” Evan looked around then leaned in toward Byron. “Between you and me . . .” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Byron said.
“Ramsey only rarely took the boat out. Think he was using it more as a fuck pad.”
Byron looked up from his notes. “A fuck pad?”
“Yeah, you know. He’d bring women down here for a little somethin’ somethin’.”
“You ever see any of these women?”
“Sure. He never brought any dogs down here.”
“You see any women down here lately? Like maybe last Tuesday night?”
Evan shook his head. “Didn’t work last Tuesday night. But there’s a video system.”
Evan told them he didn’t have authority to access the wharf security video, which was housed in the yacht sales office. He ran off to get the on-duty salesperson while Byron telephoned Pelligrosso to help with the search and to document anything they found.
Byron was just hanging up when a slick-looking character who looked about forty, dressed in chinos and a bright yellow polo shirt, sporting a tan that could only have come from a booth this early in the year, approached.
“Afternoon,” the man said, flashing a fake smile. “Help you with something?”
Byron, who caught a Long Island or Jersey lilt in the man’s speech, opened his wallet, displaying his badge and ID to Slick 40. “Detective Sergeant Byron,” he said.
“Evan tells me you’re looking for video stuff. Afraid I can’t give you that without a court order. Privacy laws. I’m sure you under—”
“Dennis Merrill,” Diane interrupted.
Slick looked at Diane. His smile faltered.
Byron didn’t think he looked much like a Dennis. In fact, he’d already grown fond of the Slick 40 moniker.
“Sarge,” Diane continued. “Allow me to introduce Dennis Merrill, formerly of New York City. Isn’t that right, Dennis?”
Byron watched as Merrill squirmed like a kid needing to use the bathroom, shifting from one tan boat shoe to the other.
“I go by Richard now,” he said.
“Dick. How fitting,” Diane said.
It was obvious that Diane was enjoying every second of this.
“How do you two know each other?” Byron asked.
“Well,” Diane began. “Dick and I met professionally. Back when I first started doing UC work in the fraud unit. Isn’t that right, Dick?” she asked, accentuating the last word.
Merrill said nothing.
“Dick ran a local insurance office. They specialized in high-risk auto insurance policies. Guaranteed to get you back on the street, no matter your driving record. Right, Dick?” She turned her head toward Byron. “Only problem was, he never turned the money over to corporate. Charged people five hundred bucks for a temporary insurance card. He filled out the paperwork but never sent it in. The high-risk people who made it through the ninety-day policy without an accident never knew they weren’t insured. The ones that didn’t, well, Dennis, now Dick, would backdate the records and send the forms in along with the money, claiming his office assistant misfiled it.”
“Is this true, Dennis?” Byron said, playing along.
“I told you, it’s Richard,” Merrill said, sulking. “I changed my name. It’s all legal.”
“There’s a first,” Diane continued. “It was tens of thousands of dollars in fraud. Dick did a little time. But the real felony stuff was dropped down in a plea bargain to misdemeanor theft. The corporate people didn’t want the negative publicity. It would probably suck for you if your current employer found out who you really are?” Diane said.
“What do you want?” Merrill asked.
“That’s the spiri
t, Dick,” Diane said.
“We’re gonna need access to your security system,” Byron said.
Byron looked around for security cameras atop the tallest of the pilings. None were visible.
“You have cameras monitoring this area?” Byron asked their reluctant tour guide.
“Not out here. The owners don’t want them.”
“Why not?”
“They like their privacy,” Merrill said.
Byron could only imagine what kind of activities could be taking place on these boats that would put privacy above the millions of dollars in floating fiberglass surrounding them.
Merrill pointed back toward the parking lot. “The only camera is the one at the head of the ramp. It monitors the gate we just came through.”
“We’re gonna need to see those recordings,” Diane said.
“Nothing’s recorded.”
“What?” she asked. “What good is that?”
“Not much, I suppose. The camera goes to a closed circuit monitor in my office but that’s it.”
“That’s just great,” Diane said.
“We’re also gonna need a copy of the rental list for every occupied slip on these docks,” Byron said.
Merrill opened his mouth to protest but Diane cleared her throat. “I’ll get it for you,” Merrill said.
“What about gate security?” Byron asked.
“What about it?”
“Evan punched in a code to get through the gate,” Byron said. “Pardon the pun but how many of those are floating around?”
“There’s only one key code. Each owner knows it.”
“And anyone else they’ve told,” Diane said.
“I guess,” Merrill said.
With Pelligrosso’s help, they searched Ramsey’s boat from stem to stern. The boat was well-kept, but it was still obvious Ramsey had used the vessel as an occasional love pad, and not for much else. Merrill’s fuel records confirmed Ramsey rarely took the boat out.
Mrs. Ramsey had told Byron that she’d purchased the boat for her husband as a gift but she had only been on it a few times. “I’m not really into boating,” she’d said.
The only trace of blood Pelligrosso was able to find was in the stateroom lavatory where Ramsey had likely cut himself shaving. No doubt after sleeping one off, Byron thought. One more trait he’d shared with the dead attorney.
“What do you think?” Diane asked Pelligrosso.
“If he was killed on the boat, he wasn’t on it long.”
“Could they have shot him out here and not left even a trace of spatter?” Byron asked.
“Well, they’d be helped by the fact that the bullet never exited Ramsey’s skull. Entry spatter only.” Pelligrosso surveyed the deck. “The killer would have to have thought it through. Really planned it in advance. Plastic, maybe? Or something placed over Ramsey’s face and fired through it. But yeah, it could be done. Maybe at the platform on the stern. Wouldn’t matter then if he was conscious or not. Shoot him then roll him into the water.”
“What if he was already in the water when he was shot?” Diane asked.
Byron and Pelligrosso turned to look over the stern.
“Yeah, he could have been shoved overboard and then shot,” Pelligrosso said.
“He was pistol-whipped, right?” Diane asked. “Maybe they conked him on the head to knock him off the boat.”
“You’re right,” Byron said. He’d wanted to lock the boat down as either definitely being the crime scene or not, but the search had accomplished neither. As with the rest of the case, every piece they turned up seemed ambiguous at best.
“We’ll have to canvass all of the owners,” Diane said. “I can have Mel help me.”
“Good idea. Call the shift commander and have him send the beat officer down here to give you a hand.”
Diane pulled out her phone. “You got it.”
Pelligrosso’s cell chimed. “Gabe here.”
Byron watched as his evidence technician nodded and grinned, apparently pleased with whatever he was hearing.
Pelligrosso ended the call. “That was dispatch. Fowler’s .380 was stolen out of New York about eighteen months ago.”
It was nearly six o’clock. Byron was sitting at his desk trying desperately to catch up on his ongoing investigative supplement when Nugent rapped on the metal doorframe.
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Nuge. Any luck at the hospital?”
“No. The guy doesn’t remember anything. Claiming amnesia.”
“Was he wearing a suit when he was brought in?”
“Hospital tossed his clothes. Biohazard.”
“Nobody remembers what he had on?”
“Apparently not. Some keen powers of observation, huh?”
“Check with the paramedics. Maybe they’ll remember.”
Stevens popped her head through the doorway. “Sorry to bug you, but I think you’ll wanna see what’s on the television, Sarge.”
Byron shot her a quizzical look then followed her and Nugent to the conference room where Diane was already seated at the table.
“What’s the big mystery?” Byron asked.
“Watch,” Diane said, still sounding pissed. She pointed the remote at the wall-mounted television and increased the volume.
“Our top story tonight concerns an arrest made by the Portland Police Department. Police sources tell us that a local man has been arrested in connection with the murder of local attorney Paul Ramsey.”
“What the fuck?” Byron said.
The pudgy newscaster with a bad comb-over continued. “We now go live to Jenny Kierstead at the Cumberland County Jail. Jenny, what’s the latest?”
“Thanks, Tom,” Jenny said, the entrance to the jail behind her. “An hour ago I spoke on the phone with Lieutenant Martin LeRoyer, commander of the police department’s detectives. Lieutenant LeRoyer told me that his detectives have arrested a person of interest in the Ramsey murder on an unrelated charge.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Byron said.
Kierstead looked down at her notes and continued. “Lieutenant LeRoyer would not disclose the identity of the person, only that he is a local man. But sources inside the department have told me that the only man arrested by Portland detectives in the last forty-eight hours is this man. Roger Fowler.”
Byron mouth dropped open as they displayed Fowler’s mug shot. He could feel the anger welling within him like water coming to a boil.
“Fowler was booked this afternoon at the Cumberland County Jail on several different charges, including possession of controlled substances, and possession of a stolen firearm. Both serious charges. When I asked LeRoyer about the connection to the Ramsey murder, he would only say, ‘No comment.’”
“Interesting development, Jenny,” Pudgy opined. “Keep us posted.”
Byron, who had ceased listening, marched back into his office and slammed the door. He grabbed the desk phone, forcefully punching in LeRoyer’s number.
“What the fuck, Marty!” Byron said as soon as LeRoyer picked up.
“John, don’t start. You have no idea how much pressure I’ve been getting from everywhere on this case.”
“Pressure? You think I give a fuck about pressure?”
“Look, we made progress and I put it out there to shut some people up.”
“We don’t know for sure if this guy had anything to do with killing Ramsey.”
“His boyfriend said he punched Ramsey out the same night he went missing, right?”
“He said he watched him punch out someone wearing a suit. We have no idea if it was even Ramsey.”
“Regardless, you found the .380 at Fowler’s apartment and Ramsey was killed with a .380.”
“Yeah, we found a .380. Doesn’t mean it’s the same gun. Dammit, Marty, we haven’t even checked ballistics yet!”
“Come on, John. What are the odds that this asshole would just happen to have the same caliber weapon?”
“Do you have any ide
a how many .380s there are in the world? And another thing, how in hell am I going to be able to show photo arrays of Fowler to any witnesses now that they’ve plastered his face all over the goddamned news?”
“Hey, I didn’t give them his name.”
“It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” Byron couldn’t help but wonder if one of Crosby’s guys had tipped his identity to the news. Payback for getting stuck with the search warrant. Either way, the damage was done. “What the fuck, Marty! This isn’t like you. It’s more like something Cross would’ve done,” Byron said, referring to the late assistant chief. “Stanton didn’t make you the new Ass Chief, did he?”
There was a brief pause at LeRoyer’s end of the phone.
“Oh, that’s just fucking great,” Byron said. “So now you’ve gone over to the dark side too.”
“Watch it, John,” LeRoyer cautioned.
“Or what? You’ll royally fuck up my case? Too late!”
Byron banged the phone down on its cradle then reached instinctually for the bottom right desk drawer. The drawer where he used to hide a bottle. He pulled his hand back, realizing the Irish no longer resided there.
“Fuck.” Byron rolled his head back then side to side, cracking his neck in an attempt to relieve the stress. He was getting out of his chair when the desk phone rang.
“Byron,” he snapped as he answered it.
“Sarge, it’s Johnson. I’m working down at the IO desk. There’s someone here to see you.”
“I’m little busy right now, Officer. Who is it?”
“Some guy named Bagley.”
“You arrested him?” Bagley said, loud enough to draw looks from several people sitting on the lobby benches. “How could you?”
“Mr. Bagley, I can appreciate how upsetting this whole thing must be for you, but Roger may have killed Paul Ramsey. Isn’t that why you came to me in the first place?”
“I came because Dr. Byron said I could trust you. I didn’t think you’d charge out and arrest Roger without investigating it first.”
Bagley looked mad enough to take a swing at him.
“Mr. Bagley, I assure you we didn’t just run out and arrest him. But we still have charges pending against Roger, whether he’s responsible for Ramsey’s murder or not.”
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