‘Eleanor Gaylord’s been gone forty years
Sweet Annie was right, correct in her fears.
Now Clipper and Janice are fast on the trail
And Eleanor’s killer will soon be in jail.’
“It came in the regular mail this morning, addressed to me, care of the station. As soon as I saw what it was, I stopped handling it, so the only prints on it should be mine and whoever wrote it,” Murphy said.
Clipper grimaced. “Janice got a similar letter,” he said. “Similar handwriting, bad poetry and no proof. There were no prints on hers, but we’ll check this one as well.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“Well, Janice’s letter points us to one, but, again, there’s no proof. We can’t even prove that Eleanor Gaylord is dead, let alone murdered.”
Murphy sighed. “Well, there’s a story here for me, maybe even a series, even if it’s just about how you guys have to deal with crackpots while you’re trying to solve serious crimes.” She grinned widely. “Of course, it’s a much better story if you manage to solve a forty year old murder mystery with yours truly documenting the case.”
Clipper frowned, but Murphy pushed ahead. “Look,” she said, “I can keep my mouth shut, and I’m already involved. I can help with research, and maybe he’ll contact me again, or maybe…”
“Ok, ok,” Clipper said, holding up his hands. “Right now, we’re waiting for some lab work to come back. We’ll meet in a couple of days and see where we stand. I’ll give you a call, but I want to hear instantly if you get any more letters.”
Clipper drove home trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was being manipulated.
Chapter 21
The M112 Block Demolition Charge is an innocuous looking, Mylar wrapped rectangle, olive drab in color, roughly two by eleven inches, one and a half inches thick and weighing only about a pound and a quarter. Common enough on military bases and battlefields the world around, it was chillingly out of place adhering to the underside of a five hundred gallon propane tank at the rear of the small strip mall off the river-side of Washington Street. A small timer and electrical detonator were taped to the block, the tiny red light carefully covered. Although it was an inexpensive, Chinese import, the timer worked perfectly, and at exactly one-thirty Wednesday morning, the propane tank, and most of the windows in a one hundred yard radius, vanished as the sky lit with an immense fireball ballooning two hundred feet into the air. The sound of the explosion was heard for twenty miles up and down the river from Old Town to Winterport, and the concussion, reflected from the solid backs of the mall buildings, blew three empty boxcars off the tacks the ran along the river behind the mall. Fortunately, the fireball was short lived, and when the fire department arrived, four minutes after the explosion, they were greeted with only small, isolated fires and areas of smoldering debris in and around the blasted mall building.
Clipper had been awakened by the explosion, and was already dressed and headed for the door when the call came from dispatch. He yelled for Janice to lock up, and ran to his truck. He took the time to plug in the blue dash strobe, and tore out of the yard. When he got to the river, the mall approach was already cordoned off, so he parked his truck on the sidewalk and trotted to the entrance, stopping to speak to the officers standing at the barricades.
“What was it?” he asked.
The uniformed officers, a three-year veteran named Dan Collins and a probationary officer named Marsha Luce, were tense with excitement. “Someone said gas explosion,” Collins said.
Clipper nodded and stepped around the barricade. He’d taken a couple of steps when he heard a heavy slapping sound and a muffled grunt behind him. He whirled to see Luce staring open-mouthed at Collins, slumping soundlessly to the ground.
“Down.” Clipper screamed, launching himself at Luce. He hit her at the waist, and the bullet that would have penetrated her chest gouged a shallow furrow in her upper arm. He ignored tearing skin and fingernails as he scrambled to drag Luce and himself behind the nearby cruiser. He sensed a bullet strike the pavement behind him and heard another hit the cruiser as he finally got them both under cover.
“Wait,” Jennifer said as Kashif dropped the car into gear. “I got more shots.” She and Kashif were parked in a bank parking lot, 180 yards from the mall entrance. Jennifer had remained out of sight, curled up on the back seat until, at Kashif’s signal, she sat up and slid her rifle’s sound-suppressed muzzle into the open rear window. She sighted carefully and fired four measured shots at the figures at the barricades, and then eased the rifle up and triggered another half-dozen at the police and fire personnel she could see beyond the entrance.
“We’re done. Get down, now,” Kashif snarled, pulling out of the lot and accelerating smoothly away from the waterfront.
Jennifer reluctantly pulled her rifle in and slumped over on the seat. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “We’re not done by a damn sight.”
Clipper scrambled to his knees, Kimber in hand with no memory of drawing it, and peered cautiously around the front fender of the cruiser. He could hear yelling in the lot behind him, but no more shots came close, and after thirty seconds, he rose to a crouch and duck-walked back to Collins.
The fifty-five grain, full metal jacketed .223 bullet had been traveling at 3,290 feet per second when it struck Collins in the center of his chest. It easily penetrated the ‘Point Blank’ level II vest he wore beneath his uniform shirt and struck his sternum, turning it to bony shrapnel which shredded his heart, before exiting his back and stopping against the inside of the vest. Clipper gazed for a moment into Collins’ sightless eyes, already dulled in death, and fought to contain his rising gorge before returning to Luce. Getting her dazed assurance that she was ok, he left to look for other victims.
“One dead, two wounded, half of Bangor destroyed! When the hell are you going to stop these people, Lieutenant?” Once again, Clipper was at a dawn meeting in the City Manager’s office with Chief Norris and the Fire Chief, and Norris was in full rant. “We’re under attack, and you haven’t got a clue.” He turned to the manager. “We need the National Guard in here,” he said.
The manager looked at Clipper. “Lieutenant?”
“We don’t have people rioting in the streets,” Clipper said, wearily. “There’s no large scale civil disobedience, no natural disaster, which are what the Guard could help with. This is still a law enforcement matter, and we will get to the bottom of it, but right now we’re still collecting information, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to it.” Clipper left the others discussing damage control.
Later that morning, Cameron Shibles and the State Fire Marshal stepped into Clipper’s office together. The Marshal got right to the point.
“Terrorist attack,” he said economically. “They set off a bomb on that LP gas tank.”
“…To draw your people into an ambush,” continued Shibles.
Clipper was grim. “Who,” he asked, “and what can we prove?”
Shibles dropped into a chair. “We got a call at ten this morning. Some group calling themselves the ‘Joint Islamic Federation’ is claiming responsibility, and promising more to come. We’ve got no record of the group.”
“Any chance of a trace?”
Shibles shook his head, “It was a throw-away cell phone in this area code.”
Clipper got up and paced. “I don’t buy it,” he said, finally. “There are propane tanks all over the city where they could have done real damage, like at the airport. They could have done it in the day-time and killed a lot of people, and they could have fired a lot more shots at us. They were trying to kill cops and this terrorist bullshit is just window dressing.” He slammed his fist into the office door frame. “We’re still dealing with these damn bank robbers.”
Clipper and Shibles spent the rest of the morning putting together a briefing. They scheduled it for four o’clock at a middle school gymnasium. By three-thirty, the parking lot was full and there was standi
ng room only in the small gym, with every law enforcement agency in Penobscot and Waldo County represented.
The State Fire Marshal began. “At one-thirty this morning, someone detonated a significant amount of C-4 explosive, probably at least a pound, beneath a five-hundred gallon liquid propane container at the rear of the Riverside Plaza. We’ve recovered traces of the explosive and should know more about its origins tomorrow. We suspect that it was a timed detonation.”
Cameron Shibles stood and introduced two business-suit clad strangers. “These are Homeland Security agents Rick Fowler and Rebecca Sousy. The bureau will coordinate our efforts with them in this investigation,” he said. “We are not convinced that this was an act of international terrorism; we have no record of the Joint Islamic Federation, the group that’s taking credit but, for now, we’ll take them at their word and treat it as an attack by Muslim extremists.”
Fowler, a rugged looking man in his mid-forties, stood. “Although the Homeland Security Act gives us jurisdiction in these cases, we are not here to take over the investigation,” he said. “We can assist with intelligence and man-power and equipment, if needed, but the best tool we bring to the table is the Act itself which gives us, and by extension you, broad investigative and search and seizure powers.”
Clipper had met with Shibles and the Homeland Security agents earlier, and was comfortable with their intervention. He now stepped to the mike.
“We’re happy with all the help we can get,” he said. “Responding police and fire personnel were subjected to sniper fire from a parking lot about two-hundred yards away. We lost one officer, and another officer and a fireman were wounded. I believe this was the reason for the explosion, to lure us into an ambush. I can’t prove it, but I also think this is somehow tied to our bank robbers, Jennifer Ennis and Kashif Amini.”
A State detective asked, “Are we still dealing with an AK-47?”
Clipper shook his head. “Last night the shooter was using a .223 - 55 grain military ball. And he was damn accurate.”
While Clipper was conducting his briefing, Pauline Ennis and Sebastian Gaylord stood over Pauli’s unfilled grave in Bangor’s Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. There had been few mourners at the funeral, a handful of high school friends with Ellen Davis mingling among them, Pauline and Roger, Sebastian and a couple of hopeful reporters. Sebastian had stopped after the interment service to offer perfunctory condolences to Pauline, which she accepted stoically. As he turned to leave, she said woodenly, “The cops were at my house yesterday, asking about Mother.” Sebastian stopped for a second and then left without comment.
Chapter 22
Across the street from the front steps of Bangor’s City Hall, the sidewalk drops away into a pretty little tree-shaded park. Just before nine o’clock Thursday morning, Kempton Dautry stood with his back to the sun in this park flanked by three uniformed men, one of whom held a large American flag, grounded and upright on a six-foot wooden staff. The men wore identical, sharply-creased camouflaged Army bdu’s with black pistol belts holding covered holsters, spit-shined combat boots and plain black berets perched rakishly on the sides of their closely shorn heads. On their left shoulder each bore a round black patch with the letters ‘I A’ stitched in white in the center. Dautry’s uniform differed only by the inclusion of the gold-colored Major’s leaves at his collar. The soldiers stood at ridgid parade rest while Dautry spoke easily with the small group of reporters and on-lookers that had gathered.
At nine o’clock, Dautry took a position beside the flag bearer and held up his hands for attention. “Good morning,” he boomed. “I appreciate your coming out on such short notice, but I have an announcement that cannot wait any longer. My name is Major Kempton Dautry, and I have the honor to command the Infidel Army which is a duly formed constitutional militia dedicated to the protection of America and her citizens against the threat of Islamic terrorism.” Dautry took a step closer to the two television cameras in attendance and raised his voice. “A threat which has now become reality in Bangor.” He stepped back beside the flag. “As you may be aware, the City of Bangor and its Police Department have refused our offer of assistance in this time of danger, however, we are no longer offering. We are now insisting. Beginning immediately, members of my command, uniformed as these men beside me are, will be patrolling the streets of Bangor, a civilian militia, under arms, as specified by the American Constitution. Our purpose here today is to serve notice on the criminal forces of Islam and to assure the citizens of Bangor that they may rely on us for the protection they deserve.”
Dautry held his hands up to still the clamor that arose from his audience, finally pointing at a young Bangor News reporter.
“Are those guns loaded?” the man asked pointing at the soldiers’ holsters.
“Yes. Again, as specified by the Second Amendment to the Constitution, we are exercising our right to keep and bear arms in defense of our Country,” Dautry answered. “In addition, all of the men you will see are U.S. military combat veterans.”
“Who the hell gives you the right to do this?” an elderly onlooker asked angrily.
Dautry smiled. “You do, my friend,” he said, “with every vote you cast for a democratic society.” Dautry held up his hands again. “The question you should be asking,” he yelled, “is not why we are doing what the Constitution demands, but why your city fathers are not!” With that, he gave a brisk order to his men, and the four of them stepped up to the sidewalk and into a pair of older Ford crew-cab pickup trucks, leaving the yelling crowd behind.
Clipper was in his office when the calls started coming in, and on the phone to the State Attorney General’s office as soon as he understood what had transpired. Assistant Attorney General Peter LaRoushe was firm. “Barring an overt criminal act on their part, or their presence causing an articulable public danger, there’s nothing you can do but watch and take notes,” he said. “I’ll talk to the boss, and see if we can issue a statement informing people of what this militia can and cannot do, but other than that, I can’t offer much. Enforce trespass and interference violations where you can and otherwise just keep an eye on them is my best advice.”
Following his conversation with the assistant A.G., Clipper took ten minutes to write a department directive based on his advice and took it to the Chief’s office for Norris’ signature. Predictably, Chief Norris demanded immediate large scale arrests, and by the time Clipper had calmed him down and obtained the signature, he was tight-lipped with frustration and anger.
When Clipper got back to his office, Ed Angelo was waiting for him. “I got the 10-28’s from the Infidel Army camp,” he said. “It’s mostly locals, the same ones over and over, but there’s also a steady stream of out-of-state plates - one or two every couple of weeks, and they only go in and out once, usually about a week to ten-day stay. There’s also an old seafood truck out of Searsport that’s been in and out a couple of times.”
“Have you got a look from the air yet?” asked Clipper.
“Nope, Lamont’s plane is down. Engine overhaul. I did talk to the old guy that took down these numbers. He’s willing to keep doing it.”
“Why don’t you call the Chief Deputy down at the S.O.?” Clipper said. “See if he can spare a plain clothes deputy to take some shifts out there. If he can, take him out and make the introductions, and then stay on top of it. Let’s also run 10-29’s on those vehicle owners. Maybe we’ll turn an arrest warrant excuse to get in there.”
Janice Owens was running late. After a nine o’clock appointment with the dental hygienist, she spent two hours meeting with the Historical Society president and board of directors and then ran home to change into jeans and sweatshirt, her usual uniform for working at the mansion. She met Kathy Singer for a late lunch at Cleo’s, and at two o’clock they arrived at the mansion armed with a bag of sandwiches and soft drinks, tape measures, sketch pads and multiple copies of scale drawings of each room in the mansion which had been supplied by an architect who was a member of
the Historical Society. They had a museum to design, and planned to work well into the evening.
They began by inventorying each room, noting the contents on a master inventory list, as well as on that room’s drawing. Working steadily, they completed what would be the public areas of the museum before breaking for supper at six-thirty, and then split up to work on the private areas. When the inventory was complete, they would go over it to cull out items destined to be offered for sale at an estate auction.
Billy Zick was a ghost inside Gaylord Manor. He had watched the house from the overgrown front gardens for an hour as daylight died, tracking the movement and faint conversational noises of the people inside, before moving to the deep shadows of the front portico where he remained for several more long minutes. Finally, sure that the way was clear, he slipped wraith-like through the front entrance and into the house. A few steps in, he froze as a woman’s voice called a question from upstairs and another answered from the room to his left. Unsure of his target, he smiled with the anticipation of taking them both.
Kathy Singer was also smiling as she answered Janice. She was finished with the inventory of the downstairs rooms and had a sheaf of papers clutched to her chest as she stepped into the front hallway. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and for an instant, she stared uncomprehendingly at the figure in front of her, and then her attention was centered on the solid punch to her chest. She wondered fleetingly why the papers didn’t fall as her suddenly weak arms dropped to her sides, and then she sank slowly to her knees. Unbelievable pain blossomed as Zick stepped up and yanked the knife from her breast, and then she knew no more.
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