Finally, Hayward began asking the questions they’d all been waiting for.
“Did you cause the death of James O’Halloran?” Hayward asked.
St. John shifted slightly in the chair. “No.”
“Remember not to move, okay? Try and sit still.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you cause the death of James O’Halloran?”
“No.”
Hayward questioned the nurse for twenty minutes before allowing her a break. He needed time to evaluate the printed charts and to consult with the others.
“So? Did she kill him?” Diane asked.
“She’s not showing any deception,” Hayward said, pointing to the charts resembling topographic mountain ranges.
“You’re saying she didn’t do it?” Byron asked.
“I’m saying she believes she’s telling the truth when she says she didn’t cause O’Halloran’s death.”
“It was the damned pillow, right?” Nugent said. “You missed your calling, Vince. You shoulda been a fuckin’ lawyer.”
“Give me the bottom line,” Byron said to Hayward.
“I’d be looking at someone else.”
Byron would’ve bet his paycheck the polygraph results would be inconclusive. But now, assuming Hayward knew what he was talking about, and assuming St. John wasn’t a sociopath, they needed to explore other possibilities. Mathers? Nurse Feel Good had already demonstrated no qualms about bending ethical boundaries when it suited him. But bending them and chopping them up into kindling were two entirely different things. Either way, it was time to pay another visit to Frankie Mathers, this time on Byron’s turf.
Diane and Nugent headed to the hospital to pick up St. John’s records. Byron left a message for Mathers to call him back regarding a follow-up interview. It took the nurse less than five minutes to return the call.
“I thought we were cool,” Mathers said.
Cool? Is that what we are? “It’s just follow-up, Frankie. We’ve been talking to Rebecca St. John as well.”
“Yeah, I heard. Lie detector. No way am I taking one of those, man.”
“I’m not asking you to. Right now all I want is for you to come down to the station and talk with me. Voluntarily.”
“At the police station? Not too sure about that, man.”
“I only want to talk, Frankie. But if you won’t talk to me, I guess maybe I’ll have to talk to Tim Caron instead.” The other end of the line went silent for what seemed an eternity. Byron could picture Mathers squirming.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
BYRON WAS READING over supplements from the O’Halloran case when his desk phone rang. “Byron.”
“Sarge, it’s Gabe. You have a sec?”
“Be right down.”
He found Pelligrosso seated in front of the AFIS computer. AFIS, short for Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was a one-stop shop for computerized fingerprint indexing and comparison, maintained by the FBI. The benefit of AFIS was that it was a database containing millions of prints, greatly improving the odds of finding a match. The problem: it was a time consuming process. Crime scene prints had to be classified manually into types and converted into an electronic format before they could be uploaded and compared to those already in the database.
“What’s up?” Byron asked.
“Remember you asked me to dust O’Halloran’s bedroom for prints?”
He nodded.
“Well, I might have something. It’s only a partial, not good enough for a positive ID, but if we develop a suspect, I can at least rule them out or keep them in contention.”
“It doesn’t match anyone?”
“I took comparison prints from everyone who entered the room, including St. John and the MedCu attendants. This partial doesn’t belong to any of them.”
“What about the weekend-duty nurse, Mathers?”
“Don’t have his prints yet.”
“He’s on his way in now. I’ll call you when he gets here.”
“FRANKIE, THIS IS Officer Pelligrosso,” Byron said as he led the nurse into the first-floor interview room and closed the door.
Mathers reached out to shake Pelligrosso’s hand, then awkwardly pulled it back when the evidence tech made no effort to return the gesture.
“I’ve asked him to take your fingerprints, okay?” Byron continued.
“I thought you just wanted to talk, man? Why are you asking for my fingerprints? I haven’t done anything.”
“We’ve printed everyone who was known to have been inside O’Halloran’s house, Frankie. We’re trying to rule people out.”
“I gotta tell ya, I’m not real comfortable with this. You said we were only gonna talk.”
Pelligrosso spoke up. “Mr. Mathers, I lifted fingerprints from everything in O’Halloran’s room. These are elimination prints so we can rule you out.”
Mathers’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked back and forth at both cops. “How do I know you’re not trying to set me up?”
Byron tried a softer approach. “Frankie, you were caring for O’Halloran as part of your job. You were supposed to be there. We’re looking for anyone who wasn’t. You’ve got nothing to worry about if you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah, but you already know I did.”
“Trust me, this isn’t television. We’re not trying to set you up.”
Mathers glanced over at Pelligrosso. “What about the thing we talked about?”
“We’re trying to solve a murder, Frankie,” Byron said. “You really think I give a damn about a marijuana charge?”
Byron waited as Mathers thought it over; his distrust of the police was obvious. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Pelligrosso obtained a full set of fingerprints from Mathers, handed him a short stack of paper towels to wipe the ink off his hands, then left the room.
“Take me through it again, Frankie,” Byron said. “From the beginning.”
After he had finished, Byron reapproached the subject of the polygraph.
“I told you it’s not gonna happen.”
“If you didn’t kill him, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I got plenty to worry about. I’m no killer, but I’m no angel either.”
“Will you at least think about it?”
Mathers continued scrubbing at the black ink stuck to his fingers. “Could I see the questions beforehand?”
“I’ll have to check with the expert, but I think it can probably be arranged.”
Byron escorted Mathers out of the building, then headed straight up to the lab. “Any luck with Mathers’s prints.”
“Found him in AFIS on a minor possession charge. Guess they don’t screen nurses like they used to.”
“There’s a shocker. What about the partial? Tell me it’s his?”
“No can do. Doesn’t match. That print may be the glass slipper, Sarge.”
“Okay, Gabe. I’ll see if I can find you a Cinderella.”
“WHERE ARE WE AT?” LeRoyer asked, looking rather frazzled seated behind his desk. “Chief Stanton’s breathing down my neck.”
Byron deposited himself in one of the chairs across from the lieutenant. “In a word? Nowhere. The neighborhood canvass yielded dick. At the moment, both nurses seem in the clear. O’Halloran may have had a couple of male visitors who may have been white, but nobody can identify them or remember what they looked like. Pelligrosso lifted a partial print from the scene, that doesn’t match anyone. It’s not in the system and probably wouldn’t hold up in court even if we could find a match. If this were New York City instead of Portland, Maine, you’d be calling this a misdemeanor homicide by now and telling me to move on.”
“What about the nurse who gave O’Halloran the weed, Matthews
?”
“It’s Mathers, and he’s a dumb-ass, more concerned about a furnishing charge and losing his job than anything else. He seems much too “love all, be all” to even think about a mercy killing. Frankly, he’s not bright enough to have pulled this off anyway.”
“You still think it’s a mercy killing?”
“I don’t know what to think. What I do know is we seem to have hit a dead end.”
“Can we use the press?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind the lawsuits that will likely be filed by both nurses and Pine Tree Hospice.”
LeRoyer sighed. “What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. Let me think on it.”
AS BYRON ENTERED the stairwell to the rear garage, he pulled out his phone and tried Kay’s number again.
“Hello, you’ve reached Kay’s cell. I’m either on the phone or with a client. Leave a message and I will return your call as soon as I’m able. Thanks and have a great day.”
“Kay, it’s John, again.” He checked his watch. “It’s about three o’clock. Call me.”
He slipped the cell back into his pocket. Exactly what the last few years of marriage had been like, he thought. Never-ending games of phone tag, Kay working late while he either got called in nightly or never made it home. Was it any wonder they were apart?
No sooner had he stepped out onto the plaza when his cell rang.
“Byron,” he answered.
“Ah, the illustrious Detective Sergeant John Byron. Greetings from Augusta, Maine. Second home of the world famous and brilliant pathologist Dr. E,” Ellis said.
“Hey, Doc. Give me something, anything.”
“Alas, I cannot.”
“Toxicology?”
Byron’s cell began to vibrate with an incoming call. He looked quickly at the number. Kay.
“John, you still with me?” Ellis asked.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said as he started his car and pulled out of the garage. “I got another call coming in.”
“Call me back if you need to take it.”
“No, it’s okay. Go ahead. You were about to give me the results of the tox screen.”
“Indeed, I was. We found four different drugs in his system: morphine, doxepin, glycopyrrolate and prednisone. All are commonly used to treat dying cancer patients and their symptoms. The levels were also consistent with the norm if you factor in his body weight.”
“What about his doctor?”
“You mean the vacationing Dr. Edward Rosenstein? I made contact with him and he confirmed all of the administered meds, their dosage and frequency.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Always a pleasure.”
Byron ended the call with Ellis and checked voicemail. No messages. He redialed Kay’s number. After several rings, it went to her voicemail again. He hung up without leaving another message. Wishing he’d taken Ellis up on his offer, he continued toward Bartley Avenue.
Retired Detective Ray Humphrey, one of Byron’s oldest and dearest friends, had always said: “If you find your train derailing during the course of an investigation, the best thing you can do is go back to the beginning.” Humphrey had been his mentor both when Byron first started on the job and again after he made detective. And in a promotional twist of fate, Humphrey had even worked for Byron as a detective during his last few years on the job.
Byron parked his Taurus across the street from O’Halloran’s and got out. He used a spare key to unlock the evidence padlock Pelligrosso had installed on the outside of the side-entry door, and stepped inside.
In spite of the day’s bright sunshine, the interior of the house was dark, gloomy, and empty, no longer bustling with activity as it had been only thirty-two hours prior. He walked to the center of the kitchen and stood, making a slow three-sixty, taking in everything he saw, checking for anything they might’ve missed. The ringing of his cell shattered the silence and gave him a start. He looked at the ID. Diane.
“Hey, partner,” he said.
“Hey, yourself. You off sleuthing without me again?”
“Busted.”
“You’re so predictable. I knew exactly where you’d be. Want another set of eyes?”
He walked into the living room and looked through the front window. Diane was leaning against her car, parked directly behind his. “Come on in.”
“Any idea what we’re looking for?” Diane asked as she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.
“Nope. How did you make out with St. John’s hospital records?”
“Nothing to indicate she was capable of killing her patients. Highly rated employee is the standard jargon on her monthly performance reports.”
“You?” Byron asked. “Any luck with Frankie’s girlfriend?”
“Sunny Day?”
Byron turned and made eye contact. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope, Sunny Day. And she alibied Nurse Mathers.”
“Of course she did. So here we are back at square one.”
“Okay, talk me through the case again,” she said.
They both knew the trick. Detailing the facts of a case out loud to another person added a fresh perspective. Occasionally, something previously overlooked would become apparent.
Byron summarized everything they knew. “Elderly male dying of cancer, lives alone. Family disowns him. He’s former military and former cop. Doctor says they can’t do anymore for him at the hospital so they send him home. He receives in-home hospice care from a reputable local company. Only two nurses have contact with him. The home is never locked. He may have had a couple of unidentified male visitors during his remaining weeks. Who are we looking for?”
“Family members?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Very doubtful. He burned a lot of bridges. And I had Tran check, none are local.”
“Friends. Ex-military buddies or cops.”
“Good. Where?”
“Address book, fridge notes, or business cards. Something along those lines.”
“See, you’re not just a pretty face.”
Diane smiled. “Damn straight. I’m a lot more than that.”
They searched methodically through drawers, cabinets, and tabletops in each room. Diane located a handful of business cards in O’Halloran’s top bureau drawer. The refrigerator yielded a lawn care rep, an oil burner serviceman, and garage mechanic. Byron found a tattered address book inside a desk drawer in O’Halloran’s study.
“Hey, look at this,” Diane said, holding up a framed photograph. “Looks like an old PPD team photo.”
“It’s the old SRT,” Byron said, referring to Special Reaction Team, PPD’s version of a SWAT team.
“How do you know that?”
“That’s my dad,” he said, pointing to one of the men in the photo.
ON THE WAY back to 109, Byron got a call from Tran.
“Sarge, I just heard from the Transportation Security Administration. If Susan Atherton made any recent trips to Maine it must have been by car.”
“No record of any flights?”
“Negative, mon capitaine. Not for the past two years. Last trip she took was to Phoenix—about as far from Maine as you can get.”
“Thanks, Dustin.”
“I’m here to serve. Over and out.”
Byron hung up and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Well, Lieutenant O’Halloran, if not your daughter, who were you getting visits from?”
Chapter Eight
THE CHARLES J. LORING AMVETS Post, chartered in 1955, is located on the in-town side of Interstate 295 on Washington Avenue in Portland. Post 25, as it’s known to the senior members of the club, is an odd-shaped structure built into the side of a hill that slopes sharply away from the street toward Kennedy Park. The onl
y exception to its flat roof is the peak protruding from the right side where a lighted AMVETS sign is attached to clapboard siding. Two steel doors bookend a long windowless brick-and-mortar façade, separated from the paved road by only a sidewalk.
It was getting late and Cleophus Riordan, or “Cleo” as he was known to his friends, had long since lost track of exactly how many Bacardi-and-Cokes he’d consumed. It was a typical Sunday for Riordan. He always arrived around four in the afternoon, parked his tan Buick in the dirt parking lot across the street, sat at his usual table in the corner, told stories to anyone who would listen, cursed the news on television, and got drunk.
On this particular Sunday night, Riordan had been drinking and telling war stories to an old friend who had strangely shown up that evening.
“Pretty friggin’ weird running into you like this, Hawk,” Riordan said with a pronounced slur. “Hadn’t thought about you in years.”
Hawk smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. From the corner of his eye he watched as Ralph Polowski, the on-duty bartender, walked over toward their table while wiping his hands on the filthy white apron he wore.
“Hey, Ralph,” Riordan said. “I got one for ya. How does a Muslim like his pie?”
“I give. How?”
“Allah mode,” Riordan said with a cackle. “You get it?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Polowski said. “Okay, you two, it’s eleven-thirty, time to call it a night.”
“Aw, come on Ralphie. Just one more for me and my friend?”
“No, Cleo. I think you’ve had more than enough for tonight,” Polowski said as he laid the handwritten bill on the table.
“See what I mean?” Cleo told Hawk. “Zero respect anymore.”
Hawk waited as Riordan awkwardly pushed himself up and out of the chair and began fishing for his wallet.
“I got this,” Hawk said, handing four twenties to Polowski.
“Like I said, you’re A-OK. Now, I gotta take a piss,” Riordan announced to the empty room.
Hawk watched Riordan stagger toward the bathroom and out of sight. Hawk bid good night to Polowski, then turned and headed for the door.
Among the Shadows Page 5