Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “And I’ll try and get his approval for the surveillance overtime. Okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  Byron rose from his chair, looking down at his frazzled boss, who’d removed his jacket and loosened his tie. LeRoyer’s blue-­and-­white pinstriped dress shirt was soaked through at the armpits, and he’d run his fingers through his hair no less than a dozen times since Byron had walked into the office. Byron realized he was only browbeating an ally. “Lieu, I’m sorry about being such a prick, but I’ve got a lot riding on this.”

  LeRoyer looked up from his computer. “We all do, John.”

  REPORTERS AND VIDEOGRAPHERS began pouring into 109 at a quarter past eleven. A colorful caravan of news vans were parked in front. Some were equipped with telescoping antennas for live video feeds to their networks. It didn’t take much imagination to see the circus had indeed come to town.

  The Portland Police Department press conferences were generally cozy affairs held on the first floor, but every once in a while the scope of the news being released necessitated the use of the second-­floor auditorium to accommodate a larger turnout. This was one of those occasions.

  Byron stood at the rear of the auditorium along with his crew of detectives, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. A bank of microphone stands and a maze of cables, resembling some absurd electronic octopus, nearly obscured the podium and its colored PPD insignia from view. The video cameras and lights bore logos from every local newspaper, network, and several of the national affiliates. He noted, with some amusement, that the sports channels were the only networks not represented.

  The auditorium was both packed and sweltering, with most ­people choosing to stand. Byron could feel the beads of sweat running down his back and was thankful he’d kept his suit coat on to hide his own quickly dampening dress shirt. He didn’t need to check his watch to know Stanton intended on being fashionably late. He had attended enough of these dog and pony shows over the years to accurately predict a start time of about five past the hour. The chief adored basking in the spotlight the media provided.

  “Sergeant Byron.”

  He turned and saw Billingslea had taken a spot beside him. “Davis.”

  “You’re not gonna threaten me again, are you, Sergeant?”

  “You’re not gonna give me a reason to, are you?”

  “Care to make a statement before the statement?”

  “Nope.”

  “The way I hear it, you’re investigating the deaths of two former Portland SWAT cops. Any idea why someone would want to kill these officers?”

  “We don’t have a SWAT team.”

  “Semantics, Sergeant. All right, Special Reaction Team.”

  “If you’re gonna ask the question, at least get the terminology right.”

  “So? Any comment?”

  “You want a quote?”

  Billingslea’s eyes sparkled. “You mean it?”

  “Sure. Get your pen ready.”

  Billingslea pulled out his notebook and pen. “Okay, what can you tell me?”

  Byron leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I don’t like reporters.”

  The reporter lowered the pen and paper. “That’s your statement?”

  “Yup. And you can quote me.” Byron moved away, finding a spot between Nugent and Diane.

  At precisely 12:05, Chief Stanton strolled into the room, followed by Assistant Chief Cross, LeRoyer, and Special Agent Ridley. Byron attempted to establish eye contact with LeRoyer as they passed, but his boss’s gaze was fixed straight ahead, leaving him to wonder in which direction the last meeting had gone.

  Byron’s phone vibrated with an incoming call. He pulled his cell out and checked it. Kay. He pressed ignore and returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

  Stanton took his spot behind the podium, shuffled some papers, took out his reading glasses, looked up and surveyed the room. He waited patiently until everyone had quieted down before speaking.

  “Ladies and gentleman, members of the press, good afternoon and thank you all for coming. I’ve prepared a brief statement from which I will now read. Following this, I will attempt to answer a few of your questions. I would ask you to please be patient and refrain from asking any questions until I’ve finished.”

  Stanton laid out the facts as he knew them. “The Portland Police Department Criminal Investigation Division is currently investigating several homicides we believe are connected. This is an ongoing investigation and as such I am not at liberty to release certain facts of the case.”

  The chief continued for several more minutes, and, to Byron’s delight, the rest of his speech was as dry and devoid of specifics as the opening had been. The only obstacle remaining was the barrage of questions that would inevitably ensue.

  “That concludes my statement,” Stanton said. “I’ll now take a few of your questions.”

  No sooner had Stanton finished before the crowd of reporters morphed into a crazed mob, more closely resembling traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange during a run than civilized professionals. Each of them waved their arms and shouted, trying desperately to catch the attention of the chief. Byron looked over at Diane, she rolled her eyes. Stanton pointed to a dark-­haired male reporter from one of the national news channels.

  “Chief. Chief. There’s been some speculation that the killer has been targeting officers from your own department. Can you confirm this?”

  “We don’t deal with rumors or speculation at this agency. We deal in facts. As I stated to all of you previously, I’m not at liberty to discuss certain aspects of this investigation. Next question.”

  “But Chief Stanton,” the reporter continued, “you didn’t answer my question. Is the killer targeting the Portland Police Department or not?”

  Byron could feel his stomach knotting up as he waited for Stanton to respond.

  Stanton glared over his reading glasses at the arrogant young reporter. “No comment! Next question.”

  Byron was pleased the chief hadn’t caved to the reporter’s badgering, but he knew a “no comment” response would likely only fuel the media speculation surrounding the target. As far as the victims’ identities were concerned, Stanton confirmed at least one of the victims had a law enforcement background, but refused to elaborate further.

  And so it went, one question after another, some were original, although predictable, while others were only thinly veiled attempts to ask the same question in a different way. The goal, of course, was to try and get Stanton to trip up and give something away. Not all that different from police interrogation strategy.

  Stanton introduced SSRA Ridley, who confirmed the FBI had offered their assistance to the police department.

  The press conference concluded at 12:35, and Byron made a beeline for the auditorium doors, avoiding the stampede. He was tired and frustrated, but mostly he was hungry. He checked his cell to see if Kay had left a voicemail message. She hadn’t. He walked west down Middle Street along the uneven brick sidewalk toward Calluzzo’s Bistro, alone.

  “COME RIGHT IN, Detective Joyner,” Assistant Chief Cross said with a twinkle in his eye. The twinkle was accompanied by one of those large toothy smiles she so despised. The insincerity of his smile called to mind Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. She half expected to see him wink out of existence, leaving only his grin floating above the desk. “Close the door.”

  She hadn’t a clue why the assistant chief wanted to see her, but he was never this jovial unless he was making someone’s life miserable. Diane had a sneaking suspicion she knew whose life it was apt to be.

  “Have a seat, Detective.”

  “What’s this about, Chief? Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  Cross let out a hardy laugh. “You? Absolutely not. How’s the investigation going?”

  “I think we’re making headway. Sergeant Byron and
the rest of us have all been putting in some long hours on this.”

  Cross finally dropped the joyful façade. His expression turned serious as he leaned over the desk. “I’m glad you brought him up. I want to talk to you about Sergeant Byron.”

  “What about him?” she asked, fighting to keep her expression stoic.

  “I’m concerned about a number of things I’ve been hearing. I’ve been on the job for a long time and seen many good officers go off the rails. Byron wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Off the rails, Chief? Afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows for effect. “I’d like you to read something.” Cross handed her a piece of paper.

  She looked at it. It was a statement from Sergeant Kenny Crosby accusing Byron of assault. She looked over at Cross. His smile had returned.

  He gestured toward the statement. “Please, continue.”

  She finished reading Crosby’s statement, then returned it to Cross. “With all due respect to Sergeant Crosby, Chief, that isn’t exactly what happened.” She watched him lean back in his chair and put his hands together, tenting his fingers like some egocentric potentate.

  “And you’d know that how? Were you in the men’s locker room?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t. But I know—­”

  “What you know,” he said, cutting her off, “is only what John told you. Only his version of what happened. Nothing more.”

  She opened her mouth to protest and he raised his hand to silence her.

  “Let’s look at the facts, shall we. Your partner told you something different, probably said Kenny instigated it. But how reliable is his word? Isn’t this the same John Byron who’s been observed, on several different occasions, passed out drunk in his city-­owned vehicle?”

  “Chief, I don’t know what you’ve heard but—­”

  He leaned over the desk toward her, cutting her off once again. “What I’ve heard is that two of my detectives have been—­how should I say this?—­fraternizing with each other. As I’m sure you are aware, it’s a clear violation of this department’s standard operating procedure for two members of the same unit to engage in any fraternization. Furthermore, if this were taking place, I’d be forced to transfer one of them out of the unit. But you already know this, right detective?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Have you anything to add?”

  She didn’t know how much of what Cross was saying he could prove, but it was obvious he’d set his sights on John and that was bad enough. “No, sir. I don’t.”

  Cross raised his brows. “Are you telling me that you and Sergeant Byron aren’t involved?”

  She gave him her best eye contact. “We are not involved, sir. I’m not sure where any of this is coming from.”

  He sat back in his chair, the grin gradually reappeared. “Well, I’m so relieved to hear it. In that case, Detective, why don’t you bring me up to speed on the murder investigation.”

  Chapter Twenty

  AN OLD PROVERB warns against dwelling on things that have already happened. A good police investigator is the exception to the rule. John Byron was an excellent investigator, unable to let go of anything that had already happened. Ever. He was alone in the conference room, updating the whiteboard and scrutinizing it for anything they might’ve missed, when Shirley Grant poked her head into the room.

  “Excuse me, Sarge. I don’t suppose you have a second, do you?”

  He turned toward her. “What do you need?”

  “There’s a sweet old lady in the waiting room. She’s been waiting for over an hour to meet with Detective Joyner, but she’s tied up.”

  Now that Stanton’s press conference had aired, Byron suspected the wing nuts were already coming out of the woodwork. “Have one of the other detectives help her.”

  “I can’t. She says she’ll only talk to Detective Joyner.”

  “Any idea what she wants?”

  “Apparently, Diane left a business card in her door.”

  “Okay, give me a minute. I’ll come out and get her.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Her name is Ginny Anderson.”

  “Got it.”

  Byron opened the door to the glassed-­in waiting area of CID and stepped inside. Seated alone was a well-­dressed diminutive woman. He guessed eighty, at least. She looked up from her magazine as he spoke. “Mrs. Anderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Byron. I understand you’re waiting to speak to a detective.”

  “Yes. I’m waiting on Detective Joyner,” she said, examining the card in her hand. “I found this in my door.”

  “She’s busy at the moment. It could be a while. Maybe I can help you.”

  “Are you her supervisor?”

  “I am actually,” he said with a smile.

  “I suppose it would be okay, then.” She started to get out of her chair.

  “We can talk here if you’d like.”

  Anderson’s expression turned serious. “Sergeant, I am going to be eighty-­three next month and this is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot inside a precinct house. But I watch television and I know how this is supposed to work. If you want my information, we will need to speak in an interview room.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, doing his best to hide his amusement and impart a solemn tone of voice. “I apologize. Right this way.”

  They walked through the maze of desks toward the interview rooms. Byron caught the curious gaze of LeRoyer as they passed by and gave him a wink. LeRoyer grinned.

  The bright blue doors of the three CID interview rooms had always reminded Byron of the television game show Let’s Make a Deal. And unlike the usual visitors to the interview rooms, Byron highly doubted Mrs. Anderson would have any need to utter those words. He led her to room number three, as it was the only one not currently in use. “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “It’s fine,” she said as she sat down and set her purse on the table directly in front of her.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Water maybe?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Byron closed the door and sat down across from her. “So, Mrs. Anderson, what do you have for me?”

  “Don’t you have to read me my rights?”

  He smiled again. “Actually, we only do it when we’re interrogating a suspect. Unless you’ve done something you need to confess, I feel comfortable we can skip the Miranda warning.”

  “Well, okay. You’re the expert.”

  “Do you have some information for me?” he asked, hoping this wasn’t a waste of his time.

  “I think so. I live across the way from a nice young man by the name of James O’Halloran.”

  Byron was no longer amused by his visitor. He’d been waiting for a break and realized, however unlikely, she might be it. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “I just found out he was murdered in his home.”

  “That’s right. And we’re investigating his murder. We canvassed the entire neighborhood a week ago, Mrs. Anderson. Why did you wait to come in?”

  “I’ve been away visiting my daughter and her family since last Wednesday. I came home and saw the card in my door. I didn’t know why the police would have left a card in my door until I saw the news about Mr. O’Halloran. Did you know he was a police officer?”

  “Yes, I’m aware. You said you had something to tell us. Do you know something about his death?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if this is anything helpful, but I kind of keep an eye on things in our neighborhood. I guess some ­people might say I’m a bit of a nosy parker, but I don’t think it’s a crime to care about what’s going on around you. Right?”

  “You’re absolutely right. Better safe than sorry.
”

  “That’s what I think. Like the kids at the middle school, sometimes they cut through our yards and do mischief. Mrs. Yankowski’s fence got vandalized last year and I saw the boys who did it.”

  “Did you see something that might help us on the O’Halloran case?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I know he was sick with cancer. He had nurses come to the house every day. During the week it was a cute little redhead girl and on the weekends it was a healthy young man.”

  “Healthy?”

  “I don’t want to say he was fat. He was big-­boned. You know, healthy.”

  Byron nodded his understanding while still doing his best to suppress a grin.

  “I got used to seeing both nurses come and go and was familiar with what they drove,” Anderson continued. “But the night before I left, let me see, it would have been last Tuesday, I saw a man park out on the street in front of Mr. O’Halloran’s and go inside.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No, it was too dark, but I know he was a good-­sized man.”

  “How do you know he went inside the house?”

  “I watched him.”

  “Did you see what he was driving?”

  “Yes, it was a light-­colored Honda van. Maybe silver. It’s always so hard to tell at night.”

  “You didn’t happen to see the plate number, did you?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Had you seen that vehicle there before? Could it have been one of the nurses?”

  “No, it was the only time I’d seen it since he’s been out of the hospital. The nurses don’t drive vans. The cute little red-­haired girl drives a light green Subaru wagon and the healthy young man has a black mini Jeep. I think it’s called a Liberty.”

  “How do you know so much about cars, Mrs. Anderson?”

  “I was an insurance adjuster for forty years. I know my cars, Sergeant Byron.”