Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “What about?”

  “He didn’t say. Terry said he tried several times to get back in touch with my dad before learning of his death.”

  “What do you think your dad wanted to tell him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe I should meet this guy.”

  IT WAS A bit past twelve-­thirty Sunday afternoon when the two detectives walked into the dining room of the Foreside Bistro. Decorated with hurricane lamps, dark wood paneling, and cloth-­covered tables, the bistro was a charming little restaurant located in Falmouth at the water’s edge. Pritchard had requested they meet him for lunch, his treat.

  Pritchard, who was seated at the far end of the dining room, stood as they approached. “Hey, John.”

  “Terry, I’d like to introduce my partner, Detective Diane Joyner. Diane, this is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Terry Pritchard.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Agent Pritchard,” Diane said as she offered her hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, shaking firmly and smiling warmly. “And it’s Terry. I am retired after all.” He gestured to the empty chairs. “Please have a seat.”

  They sat down as their waiter approached the table. “Good afternoon, my name is Carleton and I’ll be taking care of you. Can I start you off with something from the wine list or the bar?”

  Pritchard and Diane each ordered a Stella. Byron, trying hard to remain focused, ordered a diet soda. Following the waiter’s departure, they resumed their conversation.

  “So, Terry, John said you solved some pretty important cases for the FBI over the years.”

  “I got lucky a few times.”

  “More than a few,” Byron said. “He’s being modest.”

  “Luck is it? John told me about solving the Katzenberg kidnapping and recovering two stolen Renoirs. I’d say there isn’t any need for modesty,” Diane said.

  “Well, I had a lot of help. Worked with some damn fine agents. Feels like all I did at the end of my career was polish a chair with my ass.”

  “Is that the technical job description for an ASAC?” Byron asked.

  Pritchard nodded and smiled.

  “What’s the job description for SAC?” Diane asked.

  “I’m too much of a gentleman to say.”

  Carlton returned with their drinks. “Have you had a chance to look over our menu?”

  “I think we’re going to need a few more minutes,” Pritchard said.

  “Not a problem. Signal me when you’re ready.”

  “So, anything new in the investigation?” Pritchard asked as he tasted the cold beer.

  “Not really,” Byron said. “We’ve spoken with a number of the officers, but nobody’s been very helpful.”

  “Yeah, they either really don’t know anything or they’re circling the wagons and just don’t want to talk to us,” Diane said.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Pritchard said. “Why do you suppose they wouldn’t want to talk with you?”

  “Makes me think you might be right about the money,” Byron said. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

  “Do you think they know who’s behind the murders?” Pritchard asked.

  “No. I think they’re as in the dark as we are,” Byron said.

  “Have any of them outright lied to you?” Pritchard asked.

  “I think a ­couple of them have,” Diane said. “They’re all claiming they haven’t been in contact with one another, but I don’t buy it.”

  “Have you tried dumping their cell phones?”

  “We’d need a court order and we haven’t got anything approaching probable cause to request one,” Byron said.

  “Where are my manners? I invited you both here for lunch,” Pritchard said. “What say we eat first? You can’t investigate on an empty stomach. Am I right?”

  They dined on seared Faroe Island salmon, red quinoa salad with cilantro lime vinaigrette, and fingerling potatoes. After they’d finished the meal, Carleton brought a tray with coffee and creamers.

  “That was excellent, Terry. Thank you,” Diane said.

  “I don’t often eat like this,” Byron admitted. “Normally, it’s fast food, Thai takeout, or leftovers.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Although, I must admit, inviting you here is purely a selfish move on my part.”

  “What do you mean?” Diane asked.

  “Working with you is allowing me to feel as if I’m back in the hunt. Haven’t felt like this since hanging up my spurs a few years ago.”

  “Unfinished business,” Byron said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, we both appreciate your insight into this case,” Byron said.

  “John mentioned you thought Andreas might be dead,” Diane said. “A gut feeling or something more?”

  “Intuition, I guess. At the time I thought he might have gotten lucky. Might’ve been somewhere else when the PD raided the place. But why would the other three allow him sole possession of the money?”

  “I’m not following,” Diane said.

  “According to the police reports, none of the money was recovered. So where was it? Did they stash it somewhere away from the hideout? Andreas could have been out trying to fence the money, I suppose, but would he have gone alone and taken it all with him? And would the others really have trusted him with it?”

  “I wouldn’t have,” Byron said.

  “Nor I.”

  “Why would they need to fence cash?” Diane asked.

  “Because the FBI floated a story to the press about the bills being marked,” Byron said.

  “They weren’t, of course,” Pritchard said. “But we knew if we put it out there, they wouldn’t dare to spend it. They’d be forced to find someone to help them. Pay them so much on the dollar. We’d hoped our little piece of misinformation might help us catch them.”

  “How did the PD locate their safe house?” Diane asked.

  “According to O’Halloran, who was the CID commander at the time, they got a tip from a longtime reliable informant.”

  “Who?” Diane asked.

  “We were never able to find out. O’Halloran wouldn’t tell us. Our legal guys tried unsuccessfully to force them to reveal the source.”

  “Why weren’t they able to?” Diane asked. “It’s not like the case was going to court. Not with three of the robbers dead.”

  “No, that’s true. But there were legitimate concerns surrounding the possibility the robbers had organized crime connections. The PD countered that even releasing the name of their CI to the FBI would compromise and possibly endanger an important asset. They were right of course; we would’ve fought just as hard to protect one of our sources. But I always wanted to know where the information came from.”

  “What about the woman who owned the house?” Diane asked.

  “Warren’s girlfriend?” Pritchard said. “Tina Hewitt. We checked her out. She was a stripper. Traveled a lot and was out of state when all of this happened. They’d only been dating for a few months. I’m pretty sure Warren was just using her.”

  “No chance she was the source?” Diane asked.

  Pritchard shook his head. “None.”

  “At some point I’ll want to pay a visit to Riccio,” Byron said.

  “I figured you would,” Pritchard said. “You want me to reach out to my contacts at the prison?”

  “Not yet. If he is behind this, no sense taking the chance of tipping him off ahead of time. We’ve still got boxes to check right here.”

  “Just say the word.”

  “John told me about his dad reaching out to you right before he died,” Diane said.

  Pritchard looked over at Byron, who nodded. “He left a message for me shortly after my return to Boston. Before I could find out what he wanted, he kill
ed himself.”

  “Any idea what it might have been?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid we could speculate forever and not come up with answers. It’s always bothered me, though. I thought John should know.”

  It was two-­thirty before they parted ways. Byron and Diane headed to Windham to try and locate Irving while Pritchard headed back into retirement.

  “What do you think?” Byron asked as he turned onto Route 9.

  “Of Pritchard or the information?”

  “Either.”

  “I like him. He’s charming and intelligent. Reminds me of someone else I know.”

  Byron looked over, exchanging an awkward glance with her.

  “But the information? I don’t know. Seems like it raises more questions than it answers.”

  “I THINK THAT’S IT,” Diane said, pointing to a quaint single-­story log cabin. Byron turned into the driveway. A silver-­haired man was cutting the grass on a riding mower. Dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, he looked like a model straight off the cover of a John Deere catalogue. He waved a gloved hand. They returned the salutation and waited for him to complete his loop around the front lawn.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t have much of a choice do I? Anyway, it’s too late now.”

  The man brought the tractor to a stop near the driveway and killed the engine.

  “Are you Jeffrey Irving?” Byron asked.

  “That I am,” Irving said as he climbed off the mower. “You’re either cops or you’re selling something.”

  “My name is John Byron, Mr. Irving. I’m a detective sergeant with the Portland Police Department and this is my partner, Detective Diane Joyner.”

  “Your car is a dead giveaway,” Irving said with a grin and two firm handshakes. “What can I do you for?”

  “Sorry to interrupt your yard work. We were hoping to ask you some questions about a case you worked in the eighties.”

  “Ah, no bother. Think all I’m doing is pushing leaves around anyway. Come on up to the porch. I’ll get us some iced tea.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, Mr. Irving,” Diane said.

  “It’s Jeff,” he said with a wink. “And it’s no trouble. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  They sat down in two of the porch rockers. Byron loosened his tie.

  Irving came outside and handed each of them a tall glass of iced tea before sitting in the chair next to Byron. “So, you’ve got me intrigued. What case could I have worked on that would bring you two out to see me after all these years?”

  “My father’s suicide.”

  Irving looked at him as if he were joking. “John Byron? Your father was Reece Byron?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize the name.”

  “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry just the same.”

  “Thanks. So what can you tell me about your investigation?”

  “Well, let me think for a minute. I was sent there for a report of a self-­inflicted gunshot wound. Didn’t know it was one of ours until I arrived.” He looked directly at Byron. “You were the teenager who found him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember talking to you briefly before one of the officers took you away.”

  “Ray Humphrey.”

  “Yeah, Ray.”

  “Can you remember anything specific about the scene?” Diane asked.

  “That’s a tough one after so many years. He was in the dining room, his gun lying on the floor next to him. I remembered thinking how messed up it was for him to die by his own hand only weeks after surviving a shootout.”

  “Do you remember being assigned?” Byron asked.

  “Yeah, I do actually. I remember because it was odd for them to assign a suicide to me in the first place.”

  “Why?” Diane asked.

  “Well, because at the time I was a property crimes detective. I worked mostly motor vehicle thefts.”

  “Do you remember who assigned the case to you?” Diane asked.

  “I do. It was the supervisor of Special Crimes, Sergeant Cross.”

  “Had you ever worked a suicide before?” Byron asked.

  Irving rubbed his chin and stared out at the lawn. “Come to think of it, no. That’s why it was strange for them to assign me. It was my first and only in the bureau. Normally, the Crimes Against Persons Unit wouldn’t have let any of the detectives from our side near a death investigation.”

  “Why was Cross assigning a case to you if he was in another unit?” Byron asked.

  “I think my sergeant might have been away on vacation or something.”

  “Anything else you can remember about that case?” Diane asked.

  Irving shook his head. “No. I just remember how bad I felt.” He turned to look at Byron. “I’m truly sorry.”

  They politely finished their tea and made small talk about Irving’s retired life, but it was obvious that the former cop had nothing else they needed.

  Byron had driven nearly a mile in silence when Diane spoke up. “Why would Cross assign something as sensitive as a cop’s suicide to a detective as inexperienced as Irving?”

  “He wouldn’t. Cross doesn’t do anything without a reason. Something’s definitely wrong here,” he said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He thought for a moment before answering. “We keep this latest find to ourselves.”

  Diane looked over at him. “Why?”

  “Because I’m no longer sure who’s on our side.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE DAY OF Stanton’s press conference arrived, promising a larger display of fireworks than the even Fourth of July had seen. Byron could count on one hand the number of mornings in which not a single detective had stopped by his office to speak with him or ask for a favor. This morning, however, the tension was palpable, and even the detectives who were not involved knew enough to give him a wide berth.

  He’d spent the entire morning briefing either Stanton himself or one of the chief’s subordinates. Byron thought of the word briefing as an attempt to withhold critical information from one’s superiors. Information one didn’t want the media getting their hands on. Murder sells newspapers, but a serial murder brought in network television. And a serial killer of cops meant the story would go viral on the Internet. Stanton would be the grand marshal of his own media circus. The chief lived for this stuff, feeding on it like some well-­dressed, egomaniacal parasite. Byron withheld as much information from Stanton as he could, knowing that once the chief got on a roll, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself.

  Chief Stanton had contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation almost immediately. Byron wasn’t sure if the chief was really seeking assistance from Club Fed or if this was only a calculated political move to make his press conference look more official. Either way, Byron was less than pleased. It wasn’t that he didn’t have many friends in the FBI, because he did; and it wasn’t that he hadn’t worked well with them in the past, because he had. It was really about effectively managing the investigation. The problem was too many fingers in the pie. Experience had taught him there was no quicker way to lose control of an investigation than to have too many ­people trying to run it. As his father had been fond of saying: “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” Byron was the lead investigator and the supervisor on this homicide case, but the food chain above him included several investigator wannabes. If he wasn’t careful, he risked losing control of the whole thing.

  It was after eleven. Byron sat in LeRoyer’s office while the lieutenant frantically typed talking points for Stanton’s press conference. Byron knew LeRoyer was attempting to placate him, but he wasn’t in the mood.

  “That’s way too much informatio
n, Marty,” Byron said as he threw a draft of the press release on LeRoyer’s desk. “We might as well give away the entire case. Did Stanton just reassign my case to Cross or did Cross assign himself as the damn lead? Or, better yet, are we handing it over to the FBI to solve for us?”

  “We’re not handing it to the FBI, John,” LeRoyer said, sounding exasperated. “And you’re still the lead investigator.”

  “Oh good, because as the lead I certainly wouldn’t tell the press about the entire Special Reaction Team being targeted,” Byron said, raising his voice for effect. “Not only will our killer know what we’re up to, but everyone else will too. Jesus, as it is this press conference will bring out every wing nut who thinks they saw something. We’re liable to end up with copycat killings, or worse. And it’s not just the nuts. What if one of the remaining six gets jumpy and kills an innocent person. Have you even thought of that?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I have,” LeRoyer snapped.

  “I want surveillance on these guys, and that’s going to be pretty friggin’ hard to do if everyone knows who they are. Speaking of which, how soon can I have officers assigned?”

  LeRoyer threw his reading glasses down on the desk. “Fuck, John, I’ve been fighting all morning to try and get this thing to go the way you want. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not a miracle worker. I don’t run this department. I have to answer to ­people just like you’re supposed to answer to me.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, Lieutenant,” Byron said sarcastically, emphasizing the last word.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” LeRoyer picked up his glasses and returned to typing. “Let me get this Christly press conference out of the way first. Okay?”

  LeRoyer had managed to win several battles during the course of the morning. But he’d also lost some, thanks to Assistant Chief Cross, who seemed to thrive on this kind of politicking. The losses were the only things on which Byron was focused.

  “Look, John, I’ll take another shot at the chief as soon as he’s finished meeting with Supervisory Special Resident Agent Ridley.”

  Byron knew Ridley, having worked closely with him before. Ridley didn’t aspire to climb any higher on the Federal Ladder, as he still saw himself as an investigator and not a company man. The Portland Resident Agency of the FBI would likely be his last command, and SSRA Ridley was no fan of Chief Stanton, which suited Byron fine.