Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Why is it that you’re the only sergeant who won’t return my calls?” LeRoyer said.

  “Shitty reception?” Byron said, stepping around the lieutenant and heading for his office.

  LeRoyer followed on his heels. “Goddammit, John. Are you trying to get both of us kicked out of CID?”

  “I thought you were leaving anyway. Aren’t you about to become the next Ass Chief?”

  LeRoyer followed him into the office and slammed the door. “I know you went poking around in someone else’s jurisdiction. Your detectives told me that Branch’s house was burglarized.”

  “It was. And a firearm was stolen. A .380.”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me that there’s a million of those out there?”

  “Yes. I did. But there’s only one stolen .380 that belonged to the guy whose wife Ramsey was fucking.”

  “Did I stutter when I said to go fucking easy on this? You know Branch already called Stanton. You’re creating a shit storm for me!”

  Byron settled into his chair and looked at LeRoyer. “I go where the case takes me, period.” He waited a moment before speaking again, hoping to bring his hot lieutenant back to earth. “How’s Sam like Sacred Heart?” he asked, referring to LeRoyer’s daughter.

  LeRoyer blinked at the unexpected question. “What?”

  “Samantha. How’s she like college?”

  “Dammit, John, you always do that to me. How the fuck am I supposed to stay pissed off at you if you won’t let me?”

  Byron shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Aw, hell.” LeRoyer dropped into one of the chairs across from Byron. “She likes it. I guess. Homesick, though. Calls her mother every night. Can’t believe what that school costs. You know?”

  After LeRoyer finished, Byron brought him up to speed on what he’d learned in Topsham.

  “You think the break-in was staged?” LeRoyer asked, now fully calm.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “So who do you think set it up?”

  “I don’t know, but Branch was the one who found it and made the report.”

  “Shit. And the gun just happened to be a .380?”

  “Yup.”

  LeRoyer exhaled loudly. “Why can’t anything ever be easy?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tuesday, 5:30 p.m., May 3, 2016

  Byron paced slowly around the SUV inside the evidence cage in the basement of 109. Aside from him and Diane, the garage was empty.

  “What are you hoping to find, John?” Diane asked. “Gabe went over every inch of this vehicle.”

  “I know he did. I’m not questioning his evidence collection skills. I just feel like there has to be something else.”

  “Back to the beginning?” she asked, referring to Byron’s learned habit of starting the investigation over when things stalled.

  Back when Byron was first learning the ropes as a detective, his mentor, Ray Humphrey, was fond of pointing out that often the best way to move an investigation forward is to go back to the beginning. The advice had served him well.

  “Works for me,” he said.

  He knew she was right about Gabe. When it came to processing a scene, Pelligrosso was second to none. But sometimes the obvious things were the easiest to miss. The mind plays tricks, tending to skip right past those items that are expected to be at a scene. Cops look for evidence brought into a crime scene and left behind. Fingerprints, DNA, hairs, fibers, blood. All of the usual suspects were searched for. What did they have? A partial print that was smudged. Two blond hairs from a wig, probably from one of the countless women Ramsey had slept with.

  He walked over and opened the driver’s door. The overhead dome light came on along with an audible chime, signifying the keys were still in the ignition. What had they overlooked?

  Byron signaled Diane to open the passenger door. She did. Both of them stood next to the open doors staring inside the empty SUV.

  “What do we know?” Byron asked.

  “Well, if Ramsey wasn’t killed on the boat we know he was probably killed by whoever met him down on Veranda Street,” she said.

  “Good. Where?”

  “Maybe on the shore or standing in the water.”

  “How?”

  “One shot to the face. The killer may have softened him up a bit by mixing fentanyl into his usual cocaine. After the coke wore off, the effect of the narcotic combined with his high blood alcohol would have significantly impaired his ability to mount any defense.”

  “That and not having a gun,” Byron said. “Swap sides with me.”

  “Okay,” Diane said as she walked to the opposite side of the vehicle. She looked across at him. “Now what?”

  “Now get in. You’ll be the driver, presumably Ramsey, and I’ll be the killer.”

  “Why do I feel like I drew the short straw on that deal?” she said.

  They both climbed in and sat there looking around but not touching anything.

  “What are we looking for?” Diane said.

  Byron looked her up and down. “Comfortable?”

  “Not really. The seat’s up a little too far.”

  Byron grinned. “How tall is Ramsey?”

  “I don’t know, a little over six foot, I think.”

  “Meaning?”

  Her eyes widened in understanding. “Meaning he couldn’t have driven this to the dump site. The seat’s too far forward for me and I’m five-ten.”

  “Okay, so our driver and probable killer must be shorter than you.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Watson,” Diane said.

  “What does that make you?”

  She grinned. “Holmes, of course.”

  “You don’t look much like a Sherlock,” he said.

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “How tall is Branch?” Byron asked.

  Byron sat in the dark on the steps to his condo. It was a perfect early June night. The sun had long since set but the air temperature remained mild, foreshadowing the summer warmth still to come. He’d have given anything for an icy brew, but he knew better than most where that would lead. He hated the distance that had grown between him and Diane. Although things had gotten much better at work, the distance remained. She hadn’t even been to his condo since Thursday. If she were here now he wouldn’t be thinking of beer. She possessed an innate ability to keep his mind occupied on other things. He closed his eyes and imagined the smell of her skin, her playful laughter, bright smile, and soft touch. But she wasn’t here. She was at home, in Westbrook. Partly because of his stubbornness. He should have told her about his meeting with Kay. It was stupid and childish. That same stubbornness was probably also why she hadn’t told him about taking the sergeant’s exam. He was pushing Diane away, like he had pushed Kay.

  He opened his eyes and stared up at the sky. The stars were out and, in spite of the city lights, they were brilliant. He remembered sneaking out of his parents’ house and riding his bike down to the Eastern Prom in the dark, where he’d lie on the grassy hill and stare up at these same stars. They made him feel so small, so insignificant. But at the same time they seemed to confirm a belief that anything was possible. His cell vibrated, whisking him back to the here-and-now. Pulling it off his belt, he checked the phone’s illuminated screen, hoping that it might be Diane. The caller ID read “Dispatch.”

  “Byron,” he answered.

  “Sarge, it’s Will in Dispatch.”

  “What’s up, Will?”

  “Shift commander wanted us to call you. We’ve got units out at a DV assault involving Lorraine Davies. He thought you’d want to know.”

  “Where?”

  “Eastern Prom.”

  Davies’s apartment. Could this be the break they’d been hoping for? Had the information about Davies’s affair with Ramsey precipitated this? There was only one way to find out.

  “On my way,” he said.

  Byron wordlessly badged the night security guard seated in the lobby of Davies’s building. Not knowing
that Byron had previously visited, the guard pointed him toward the elevators. Byron stood waiting in the hallway for someone to answer his knock on the locked door to Davies’s condo. Officer Haggerty opened the door.

  “Hey, Sarge.”

  “Hags,” Byron said. “Give me a rundown.”

  “Officer Richardson is taking Davies’s statement in the living room. Looks like her husband, Devon Branch, punched her in the face. She’s got a pretty good shiner.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “She did.”

  “Where’s Branch?”

  “He was GOA. She says he threatened to kill her if she called the police.”

  Byron pulled out his cell and dialed Dispatch.

  “Dispatch, Mary speaking.”

  “Mary, it’s Byron. I need you to put out an ATL.”

  “Sure. Go ahead with it.”

  “I’m out at the DV on the Eastern Prom. Devon Branch just assaulted his wife. I want him picked up for assault and criminal threatening.”

  “You’re talking about the Portland attorney Devon Branch?”

  “Yes. He lives in Topsham.” Byron checked his watch: nine-thirty. “And given the hour, he may be en route there. Let the state police know, then have a couple of our officers swing by his office on Union Street.”

  “You know what he drives?”

  “It’s a silver Lexus. I don’t have the plate number.”

  “Okay, I’ll run him through BMV and put it out. You want it over the air?”

  “Yes. And let me know the minute he’s located.”

  Byron pocketed the phone and addressed Haggerty. “Let’s go talk with Davies.”

  Lorraine Davies was sitting on the couch. Richardson sat on the coffee table facing her, balancing his clipboard awkwardly as he attempted to get her statement down on paper. Mascara had run onto Davies’s cheeks, giving her a clown-like appearance. Byron noted that the left sleeve of her blouse was torn at the seam. He scanned the room quickly. Aside from Davies, nothing appeared disturbed. No broken or overturned furniture. No smashed glasses.

  “I can’t believe this happened,” Davies said, visibly shaken.

  “Has he ever done anything like this before?” Byron asked.

  She shook her head. “No. He’s never hit me. I’ve seen his temper but he’s never done more than break things.”

  Byron had glimpsed it too. Recently, in fact. When he’d tried to goad the high-priced attorney into unleashing it.

  “He threatened you?” Byron said.

  She gave a tearful nod. “He told me if I called the police, he’d kill me.”

  “Mind if I ask what the argument was about?”

  Davies lowered her eyes. “About my affair with Paul.”

  “How long has he known?”

  “He found out a few months ago. Before Paul was . . . murdered.”

  “What set him off tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Byron turned as someone rushed into the room. It was Amy Brennan.

  “Oh my God,” Brennan said, rushing over to Davies.

  “It’s okay, Amy,” Davies said.

  “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him,” Brennan said, sitting down next to Davies and placing an arm around her.

  Byron, using the interruption to allow Richardson to finish taking Davies’s statement, signaled Haggerty to follow him. They retreated to the hallway out of earshot.

  “Have we interviewed the security guard downstairs?” Byron asked.

  “Not yet.

  “Let’s see what he has to say about Branch’s arrival and, more importantly, his departure.”

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  Byron’s cell vibrated. He grabbed it without looking. “Byron.”

  “Sarge, it’s Mary. S.P. found Devon Branch. They’ve got him stopped on the interstate, near Brunswick.”

  Byron slid the Chevy up next to the curb, directly in front of 109. Diane hurried down the steps to the Middle Street sidewalk and jumped in.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” she said.

  “Wasn’t much to do at the scene anyway,” Byron said. He executed a quick U-turn in front of the station, just managing to catch the yellow light before turning left onto Franklin. He gunned the accelerator and sped up the hill past Congress Street toward I-295.

  “Did Topsham find Branch?” she asked.

  “Nope, state police. Stopped him about three miles from the Brunswick exit.”

  “Think he’ll talk to us?”

  “Doubt it. They just found a loaded firearm in the car.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Son of a bitch. Caliber?”

  Byron turned his head to look directly at her. “A .380.”

  Byron pulled in behind the two marked S.P. units parked in the breakdown lane just south of the Brunswick exit. A dizzying array of blue strobes blocked their view of Branch’s car. Byron activated his own emergency lights as he and Diane stepped out onto the pavement. As they approached the second cruiser, Branch’s silhouette could clearly be seen through the rear windshield.

  A tall trooper, wearing a light blue campaign hat tilted to the front and partially obscuring his eyes, approached them. “Sergeant Byron?”

  “That’s me. Thanks for the assist,” Byron said as they shook hands. “This is Detective Diane Joyner.”

  “Detective.”

  “Is he talking?” Diane asked.

  “Hasn’t said a word since I asked him to step out of the car. But he’s been cooperative other than that.”

  “Where was the gun found?” Byron asked.

  “Under the driver’s seat.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yup. Just him. Acted like he had no idea why we were stopping him. Your dispatcher said he beat up his wife?”

  “And threatened to kill her if she called us,” Diane said.

  “Nice guy. What do you want done with the car?”

  “Can you get a flatbed out here?” Byron asked.

  The trooper nodded. “Probably take close to an hour.”

  “I want it towed to the basement of our headquarters. I’ll have one of my evidence techs waiting for you.”

  “I’ll see to it personally. What about him?” the trooper asked, cocking his head toward Branch.

  “Give me a minute with him,” Byron said.

  Byron opened the rear door of the state police cruiser. “Evening, Mr. Branch.”

  “Sergeant Byron. May I ask what all of this is about?”

  Byron was surprised to find Branch so calm. Maybe even disappointed. He’d expected the attorney to be a bit more frazzled after assaulting his wife.

  “I’d be more than happy to explain it to you if you’d care to accompany us back to the police station.”

  Branch looked back and forth between Diane and Byron. “Can I safely assume this has something to do with your continued harassment of me regarding Paul Ramsey’s murder?”

  “Actually, Devon, this is about you assaulting your wife,” Diane said. “Would you be willing to come to 109 and help us clear this matter up?”

  Branch’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but enough that Byron picked up on it.

  “Think I’d rather speak with my attorney first,” Branch said.

  “Figured you’d say that,” Byron said before closing the car door. He turned to the trooper. “Go ahead and take him to the Cumberland County Jail. Charges are DV assault and criminal threatening.”

  “You got it. What about the gun?”

  “We’ll take possession of that.”

  After signing the chain of custody form for the firearm, Byron and Diane headed back to Portland. Byron placed a call to LeRoyer while Diane woke Pelligrosso.

  “You what?” LeRoyer asked, his voice rising a full octave.

  “You heard me right,” Byron said. “We just arrested Branch for assaulting his wife. Well, actually, it was the state police who arrested him.”r />
  “You’re shitting me.”

  Byron could visualize his high-strung lieutenant pacing the floor in his bathrobe while combing his hair back with the fingers of his free hand until he resembled the Lieutenant Einstein moniker they’d playfully stuck him with.

  “No, Marty. I’m not shitting you.”

  In the middle of her own call, Diane glanced over at Byron and grinned.

  “Are you sure we’re on solid ground here, John?”

  “For the DV? Absolutely. Lorraine called in the assault herself. Building security said Branch arrived all in a huff then left in a hurry ten minutes later.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And that’s not all. They found a loaded .380 under the driver’s seat.”

  “Tell me the search was good?”

  “Textbook. Searched incident to arrest. I’ve got ’em towing Branch’s car to 109.”

  “You’re gonna get a search warrant, right?”

  “Yes, Mother. Making the call now.”

  Byron and Diane had been waiting at 109 for close to an hour. He’d left several messages on Jim Ferguson’s voicemail but the assistant attorney general had yet to call him back. Byron was growing impatient. Branch’s car was secure in the basement cage, ironically sitting right beside Ramsey’s. They’d need to find other accommodations if any other vehicles were seized, as the space was only big enough for two. Pelligrosso was in the lab just waiting for the green light from Byron to dust for prints and compare ballistics from Branch’s gun. The car could wait until tomorrow, but the gun might tie Branch to at least one murder if anything matched. Diane had long since finished writing the search warrant and accompanying affidavit. All they needed now was Ferguson’s okay and they’d be on their way to a judge.

  Diane stuck her head through the doorway of Byron’s office. “Any word from Ferguson?”

  “Nah. Fuck. I don’t know where he is. This isn’t like him.”

  “You wanna keep waiting or should we go back to the list and reach out to another attorney?”

  Byron would’ve preferred it be Ferguson, primarily because he already knew the case, but he also knew they couldn’t wait forever. The clock was ticking. “I’ll call Presby.”