Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “Won’t be ready till tomorrow. Wanna bring me up to speed and tell me where we’re headed?”

  “Five-­hundred block of Cumberland. Time to interview O’Halloran’s other nurse, Frankie Mathers.”

  Chapter Six

  THEY SCANNED THREE dozen white buttons and the accompanying name tags on the intercom system. “Three F, Mathers,” Diane said as she pushed the button.

  “Y-­ello,” a male voice said from the speaker.

  “Francis Mathers?” Byron asked.

  “Frankie’s my name. Who might you be?”

  “Mr. Mathers, my name is Detective Sergeant Byron and I’m here with Detective Joyner from the police department. We’d like to come up and speak with you.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about one of your hospice patients, James O’Halloran. May we come up?”

  “Uh, okay, give me a second.”

  It took nearly a minute before Mathers finally buzzed them inside. They ascended the stairs to the third floor.

  Diane rapped on the door and Mathers answered. The smell of burnt marijuana wafted out into the hallway.

  Mathers looked nothing like Byron had imagined. Blocking most of the open doorway, dressed in cutoffs and a blue sleeveless V-­neck, he stood about six feet tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Mathers’s physical appearance combined with the curly black hair and receding hairline reminded Byron of the Full Metal Jacket actor Vincent D’Onofrio. The resemblance was striking.

  Byron made the introductions.

  “Sergeants, was it? Or detectives?” Private Pile was obviously high. His bloodshot eyes and stoner’s smile were a dead giveaway.

  “Either is fine,” Diane said. “Do you mind if we talk inside?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. Come on in, detectives and sergeants,” he said.

  They exchanged a knowing glance and followed him inside. The apartment was surprisingly clean and tidy, despite the strong smell of cannabis. Byron wondered if LeRoyer had been right after all; perhaps Pine Tree Hospice really was Happy Hospice. He also wondered whether or not Tim Caron, asshole extraordinaire, was aware of Nurse Mathers’s, little secret.

  Mathers led them into the living room with its white furniture, white carpet and white walls. Any surface not white was either chrome or glass. He’d lit a scented candle, probably hoping it would mask the odor. It didn’t. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Soda or coffee?”

  Or maybe a hit off the bong, Byron thought. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “How ’bout you?” he asked Diane.

  “No, thanks,” she said as she sat on the love seat.

  Byron, wanting to take his host out of his comfort zone, opted for the Barcalounger, as it looked to be their host’s normal relaxation spot. Mathers’s sullen expression confirmed it, and he begrudgingly took the couch, the only remaining place to sit.

  “So, detectives and sergeants, you said you had questions about Mr. H.”

  Byron thought about correcting him, but realized in Mathers’s current state it was probably pointless.

  “That’s right,” Byron said. “We were told you cared for him on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.”

  “No, no,” Mathers said exaggeratedly, shaking his head. Just Saturdays and Sundays.”

  His lucid answer confirmed he wasn’t too stoned to talk with them.

  “My mistake,” Byron said.

  “Yeah. Bummer, huh? Poor old dude was on the way out anyway, I guess. The big C.”

  “Big C, yeah,” Diane said, her sarcasm evident. “Like you said, a real bummer.”

  “So when did he die?”

  “We’re still checking,” Byron said. “How did he look to you yesterday? Any change in his condition?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m on days off. Didn’t work yesterday or today.”

  Passed another test. “So Tuesday and Wednesday are your normal days off?”

  “Yup, unless I have to cover for a vacationing nurse.”

  “How long have you worked for Pine Tree, Mr. Mathers?” Diane asked.

  “ ’Bout five years.”

  “You ever stop by and check in on your patients when you’re not working, Mr. Mathers?” Byron asked.

  “Against the rules. Mr. Caron, my boss, he wouldn’t like it. Actually, Rebecca would probably go all ape shit too. Especially if she knew about giving him some ganja.” Mathers stopped and stared wide-­eyed like a cartoon, unable to believe the words he’d just uttered. Both detectives remained silent. “Dudes, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m one dumb fuck. I know you’re, uh, cops, but I’ll get fired if you say anything. Shit.”

  “You gave your patient marijuana?” Diane asked.

  “You a doctor?” Byron asked.

  “It’s not like—­ It’s medical, ya know.”

  “It’s called furnishing, genius,” Byron said.

  “I told him it might make his pain go away.”

  “Did it?” Diane asked.

  “Not sure. Maybe.”

  “Were you trying to put him out of his misery?” Byron asked.

  “Yeah. No. Wait. That’s not what I meant. You’re both F-­ing with my head, man. Like I don’t believe in that shit.”

  “What shit?” Byron asked.

  “Killing.”

  “Does Rebecca?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But, you’re okay about the weed, right? I can’t lose this job.”

  A little late for that epiphany, Byron thought. The cannabis probably had made O’Halloran feel better. There were worse things Mathers could have done for a dying man, but that was a doctor’s call to make. “We’re not here about the weed, Francis.”

  “Oh, good,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Can’t afford to get fired, man. Thanks.”

  Of course, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be reporting it later. “Did O’Halloran ever have weekend visitors?” Byron asked.

  Mathers closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling with the other as he tried to concentrate, making him look cartoonish once again. “Maybe a ­couple of times. Friends, I think.”

  “Male or female?” Byron asked.

  “Male.”

  “Can you describe any of them?” Diane asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t pay particular attention to that stuff. We’re not supposed to get involved in their private lives, or get too familiar.”

  “How many different men visited?” she asked.

  “Maybe two? I can’t really remember.”

  “Ethnic background? White, Black, Asian?” Byron asked, watching as Mathers scratched his neck.

  “White, maybe. Sorry, I’m not sure.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?” Diane asked.

  Mathers shook his head again.

  “How many times did they come by?” Byron asked.

  “Maybe once?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Mathers said in a tone suggesting he wasn’t.

  “What about phone calls?” Diane asked.

  He shook his head.

  “So, no one ever called him while you were there?” Byron asked.

  “Nope. Not while I was there. You sure you’re cool about the weed thing?”

  It was obvious Mathers didn’t comprehend that a murder trumped a furnishing charge. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” Byron asked.

  “I told you guys everything.”

  “Where were you last night?” Diane asked.

  “Chillaxin’ right here.”

  “All night?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Alone?” Byron asked.

  “Nope, I was with my girlfriend, Sunny.”


  “We’re gonna need Sunny’s address and phone number,” Diane said, handing him a notepad and pen.

  “WHAT DO YOU think?” Byron asked as they walked down the sidewalk to her car.

  “I think I wanna know how in hell the big Lebowski ever got a nursing license?”

  “Maybe hospice nursing isn’t as strict,” he said. “I mean, their patients are already dying.”

  “I hope you’re kidding,” she said as they both climbed into the car. “Where to?”

  “Let’s grab something to eat. I’m famished.”

  “What do you feel like?”

  “You’re driving.”

  “Thai it is.”

  Byron made a quick call to Pelligrosso. “How did you make out?”

  “I lifted a bunch of prints. Won’t know if I’ve got anything good until I can check them against the elimination prints we’ve taken. Do you want me to start on those?”

  Byron checked his watch. “Mel’s in, right?”

  “Yeah, she’s on until midnight.”

  “Why don’t you go home, hug your wife and kid, and get a good night’s sleep. Have Mel start working on the eliminations tonight and we’ll get back at it first thing in the morning.”

  “You sure?”

  He knew they’d done about all they could to this point. O’Halloran’s murder certainly didn’t look much like a whodunit, and they did have St. John scheduled to poly in the morning. “See you tomorrow, Gabe.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  BYRON AND DIANE were seated at a table in the back of the restaurant. Eastern Thai was located at the top of Munjoy Hill, Byron’s childhood stomping grounds.

  “Bet you came here all the time when you were growing up,” she said.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not many Thai restaurants around in those days.”

  “Too bad. New York was full of them.”

  “It used to be a butcher shop.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. When I was a kid, we had steak once a week. My dad would always bring me down here to pick out the cut.”

  “That’s a pretty cool memory. You must have all sorts, growing up here.”

  Byron was only half listening. His mind entranced in the vivid childhood memory.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” she said, twirling some noodles onto her fork.

  “Sorry. I was just remembering how good that steak smelled on the barbecue.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “That and I keep thinking back to something Ellis said this afternoon.”

  “Which was?”

  “Well, I still like one of the nurses for this, but we do have at least two unidentified males who might have been paying visits to O’Halloran.”

  “And? You’re thinking what? An old friend?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what did Ellis say?”

  “He said it felt like something an amateur would do. He told us if he wanted to kill O’Halloran, he would have administered an overdose or injected air into the IV in order to cause an embolism. Something along those lines.”

  “Comforting thought,” she said, ditching the straw in her gin and tonic and lifting the glass to her lips.

  “He said anyone with medical experience wouldn’t risk leaving the evidence associated with suffocation. Yet we found bruising on the inside of the lips, petechia, even the down feathers he inhaled. I think he may be right. The whole thing feels amateurish.”

  “Like a family member or old friend,” she said, nodding.

  “Except his family isn’t close. I spoke with his daughter and she sounds like she’d rather he went on suffering.”

  “Okay, so that leaves old friend.”

  “Or a nurse wily enough to make it look amateurish.”

  “Which would certainly rule out Mathers.”

  IT WAS NEARLY eight by the time Diane dropped Byron off at 109 to retrieve his car. He stopped by his office long enough to retrieve the Pine Tree Hospice personnel files on both nurses before driving to his Danforth Street apartment.

  He stripped off his jacket and tie, poured himself a tall nightcap, and lay on the couch as close as he could get to the squealing air-­conditioner. It was annoying as hell, but the cool air made the small apartment at least bearable.

  He wrote a summary of the day’s activities on a yellow legal pad. He’d get Shirley Grant to type it later. Some of what he wrote was from memory, the rest from the hieroglyphs he called notes. He finished his summary, then turned to the files. By all accounts both nurses seemed like model employees, except of course Mathers’s and his marijuana issue. According to their personnel records, neither had ever been reprimanded for anything, not even excessive use of sick time. Considering their line of work, Byron thought that was impressive.

  He continued reading until his eyelids became heavy. It was after eleven by the time he finally returned Kay’s call. Her cell went directly to voicemail. “Kay, it’s John. Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. I’m in the middle of a case.”

  How many times had he said those words to her? Did it now sound as hollow as it felt?

  “I’ll try you back tomorrow.”

  He almost said “love you” out of habit more than anything, but caught himself. Did he? Did he still love her? Did she still love him? They hadn’t lived together for over nine months, hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in six, and hadn’t seen each other in at least a month. Whatever they had, it certainly couldn’t be mistaken for a marriage. Not anymore.

  Byron knew he bore most of responsibility for their separation. He couldn’t really blame Kay for wanting some time alone. He was far from a model husband. Juggling the responsibilities of a marriage and the demanding life of a cop hadn’t been easy.

  Once this case is solved I’ll sit down with Kay, he thought. I’ll make a real effort this time. We’ll even try counseling if she wants.

  While contemplating the nature of their relationship, he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  DETECTIVE VINCE HAYWARD was the official polygraph operator for the Portland Police Department. Although technically a detective, his primary responsibility was interviewing police candidates, both civilian and sworn. Occasionally, and to his great delight, he’d be given the green light to polygraph and interview a suspect in one of the other detectives’ cases. Usually, if the case fell as far as Hayward’s desk, it was either an outright whodunit or the lead detective was grasping at straws. For many in the bureau, the polygraph was nothing more than a desperate attempt to maintain their clearance rates; and in the land of detectives, nothing was more important than clearance rates. Nobody knew that better than Byron. Unsolved cases, specifically murders, were to a career like ink on a tie.

  Byron had never had much use for polygraphs or, for that matter, for Hayward. But even he had to admit, they needed something. If St. John was offering to poly, why not let her? O’Halloran’s relatives had all disowned him. During a second phone call, Susan said she’d have preferred it if the “old bastard” had gone on suffering. Not exactly a loving endorsement. None of the neighbors had seen anyone coming or going, aside from the nurses. Much like fighting for yards and a new set of downs on the gridiron—­when you can’t find what you seek, take what they’ll give you. Byron couldn’t remember where he’d heard that particular turn of phrase, but it had always stuck with him. He wasn’t sure if a football analogy was the best way to describe working a tough murder case, but it was better than nothing.

  Byron, Diane, and Nugent were seated in the conference room or, as Nugent referred to it, the “war room.” They were briefing Hayward on the case in preparation for St. John’s nine-­thirty poly.

  “I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it,” Hayward said. “All we need to do now is come up with the questions.”

 
“Let’s see if she knows where the Lindbergh baby is buried,” Nugent said. Byron, who wasn’t in the mood, shot him a disapproving glance.

  “We only want to know if she did it, Vince,” Diane said. “It’s not complicated.”

  “I understand, but I need to design questions she can’t dodge.”

  “Jesus, Vince,” Nugent said. “What a crock of shit. Just ask her if she put the fucking pillow over O’Halloran’s face and pressed down on it until he died. How’s that design work for ya?”

  “Works for me,” Hayward said, swallowing nervously.

  “Get her to confirm that she was home Tuesday night and not paying a visit to our victim,” Diane said.

  “How should I ask it?” Hayward asked.

  “Ask any way you want,” Byron said. “But don’t screw this up.”

  THE THREE DETECTIVES monitored the interview from LeRoyer’s office, observing as Hayward covered the preliminary questions with St. John. Did you sleep last night? How many hours? Are you on any medication? Each question designed to evaluate her fitness to give accurate responses during the actual test.

  “Jesus, his instructions are putting me to sleep,” Nugent said. “I oughta have Vince come by my house tonight and fucking talk me to sleep. Ten bucks says it’s inconclusive. Who wants in?”

  Byron hid a smile as LeRoyer looked up from his computer, annoyed. “Look, I told you guys, if you’re gonna be in here you’re gonna have to keep it down. I got work to do. And get your goddamned foot off my desk, Mike.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  It was almost eleven by the time St. John was wired up to the polygraph and answering control questions. Roger Bertram, her attorney, was also in the room, seated right outside of the camera’s view. Bertram had made sure he’d seen and approved the questions before they were asked.

  “Are you currently in Portland, Maine?” Hayward asked.

  “Yes,” St. John answered.

  “Is your name Rebecca St. John?”

  “No.”

  Hayward continued through the initial battery of questions, asking her to tell the truth on some and lie on others. These simple control questions allowed him to calibrate the instrumentation to most accurately measure her physiological responses. The nurse looked calm and composed, sitting in the black leather chair.