Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  BYRON DEPARTED 109 about an hour after Diane, realizing there was little else they could do tonight. The Perrigos were on ice, Ferguson was working on a game plan, and they had two nonpolice surveillance rides for tomorrow. He walked to the rear garage, climbed into his car, and drove home. He was tired and frustrated. They were searching for answers and finding nothing but more questions. Was this really about the money? Were they all as dirty as Perrigo claimed? It was still hard to believe. They were definitely hiding something more than the rip-­offs, but what? He didn’t believe Perrigo had told them everything. What secret could be so important, they’d risk their lives to keep it?

  He parked a block down the street from his apartment in a no-­parking zone. He’d forgotten to leave the outside light on again and was fiddling around in the dark with his keys when he realized the front door to his apartment wasn’t latched. He might have forgotten the light, but he wouldn’t have left without locking up. He drew his gun and nudged the door open with his hip. Reaching around the corner with his left hand, he flipped on the inside lights and forcefully shoved the door all the way open, in case someone might’ve decided to conceal themselves behind it. The door crashed into the wall, no one there. He entered the apartment with his gun in the lead.

  He cleared the entire apartment, ignoring the obvious disarray in which someone had left his belongings until after he’d finished. His apartment was empty. He reholstered his weapon and looked around. The boxes he’d never gotten around to unpacking, in the nine months he’d lived there, had been upended, their contents scattered everywhere. It wasn’t exactly the way he’d have done it, but at least they were finally unpacked. The kitchen and bathroom cupboard doors were all standing open, the contents also strewn about. This was more than some neighborhood delinquent looking for drug money. What did he have that someone might be searching for?

  The FBI case files. He hurried into the bedroom. The closet door was wide open. Scattered about the room were the contents of both file boxes. There was no way of knowing if any of the files were missing. If someone had wanted the files, they could’ve taken the boxes. Why hadn’t they? The other files were at Diane’s. And what had she done with Perrigo’s recorded confession? Had she backed it up as he’d asked? Shit.

  He was reaching for his cell when it began ringing.

  “John, it’s Marty.”

  The hair on the back of his neck bristled. The sense of foreboding was overpowering. He’d known LeRoyer long enough to know the sound of bad news even before it was delivered.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s Diane.”

  BYRON PARKED IN one of the spaces reserved for ambulances, then hurried across the lot toward the emergency room doors. He saw the security guard, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, trying to intercept him from the guard shack.

  “Sir. Sir, you can’t park there. That’s reserved parking for ambulances only.”

  Byron kept walking, ignoring the guard who was gaining on him.

  “Sir, if you don’t move your vehicle, I’ll be forced to tow it.”

  Byron stopped suddenly and spun toward the young guard, causing him to take a defensive step back. He stuck his badge about an inch from the guard’s face. “I’m a cop. My partner’s been attacked. If that’s not good enough, then go ahead and tow it,” he growled.

  Byron continued on toward the emergency room doors.

  He found LeRoyer pacing back and forth near the nursing station. “How is she?”

  “They’re doing a CAT scan.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “In and out. They gave her something to put her out.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “Sounds like she walked in on a burglar.”

  Byron tilted his head back slightly and closed his eyes, knowing full well this was his fault. He’d made her a target the second he gave her the audio recorder. “Tell me they got him.”

  “Westbrook PD attempted a track, but the K–9 lost the scent a ­couple of blocks away. Probably had a car waiting.”

  “Goddammit!” he said, punching the wall.

  The duty nurse turned to look.

  LeRoyer continued. “Someone hit her on the side of her head with something. Doc said at a minimum, she’s got a pretty nasty concussion.”

  IT TOOK BYRON a total of twenty agonizing minutes of pacing like a caged animal, ready to tear into anyone who even looked at him wrong, to realize he wasn’t doing anyone any good at the ER.

  “I’ll be back,” he told LeRoyer.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Westbrook.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Byron pulled up in front of Diane’s house. Uniformed Westbrook officers were still on scene. He looked around for stripes until he found the patrol supervisor.

  “You the guy in charge?” Byron asked.

  “Jim Rodway. You must be John Byron.” Byron gave him a puzzled look. “Your lieutenant called ahead.”

  “Take me through what happened.”

  “Well, the victim, your partner, called 911 and told the dispatcher she’d been attacked in her home and she needed an ambulance. My officers got here as quick as they could. They found her lying on the kitchen floor. She was really out of it. Someone clocked her pretty good. We swept the entire house, but the perp had already fled. We helped the paramedics get her into the ambulance. They tell you about the track?”

  Byron nodded. “You think whoever it was got into a car?”

  “Yeah. The dog was really pulling. Good strong scent, then nothing. The track ended at the side of the road, ­couple of blocks from here.”

  “Did Diane give a description of her attacker to your dispatcher?”

  Rodway shook his head. “She did well to call for help. We had to trace the location of her cell to find her. Your PD gave us the exact address.”

  “Mind if I take a look inside?”

  “Be my guest. But be careful, one of yours is still inside processing everything.”

  “One of mine?”

  “None of our E.T.’s were available tonight. Officer Pelligrosso responded.”

  Byron stepped inside the kitchen door and stopped. “Gabe.”

  “In the living room.”

  Carefully, he stepped around the blood stain on the floor and entered the living room. Pelligrosso was dusting for prints.

  “How is she, Sarge?”

  “Too early to tell. They’re still running tests.”

  “This fucker better hope I don’t find him.”

  Byron could see by the look on Pelligrosso’s face that he meant it. Get in line, he thought. “Any luck?”

  “I’m lifting a bunch of good prints, but there’s no way to tell yet whose I’m getting. Might only be hers.”

  Or mine, he thought, wondering how he’d explain the ones undoubtedly left in Diane’s bedroom.

  “What can you tell me so far?”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry. They either had a key or picked the lock.”

  Exactly like my own apartment.

  “As far as what’s missing, I’ve no idea. Looks like they turned the place upside down searching for something. I can tell you what they didn’t take. They didn’t take her gun, her phone, her pocketbook, her money, or her jewelry. Everything you’d expect to be missing is still here.”

  A knot tightened in Byron’s stomach. He knew exactly what they were searching for, and it wasn’t the FBI case files.

  IT WAS NEARLY four A.M. by the time Byron returned to the hospital. Diane had been wheeled to a quiet room in the ER. Her head was bandaged and there was an IV connected to her arm. She was sleeping. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the scene inside O’Halloran’s bedroom. LeRoyer was seated in a bedside chair, trying desperately to stay awake.

  “How is she, Marty?” B
yron whispered.

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to the doc yet. They’re working a cardiac patient an EMS transported in from Falmouth.”

  “How long has she been back?”

  “About twenty minutes. What did you find out about the break-­in?”

  “Not much. Gabe finished processing and headed to 109 to go over the prints. I called Mel in to help him. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

  LeRoyer nodded. “Any idea what they were after?”

  “I might.”

  “What?”

  The ER doctor came to the door and signaled for them to come out into the hall. “Sorry to keep you two waiting. It’s been a little crazy this morning.”

  “What’s the prognosis, Doc?” Byron asked for both of them. “Is she gonna be okay?”

  “She’s your partner?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s suffered a fairly serious concussion. Somewhere between what we refer to as stage two and stage three. I was told she was struck in the head. Do either of you know what she was struck with?”

  “No, only that she was attacked in her home by an intruder,” LeRoyer said.

  “Why?” Byron asked.

  “The reason I ask is because I’ve seen injuries similar to the one suffered by Detective Joyner when someone is pistol whipped. Her CAT scan was inconclusive. But I want to monitor her closely. She might still experience some swelling of the brain near the impact point. If that happens, we may have to drill a small hole to relieve the pressure. It’s too soon to say.”

  Byron felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

  “I’ve consulted with the on call neurologist, Dr. Iselbach, and he’ll be taking over her treatment from here.”

  “When do you expect her to wake up?”

  “We’re intentionally keeping her under for the time being. If we brought her around right now, she’d be very agitated and have one hell of a headache. Best if we let her rest now. We’ll be moving her to the Special Care Unit shortly.”

  “How long do you think before we can speak with her?” LeRoyer asked.

  “I wouldn’t plan on talking to her for at least eight hours.”

  Byron sighed and stood looking in at her from the doorway.

  The doctor placed a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Look, it’s still too early to give you a definitive answer, but if I were a betting man, based on her age and physical condition, I’d say she’ll probably be fine.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” LeRoyer said for both of them.

  BYRON LEFT THE hospital pissed off, at himself mostly. He never should’ve handed over the recording to her. But who was the burglar? Certainly not the killer, or she’d be dead. This felt like someone else. Someone trying to prevent them from uncovering the truth. Diane’s attacker was most likely a cop. But who? Only a handful of ­people even knew about Perrigo. He needed answers and fast. He drove to 109 to check in with Pelligrosso and Stevens. At the moment they were his best hope.

  He took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. As he reached the landing, he stopped. His head was spinning. He realized he’d missed another night’s sleep and couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. He waited for the feeling to pass, then unlocked the steel door to the third-­floor hallway.

  “Well?” Byron asked as he entered the lab. “What have you got?”

  “How is she?” Stevens asked, looking concerned.

  “They’re keeping her sedated until the swelling goes down, but the doc thinks she’ll probably be okay. How are you two making out?”

  “Well, I lifted a shitload of prints from every room in her house” Pelligrosso said. “We also took elimination prints from the Westbrook officers who entered the house.”

  “And I pulled Sergeant Joyner’s to rule her out,” Stevens added.

  “You’d better pull mine for elimination as well,” Byron said.

  Stevens raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Byron pretended not to notice.

  “You know this is going to take us a while, right?” Pelligrosso asked.

  “Take all the time you need. This takes priority over everything else. If her attacker wasn’t wearing gloves, we may get lucky.” Although he knew it was a long shot.

  “You think this guy could be our serial?” Stevens asked.

  “I don’t know, but if you find one that doesn’t belong to any of us, make sure you check it against our partial. Call me if you get anything.”

  BYRON WAITED UNTIL six before calling Pritchard. He wasn’t sure what kind of hours the retired agent kept but he figured six o’clock was late enough. Pritchard was already awake and readily agreed to meet him for breakfast.

  Byron was on his second cup of coffee, wishing like hell it was whiskey, when Pritchard walked into the Foreside Diner on Main Street in Falmouth.

  “John, you look like hell,” Pritchard said as he slid into the booth across from Byron.

  “At least my outward appearance matches how I feel.”

  “When was the last time you got any sleep?”

  “Been a while. I’ll rest after we catch this son of a bitch.”

  “How’s Diane?”

  “Sedated. Doc said she suffered a pretty serious concussion.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Someone broke into her house and turned the place upside down. Looks like she surprised them and got bashed in the head for her trouble.”

  “She get a look at who did it?”

  “Don’t know. She was barely able to call for help.”

  “Think it’s related?”

  “I know it is. They went through my apartment as well.”

  “What do you think they were searching for?”

  “The recording we made of Perrigo’s confession.”

  “Tell me they didn’t get it,” he said, signaling the waitress with his mug.

  “Won’t know for sure until I can speak with her.”

  “How would anyone even know about it? Who else knew you had the recording?”

  “Besides the three of us, only AAG Jim Ferguson and Lieutenant LeRoyer.”

  “You think one of them is in on it?”

  Byron considered his question. His brain was fuzzy. He didn’t know what to think at this point. “I don’t know. The only remaining member of the original team still working at the PD is Cross. Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “LeRoyer might have told Cross. Dammit, I shouldn’t have told the lieutenant anything.”

  “What exactly did you tell him?”

  Byron tried hard to focus. “I said we got one of them to flip. Told him that we stashed the witness in a safe house.”

  “A bureau safe house?”

  “Fuck. I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “You think Cross might be the killer?”

  Byron shook his head. “No. But I think he might be trying to tie up loose ends and Perrigo is a loose end.”

  “Have you checked in on him?”

  “Not since—­” Byron’s eyes widened. “Fuck.” He pulled out his cell and dialed Tony’s number. If someone had gone to all that trouble to get at the recording, wouldn’t the Perrigos be next? “Pick up, come on.” He let it ring a dozen times but there was no answer.

  Byron grabbed his jacket and threw a five on the table for the coffee. “He’s not answering. Let’s go.”

  Pritchard hopped in with Byron, continually trying both cell numbers while Byron focused on the driving. It took the better part of twenty minutes to reach the safe house. They were still several hundred feet short of the driveway entrance when they were flagged down by a man wearing a reflective jacket and holding a flashlight. Byron could see a kind of glow above the tree line. He stopped the car and lowered his window.

  “Sorry, folks, but you
’ll have to turn around. Road’s blocked up ahead.”

  “What’s going on?” Byron asked.

  “Got a structure fire down the road apiece. Used to be somebody’s camp. Three alarm,” he said proudly.

  Byron didn’t know exactly what a three alarm meant in firefighter parlance, but he knew it wasn’t good and there was only one camp he was concerned with. He displayed his ID and explained where they were headed.

  “Down here on the right, you say?”

  Byron nodded.

  “ ’Bout a quarter mile off the main road?”

  With a sinking feeling, he nodded again. “Yes.”

  “Sounds like the place.”

  Byron parked the car on the shoulder and they made their way in on foot. The two men walked in silence. Gradually, the dark shadows of the wooded driveway were replaced by dozens of angry-­looking red high-­intensity strobes. It looked as if the entire fire department had come out for this one. The air was thick with the acrid smell of wood smoke and diesel exhaust from the idling trucks.

  They stopped and stared at the smoking remains of the camp. It was a total loss. The roof and second floor had collapsed. Blackened timbers poked out of the pile at impossible angles, resembling some twisted pyro’s version of the game Pick Up Sticks. Several firemen wearing bright yellow coats and helmets stood around the steaming pyre directing streams of water here and there.