Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

“Your show, John. I’ll be right here.”

  Quietly, Byron moved closer.

  “WHAT DID YOU do with Andreas?” Humphrey asked.

  “What difference does it make now?”

  “It doesn’t, I guess. It’s almost funny, really. The feds have been searching for the guy for over thirty years. Did you bury him? Or maybe you weighed him down and dumped him in Casco Bay?”

  “We buried him all right, in the Ocean.”

  “What?”

  “Ocean Avenue. The landfill.”

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  “Nope. Not that hard to get rid of a body, Ray.”

  “What if they’d developed the area? They might’ve dug him up.”

  “Yeah, and I’d have known about it in advance, wouldn’t I?”

  “I suppose you would’ve. Okay, turn around and face the water,” Humphrey ordered.

  Cross did as he was instructed. “Not very sporting of you, Ray. Shooting an unarmed man in the back. Like I said, you always were a coward.”

  “You’ve got no imagination. Here,” he said, handing Cross’s Glock back to him. “I’ve emptied the mag but you’ve still got one round in the chamber.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Cross asked.

  “I think you know.”

  BYRON CROUCHED AS he made his way out onto the rocks, trying to make himself as small as possible while positioning himself directly behind Humphrey. He was now within twenty feet of the two men and completely exposed. The crashing waves were helping to mask his approach and forcing Cross and Humphrey to speak with raised voices.

  “And if I don’t?” Cross asked.

  “Then I’ll kill you myself,” Humphrey said.

  “What if I use it to shoot you instead?”

  “That would be some trick seeing as how I’m pointing my gun at the back of your head.”

  “Drop it, Ray!” Byron yelled.

  DIANE WALKED AS fast as she dared, not wanting to give herself away by inadvertently stepping on a fallen branch or, worse still, slipping on the wet uneven ground and landing on her bruised head. Her gun was out and her eyes were darting in all directions. The legs of her pants were soaked from brushing up against the skeletal remnants of golden rod and bittersweet vines. She looked down as her cell began to vibrate, it was Tran. She quickly answered it. “Can’t talk right now, Dustin.”

  “Don’t hang up. I can’t reach the Sarge. Where are you?”

  “Fort Williams. It’s going down right now. Humphrey and Cross are meeting.”

  “Is Pritchard with you?”

  “He’s up ahead with John. Why?”

  “Listen to me. Cross and Pritchard know each other.”

  “Yeah, of course they do. Pritchard investigated the robbery shooting.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean, they served together.”

  “What?”

  “In the army, Diane. I’m looking at their ser­vice records. They’re both out of Fort Bragg, 101st Airborne. Both deployed to Vietnam in 1971. They knew each other before the robbery.”

  “Oh my god.” She pocketed her phone and ran toward the battery.

  “I CAN’T DO that, Sarge,” Humphrey said.

  “Shoot him,” Cross shouted, hiding his own gun from sight. “Ray’s the killer.”

  “Trust me when I tell you he’s got it backwards,” Humphrey said.

  “Ray, don’t make me shoot you,” Byron said, pleading with his friend.

  “By all means, shoot him,” Cross said.

  “Sarge, you don’t know what’s happened,” Humphrey said.

  “Put your gun down and you can fill me in,” Byron said.

  “They murdered your father,” Humphrey said. “They killed Reece.”

  “What are you talking about? My dad killed himself.”

  “For Christ-­sakes, Sergeant,” yelled Cross, “shoot him. That’s an order!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Chief,” Byron snapped. “Ray, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “We stole the money from the robbery, all of us. You were right about that. Your dad was gonna go to the feds and they killed him for it.”

  Byron’s legs felt rubbery, the gun suddenly much heavier. “Who killed him?”

  “Cross found out your dad was going to turn himself in to the FBI. They went to see Reece at his house and try and talk him out of it.”

  “Who went to see him?”

  “All the supervisors—­Cross, O’Halloran, Riordan, Falcone, and Williams. And when your dad wouldn’t back down, Cross shot him and made it look like a suicide. O’Halloran told me everything.”

  Byron struggled to stay focused. It all made sense. Cross had been the sergeant who assigned a detective with no experience to investigate his father’s suicide. Here Byron was pointing a gun at his mentor and friend while trying to save the life of his father’s killer? He couldn’t imagine a more twisted irony. “Please, Ray, just put the gun down.”

  “Cross is armed, Sarge.”

  Byron’s eyes focused on Cross’s hands. The left was empty, but the right was hidden behind his body. “Let me see the other hand, Chief,” he demanded.

  Cross slowly moved the gun into sight.

  “Both of you put them down,” Byron said. Now!”

  “Perhaps you should put yours down, too,” Pritchard said calmly from behind him.

  Byron’s heart sank, but he kept his gun fixed on Humphrey. His suspicions about FBI involvement had been justified after all.

  “Kill them, Terry,” Cross yelled, spit flying from his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up, Reggie,” Humphrey said.

  “Ray’s right, Reg,” Pritchard said. “I think you need a new line. You’re starting to sound like a parrot.” He turned his attention back toward Byron. “Sorry about this, John. I never wanted it to go down like this. I was hoping these two would kill each other before we got here.”

  “You know, I didn’t want to believe it, Terry.”

  “Thought you might’ve figured it out after the safe house.”

  “There were a ­couple of times when I wondered if maybe you were somehow mixed up in this,” Byron said. “But it seemed too farfetched.”

  “You should’ve trusted your instincts, John. You were right not to trust anybody. Guess you should have called in some backup after all. If it makes you feel any better, your dad’s instincts weren’t too keen either. Turns out he left a message with the wrong guy.”

  “But you were the robbery case agent,” Byron said, stalling for time.

  “Got myself assigned to the case. I was the hot-­shot agent, remember? Great clearance rate. Made my boss look good. Had him wrapped around my finger.” Pritchard chuckled. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  “But why? Why risk everything?”

  “The usual reasons. Money. Power. They’re both powerful drugs. This wasn’t the only time I crossed the line, John.”

  “Did you kill my father?”

  “Nope, Ray’s right, that was Reggie. One of the few things he managed to do right.”

  “Stop fucking telling them everything, Terry,” Cross said.

  “Or what, Reg? Seems like the least I can do is set the record straight.”

  Byron felt the rage welling up inside like water coming to a boil, but he needed to massage Pritchard’s ego, keep him talking. “Why even pretend to help us?” Byron asked.

  “I had planned to reach out to you after Riordan ended up on a slab. But you made it easy by contacting me. Figured I could stay up on the case and make sure that the killer, your pal Ray, didn’t find out about me. I rather like breathing. The problem was working itself out until Perrigo opened his big mouth.”

  “So you killed the Perrigos?” Byron said.

  “They were bec
oming a considerable liability.”

  “I can help you kill them, Terry,” Cross said.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re in a position to help with much of anything from where I’m standing,” Pritchard said. “You know, you’ve kinda become a liability here yourself, Reg.”

  “I can still help you, Terry,” Cross pleaded. “No one will have to know. We kill them and pin it all on Ray.”

  “Or, better still, I kill all of you and still pin it on Ray,” Pritchard said. “I warned you about what would happen if I had to get involved. Now, John, put down the weapon.”

  “Drop it!” Diane yelled, partially concealed behind a stand of flame-­colored sumacs.

  Terry lowered his gun slightly and glanced back over his shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the hardheaded detective. Shit, John, I guess you didn’t quite trust me. Called in some backup after all. Any chance we could get a few more cops out here? You know, we might actually have quorum.”

  “Terry’s part of it, Diane,” Byron said. “He killed the Perrigos.”

  “I know,” Diane said. “I’m not kidding, Terry. Drop your gun.”

  “Forgive my lack of PC, Detective, but it looks like we’ve got ourselves an old-­fashioned Mexican standoff. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Put it down, now, Diane said.”

  “Or what? You’re gonna shoot a decorated FBI agent in the back? Might be a little difficult to explain.”

  “Not when she tells them what you and Cross were into,” Byron said.

  “It will be my word against yours.”

  “Last chance—­”

  Something landed with a loud thud behind Diane. She instinctively turned her head.

  “Fuck,” Billingslea said after tripping over a rock.

  It was all the distraction Pritchard needed. He moved fast, surprising Diane, spinning to his left and firing two quick rounds, striking her in the thigh and chest. She cried out and returned fire, hitting him twice in the torso before she collapsed. Byron turned his attention from Humphrey and Cross long enough to get out of the line of fire, jumping down to a lower ledge and taking cover. Cross used the commotion to his advantage, shooting Humphrey in the chest with his one bullet, dropping him to the ground. Byron opened fire at Cross, hitting him multiple times, knocking him from the rocky ledge into the ocean below.

  Byron peered over at Humphrey, who was lying face up on the ledge.

  “Diane,” Byron yelled.

  “I’m hit. Fucker got me in the leg.”

  Byron looked back toward where Pritchard had been standing but didn’t see him. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I got him.”

  “Stay put.”

  Cautiously, Byron crawled over to Humphrey and retrieved his gun. Humphrey was aspirating. Cross had managed to send his one round into Humphrey’s left lung. The rain, mixing with rivulets of blood, had created a crimson pool on the rocks beneath the burly former detective. Byron covered the wound with Humphrey’s parka and applied pressure, attempting to seal it.

  “Aw, Jesus, Ray. What the hell?”

  Humphrey looked up at him in obvious pain, bravely trying to smile as blood bubbled from his mouth. “Sorry, Sarge.”

  Humphrey reached into his unzipped parka. Byron, thinking he was going for another weapon, grabbed his hand. Humphrey removed a small wireless transmitter and his keys, handing them to Byron. “The receiver is in my car. It’s all recorded.”

  Byron looked at the wire. “Why, Ray?”

  Humphrey grabbed Byron’s forearm, squeezing as the pain got worse. “Couldn’t let ’em get away—­with it. Tried to make it right.”

  “I know you did, Ray. I know.”

  “I swear I didn’t know what they’d done to Reece.” His breathing was coming in ragged gasps. “Never thought they’d go that far. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, Ray. I do. Lie still. Save your strength. Help’s coming.”

  The gunshot was deafening, the round finding its mark. Humphrey’s head.

  “I don’t think so,” Pritchard said.

  Byron looked up from Humphrey’s lifeless body to find the former FBI agent standing with his gun trained directly at him. Pritchard’s parka was flapping open in the wind, revealing the Kevlar vest he wore beneath it. His left hand, pressed against his abdomen, was covered in blood.

  “Thought you never wore a vest,” Byron said.

  “I lied,” Pritchard said through clenched teeth. “Pass me the keys and the transmitter, John.”

  “That looks bad, Terry,” Byron said, ignoring him.

  “I appreciate your concern, Sergeant. Now hand them fucking over.”

  “Freeze,” Diane yelled from behind him.

  Pritchard lowered the gun and sighed heavily. “You know, Detective, you’re becoming rather tedious.”

  Byron locked eyes with Pritchard.

  Pritchard’s lips spread into an evil grin.

  Byron knew what was coming even before the retired agent raised his gun hand. “Vest,” he yelled to Diane.

  As Pritchard aimed the gun at Byron, a single shot rang out. The top of Pritchard’s head flew off like a toupee. His body fell forward, as rigid as a tree, landing face-­first on the rocks.

  “Freeze asshole,” Nugent said, pointing his gun at Billingslea cowering on the ground with his hands over his head.

  “Please don’t shoot me.”

  “God damn you, Davis,” Diane shouted before turning her attention to the most recent arrival. “Nice of you to join us, Nuge.”

  “Hey, I got stuck on the wrong side of a train. Sue me. Either of you hit?”

  “Yeah,” Diane said as she plopped down heavily on the ground. “I took one in the leg and one in the vest.”

  “How ’bout you, Sarge?” Nugent asked.

  “I’m okay. Get an ambulance out here.”

  “I’m on it.” Nugent holstered his gun and fished out his cell, turning his attention toward Billingslea. “Make yourself useful, numb nuts. Go wait for the paramedics and direct them in here.”

  The young reporter staggered to his feet, staring wide-­eyed at the scene before him.

  “Now!” Nugent said.

  Wordlessly, Billingslea scurried back into the woods.

  Byron squatted next to Diane. “How bad is it?”

  “Hurts like a sonofabitch, but I don’t think it’s too bad. Where’s Cross?”

  Cross. He’d nearly forgotten about him. Byron got to his feet, moving carefully toward the water’s edge where the ocean was crashing against the rocks. Twenty feet below, Cross’s lifeless body was floating face down in the surf as waves washed over it, moving it back and forth.

  “Cavalry’s on the way,” Nugent said.

  Byron turned and headed back to Diane.

  BYRON AND NUGENT stayed with Diane as paramedics prepped her for transport.

  “How the pain?” Byron asked.

  “You kidding? I’ve had cramps worse than this,” Diane said, gritting her teeth.

  Both men grinned.

  “I’m sorry about your friend, John,” she said.

  Byron’s smile faltered. He wasn’t sure which was worse, finding out that Ray was the killer they’d been chasing or that his father had been murdered by Cross. What was obvious, was how much Diane cared. In agony from a bullet wound yet still concerned about him. “Let’s worry about getting you patched up, all right?”

  Byron and Nugent assisted one of the EMTs and a young, wiry Cape Elizabeth cop in carrying Diane’s stretcher up the uneven path toward the parking lot to a waiting ambulance. Red and blue strobes reflected off every wet surface like rabid fireflies. More sirens coming.

  “You gonna be okay?” Diane asked Byron as they slid her into the back of the transport.

 
“Yeah. Gonna be a bitch explaining all of this, though.”

  Byron looked up to the sound of tires skidding to a stop on the wet asphalt. LeRoyer’s Crown Vic.

  “We gotta go,” the bearded MedCu attendant said to Byron.

  “I’ll be up to see you later,” Byron said, stepping back from the ambulance.

  “Good luck,” she said as the attendant closed the doors.

  “Take good care of her,” Byron said.

  The attendant nodded, then hurried to the front of the truck.

  Byron walked toward the lieutenant’s car as the red and white MedCu unit pulled away.

  “John, what the fuck happened here?” LeRoyer demanded as he jumped out of the car.

  “Cross, Pritchard, and Humphrey are dead. Diane was shot.”

  LeRoyer stood in obvious shock, his mouth agape. “Jesus Christ. Where’s the shooter?”

  Chapter Thirty-­One

  THE FOURTH FLOOR of 109 was a flurry of activity, more closely resembling the start of a workweek than seven o’clock on a Thursday night. Every available detective had been called in, along with the president and vice president of the Superior Officers Benevolent Association (SOBA), two SOBA attorneys, the FBI, and several members of the Attorney General’s Office, including the Maine attorney general herself.

  Byron sat in interview room one. Alone and tired, he was sitting on a side of the table he’d never seen. Mike Nugent brought him a change of clothes and a coffee. Stevens and Pelligrosso had taken his damp clothing, gun, and spare magazines. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He knew there was legal wrangling happening in another room, most likely the conference room. He knew all too well the questions that would be asked. Did you have to shoot Cross? Wasn’t there a better course of action you could have taken? What about the bad blood between you and Assistant Chief Cross? Why involve your already injured detective in this? Why didn’t you follow department protocol and notify your superiors about the meeting? Byron knew he had much to answer for, but he didn’t care. He knew he wouldn’t have done anything differently. Except maybe he wouldn’t have involved Diane. If he hadn’t given her the heads-­up, she wouldn’t have gotten shot. Christ, Diane shouldn’t have even been out of the hospital yet. He should have called Stevens instead.