Beneath the Depths

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Okay. I’ll email you the affidavit.”

  “Thanks, Di.”

  Byron was perusing the documents that Diane had prepared when AAG Presby picked up in mid-ring. He was groggy and obviously pissed off at having been awoken. He reminded Byron that he wasn’t the on-call attorney, not until next week, then reluctantly agreed to check the documents. Byron, who didn’t need reminding, forwarded Diane’s email.

  The green light, which would’ve taken less than ten minutes with Ferguson, took thirty-five with Presby. Following that, it took Byron and Diane fifteen minutes to drive to Judge Millar’s house in Scarborough and another thirty before His Honor finally scribbled his illegible John Millar Hancock on the documents.

  Byron phoned Pelligrosso from Millar’s driveway, giving him the go-ahead. The detectives were on their way back to 109, signed warrant in hand, when Byron got a call from one of the jail deputies telling him that Branch had been bailed on personal recognizance over an hour ago. The deputy apologized for not having called sooner.

  Byron sat next to Diane in the CID conference room. He felt like an expectant father awaiting news from the delivery room. And he was hoping Pelligrosso would announce the arrival of identical twins. In the ballistic sense.

  Byron studied the updated and ever-expanding whiteboard while Diane read over a stack of incoming case supplements. He’d lost track of how many large coffees he’d consumed, but figured it was too many, based on the way his left leg was jumping.

  At some point, Byron realized that he’d nodded off in the chair. He looked up at the clock. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. Through the window the sky was beginning to brighten. Diane was snoozing at the table, head resting on her arms like a schoolgirl. Byron got up, stretched and headed for the CID printer. He grabbed the overnight stack and returned to the conference room. He was trying hard to focus on Haggerty’s DV report, still warm from the printer, when Pelligrosso walked in.

  “I have news, Sarge,” Pelligrosso said.

  Diane awoke with a groan. Sitting upright, she rubbed her eyes.

  “Go with it,” Byron said, yawning.

  “The serial number on the gun matches the number on the burglary report filed by Branch,” Pelligrosso said.

  “Prints?” Diane asked.

  Pelligrosso shook his head. “Nothing on the gun. Wiped clean.”

  Odd, Byron thought.

  “What about the partials on the shell casings?” Diane asked.

  “They belong to Branch.”

  Byron could feel the noose closing on Branch’s neck. “What about ballistics? Do they match or not?” Byron asked.

  The young evidence tech grinned. “They match.”

  Byron’s first call was to LeRoyer. He had to relay the story twice before the sleepy lieutenant understood the implication.

  “You’re shitting me!”

  He really needs a new catchphrase, Byron thought. “I am not.”

  “Branch killed Ramsey?” LeRoyer said, sounding flabbergasted.

  “And apparently Tomlinson,” Byron reminded him. “Not only do the bullets that came out of Darius match, so do the extractor marks on the shell casings. Same gun Branch reported stolen from his house.”

  “What about the hooker?”

  “Stripper. We don’t have anything tying Branch to her murder. But hey, two out of three ain’t bad.”

  “Fuck me,” LeRoyer said. “Stanton’s gonna shit a brick.”

  Looks like the chief may have backed the wrong guy, Byron thought. He wondered how Portland’s top cop would try to spin it.

  Byron didn’t have to wait long for the spin. Stanton, afraid of the political fallout that always came with betting on the wrong horse, decided to get out in front of it by holding an impromptu press conference announcing that they had made an arrest in the Ramsey murder. Byron hadn’t been present for the 8:00 a.m. meeting of the command staff. Likewise he hadn’t been privy to the phone call between the chief and the state’s attorney general. He learned of both developments after the fact, from LeRoyer.

  “I don’t see the problem, John,” LeRoyer said, sounding exasperated as he plopped down behind his desk and logged on to his computer. “I thought you of all people would be happy.”

  Byron, who’d followed him into the office, remained standing. “And I don’t understand the goddamned rush, Marty.”

  “You’ve got more than enough to charge Branch with both murders. You told me so.”

  “We do, but I still feel like we’re missing something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’d like to do more legwork on this before we charge anyone.”

  “Well, that’s not an option,” LeRoyer said, checking his watch. “It’s 9:05 now. Stanton plans to roll it out for the media live during the noon broadcast, so you’ve got almost three hours to pick Branch up and book him.”

  “Why is Stanton so hot on rushing this? If memory serves he was in love with this fucking guy last week. Hell, even yesterday. Devon Branch, benefactor of the new and improved K-9 program. Remember?”

  Byron watched as LeRoyer turned away from the computer screen, studying him. The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you stalling, John? This isn’t like you. Don’t tell me you actually think he’s innocent?”

  He shook his head. “It just feels too easy. Like we’re missing something. Branch isn’t stupid. Why in hell wouldn’t he have ditched the gun after killing Ramsey? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, after you pick him up you can ask him.”

  Byron and Diane were bringing the other detectives up to speed in the conference room when his cell rang. He recognized the Augusta area code but not the number.

  “Byron.”

  “Sergeant Byron, it’s Tammy Dufresne. I’m the receptionist in the AG’s office.”

  Byron felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stepped from the room. “Yes, Tammy,” he said, struggling to keep his composure. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry for calling you like this but I thought you’d want to know. Jim Ferguson is in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wednesday, 9:10 a.m., May 4, 2016

  Diane finished adjusting the Velcro straps on her ballistic vest. She buttoned her blouse as she walked around the women’s locker room, even checking the shower stalls to be sure she was alone. Empty. She pulled out her cell and quickly dialed the number.

  “Newsroom,” the bored male voice at the other end of the line answered.

  “Davis Billingslea, please,” she said.

  “Hang on.”

  Diane glanced nervously at the door to the hallway as she counted the rings. She was about to hang up before the call could go to voicemail when the breathless reporter answered.

  “Billingslea.”

  “Davis, it’s Detective Joyner. You’ll want to be out in front of the Emerson Building in ten minutes.”

  “Why? What do you—”

  “Just be there.”

  Diane ended the call just as two uniformed officers entered the locker room.

  “You can’t just barge in on him,” the receptionist called after the detectives as they headed down the hall to Branch’s office.

  Diane, who was followed by Nugent, Stevens, and two uniformed officers, ignored the warning, never breaking stride. She opened the doors to the attorney’s office and stepped inside. Branch was seated in front of his desk in one of the visitor chairs, across from Gerald DeWitt.

  “May I help you with something, Detectives?” Branch said through gritted teeth.

  “Devon Branch,” Diane said. “You’re under arrest for murder.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “No joke,” Stevens said. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

  Branch glanced at DeWitt, then did as he was instructed.

  “May I ask whom he is alleged to have murdered?” DeWitt said as Diane and Stevens pla
ced Branch in cuffs.

  “Paul Ramsey and Darius Tomlinson,” Nugent chimed in. “Sorry we didn’t have a chance to make an appointment.”

  Byron stepped out of the elevator and into the hall of the cardiac unit of Central Maine Medical Center in Lewiston. The floor was slick, still damp from having recently been mopped, and he nearly slipped. He slowed his pace and shortened the length of his strides so as not to repeat his acrobatic feat.

  He breezed past the nursing station and headed down the hall directly to Ferguson’s room. The assistant attorney general was dozing lightly as Byron walked in and sat down beside the bed. Clear plastic tubes protruded from each nostril and down to a stainless steel oxygen tank. Byron watched his friend’s chest rise and fall with each breath. A computerized monitor displayed the vitals, emitting a dull beep in synchronicity with Ferguson’s heartbeat. It never ceased to amaze Byron how frail people looked while lying in a hospital bed. As if the mere act of lying down added a decade to a patient’s age. He noticed Ferguson’s gold wire-rimmed glasses folded atop the bedside table beside a plastic cup of water. Byron couldn’t recall ever having seen his friend without his glasses. The bedridden man’s eye sockets had taken on a dark and hollow look. Byron wondered if they had always looked like that and he’d just failed to notice.

  Ferguson’s eyelids fluttered then gradually opened. His rheumy eyes looked directly at Byron until the recognition showed on his face.

  “You could have just said you wanted a day off,” Byron said.

  Ferguson gave a chuckle that was half cough.

  “You need the nurse?” Byron asked, concern evident in his tone.

  Ferguson waved his hand. “Water,” he croaked.

  Byron retrieved the cup, carefully handing it to Ferguson.

  The AAG struggled to line up the straw with his mouth then sipped.

  After a moment, Byron took the cup and set it back on the table. “Better?”

  Ferguson nodded. “Damn oxygen dries me out. Like I got a mouth full of sand.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Top notch, for a guy who’s just had a heart attack.”

  “I see your sense of humor’s still intact,” Byron said.

  Ferguson lifted both arms, displaying the IVs. “About the only thing.”

  “What’s the doc telling you?”

  “Same thing they all say. Gotta change my diet.”

  “Blocked arteries?”

  “Big-time.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough. He’s talking about a six bypass surgery. Guess that’s worse than a quadruple bypass. What the hell do they call a six bypass surgery anyway?”

  “I think the technical term is six bypass surgery,” Byron said, grinning.

  “I knew you’d know. You missed Mrs. Assistant Attorney General by a couple of hours.”

  “How is Betty?”

  “She’s fine. Worried. Gave me the ‘I told you so’ speech about my heart. Threatened to put me on some fad low-fat, high-fiber, gluten-free diet. What the hell is a gluten?”

  “She cares about you, Jim.”

  “Yeah, yeah. She’s pissed at you though.”

  “Pissed at me?” Byron said. “What’d I do?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done. How many times has she asked you to come to the house for dinner?”

  “I know. It’s just, you know. I’ve got a crazy job. Don’t have as much time as I used to.”

  “Ha. Look at me. Guess I could say the same.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time. Done much painting?” he asked, referring to Ferguson’s oil painting hobby.

  “Painting, shmainting. What I do is push colors around on the canvas. But no, I haven’t. Too many trials as of late. Guess maybe I’ll have some time to work at it, what with my convalescing.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Byron said. “The doc will likely have you running in circles with rehab.”

  “Oh great. Just what I need. Exercise.”

  “Don’t knock it.”

  “Exercise and Betty’s new dietary cooking. That will be the crap that kills me, you know. You shoulda come to the house for dinner before my heart attack. Now you’ll have to eat that healthy shit too.”

  Byron laughed. It felt good to laugh. Loosened him up.

  “When are you gonna take up a hobby?” Ferguson asked.

  “Already got one. I catch killers.”

  “That’s no hobby. That’s a calling. Speaking of which, how’s my case coming? Boss was in a short time ago. Told me you’ve officially charged Branch. We gonna fry this guy at trial or what?”

  Byron frowned. “Yeah, Diane locked him up while I was driving up here.”

  “You don’t sound too excited about it.”

  “I’m not. I don’t like it.”

  “What’s not to like? Heard you recovered the murder weapon—in his possession, I might add.” Ferguson held up his hand, folding his fingers down one at a time as he listed out the points of the case against Branch. “You’ve got motive, opportunity, even a history of domestic violence. Jesus, John, what else do you want? A big red bow? I’ve gotten convictions with a helluva lot less.”

  Byron shrugged.

  “Say, you never tried returning a gift to Santa when you were a kid, did you?” Ferguson asked. “What’s bugging you, John?”

  “The whole damn thing. It was way too easy? Branch is smarter than that.”

  “Why? Because he’s an accomplished trial attorney? That doesn’t make him smart. Look at me. I’m an accomplished attorney and I still eat shit that’s gonna kill me,” Ferguson said with a wink. “One would think I’d be smarter than that too. Wouldn’t one?”

  “I guess.”

  “Look, John. Devon Branch went to law school, not murder academy. Maybe he just slipped up.”

  But Byron didn’t believe it. He stood up and walked over to the window and looked outside at the parking lot. “Nice view.”

  “Hey, nothing but the best for me. Your bosses must be happy.”

  “Fucking giddy.”

  “You share your apprehension with them?”

  “Of course. Think it made one bit of difference?”

  “Based on today’s update, I’d say no. So then, keep working it. Figure out whatever’s bothering you. Either you’ll prove to yourself that Branch is guilty or you’ll prove he isn’t.”

  Byron turned around and leaned on the sill. “But we’ve already charged him with the murder.”

  “Yeah, and you’ve still got probable cause.”

  “You sound like my lieutenant.”

  “Big difference between probable cause and beyond a reasonable doubt, my friend. You can arrest a ham sandwich.”

  “I think that’s indict a ham sandwich.”

  “That too.” Ferguson struggled to take another sip of water.

  “What if he was set up, though?”

  “They all say that, John. Did Branch tell you he was set up?”

  “Lawyered up. He’s not saying anything.”

  “This is really bugging you, isn’t it?”

  Byron nodded. “Yeah, Jim. It is. Can’t help thinking I may have arrested the wrong guy.”

  “Well, as the prosecutorial authority on this case, I hereby grant you permission to continue digging.” Ferguson lifted his right hand and made the sign of a cross, mimicking a priest. “Way I figure it, you’ve got a year until the trial, eighteen months if I croak during surgery and my boss has to reassign the case to a lesser assistant AG.”

  “Don’t even joke about that.”

  Byron could feel Ferguson’s eyes on him. Sizing him up.

  “You’re a good detective, John. One of the most thorough I’ve ever worked with. The fact that this bothers you is exactly why I’ve always fought to try your cases. Most guys would be out toasting their great success on having made a murder arrest and yukking it up with their chief, but not you. No, here you are trying to convince yourself that the number one suspect is
innocent.”

  “I’m off the booze. And I don’t like my chief.”

  “Listen, if you believe in your heart that Branch was set up, prove it.”

  “What if I’m wrong? What if all I manage to do is fuck up the case we have?”

  “You know I’ll back you up, John.”

  Byron checked his watch.

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  “I gotta get back,” Byron said. “I’m meeting Stanton for drinks at three.”

  Byron handed money to the toll attendant, waited for his receipt, then accelerated out of the booth toward Portland.

  He tapped the power window switch, pulled out his cell, and punched in Diane’s number on the speed dial. She answered on the first ring.

  “How’s Jim Ferguson?” she asked.

  “Looks old and tired,” Byron said. “Think he’s more worried about the bypass than he let on. “How’d it go with Branch?”

  “Uneventful. We just finished booking him down at County.”

  “Did he have anything to say?”

  “Wasn’t in the talkative mood, I guess. DeWitt asked about our evidence.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I said ballistic evidence doesn’t lie.”

  Byron knew that was true. Devon Branch had been found in possession of a smoking gun. Damn near literally. In any normal case he’d consider that a slam dunk. But this wasn’t any normal case. Ramsey was a son of a bitch who had a multitude of enemies. Motive wasn’t exactly in short supply either. Even Ramsey’s fellow employees at the firm held great disdain for him. But still, Branch getting caught with his pants down was far too easy. It would have been foolhardy to hang on to the gun after killing Ramsey, but to still have it in his possession after assaulting his wife was simply idiotic. Byron knew Branch might have been a lot of things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them.

  “Will you be back in time for Stanton’s dog and pony?” Diane asked.

  Byron checked the time on the dashboard clock. “Unfortunately, I will.”

  Byron nudged his way through the throngs of media folk and police department employees blocking the double doors to the auditorium on the second floor of 109. The cavernous space was two stories tall with corrugated wooden strips running vertically up all four walls. The wood was supposed to help with the room’s acoustics. It didn’t. With the exception of a few rows of chairs near the podium, Stanton’s presser was standing room only. Flanking the chief were LeRoyer, Diane, and Captain Simons. Simons, who always looked to Byron like he had a rather large stick up his ass, was all spit and polish. Byron couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at the chief’s promotional pool.