Why had he trusted Pritchard in the first place? Because you needed him. He supposed that was true. He had needed Pritchard. Pritchard was the case agent, and any good investigator would have gone to him. Besides, Byron had no reason to suspect him of being involved. At least initially.
But what about Humphrey? Hadn’t he overlooked Humphrey’s possible involvement? Hadn’t he let their friendship cloud his judgment?
How could Cross have killed his father? They were partners. Exhaustion was muddling his thoughts again. His inner voice needed a nice big cup of shut-the-fuck-up. Byron should’ve been at the hospital checking on Diane, not stuck in a six-by-six room, waiting to be interrogated like a criminal.
He was gazing up at the camera, wondering who might be watching him on the closed circuit monitor in the other room, when someone knocked at the door.
LeRoyer cracked the door open and stuck his head in. “Hey. Thought you might want this,” he said, handing Byron a mug of coffee.
“Thanks, Marty.”
“How you holding up?”
“Going a little stir crazy in here. Any word on Diane?”
“She is going into surgery now. Doc thinks she’ll be okay. The bullet passed right through her leg, missed the bone.”
He nodded and sipped.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“Fucking Billingslea. We should be charging that little prick with something. Obstructing maybe.”
Byron hid a grin behind his mug.
“Shouldn’t be much longer. I think the attorneys are working out the final rules of engagement for your statement. You sure you want to do this right now? You know you can wait.”
Byron looked up. “You asking me as my lieutenant?”
“As your friend, John. Your lieutenant wouldn’t try and talk you out of giving a statement.”
Byron nodded. “I want to.”
LeRoyer closed the door behind him, leaving Byron alone once again.
He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to the interview. All he really wanted was to get up to the hospital and check on Diane. In spite of all that Humphrey had done, Byron couldn’t help but think of him as a friend. What would Byron have done if put in a similar situation? He didn’t know. He only knew that his father had been murdered by the very men he trusted. Yes, Humphrey had killed those men, but he’d been trying to right a wrong. In his own twisted way, Humphrey had believed that what he was doing was just. Byron couldn’t quite condemn him for that.
Someone else knocked on the interview room door.
“Come in,” Byron said.
Tran poked his head in. “Hey, striped dude. This a bad time?”
Byron smiled weakly and shook his head. “No. Come in.”
Tran stepped into the room and closed the door. He glanced up at the camera. “I assume we’ve got an audience.”
“I’d say that was a safe assumption. Did you get it?”
“Right here,” he said, handing Byron several compact discs. “I made multiple copies. These are yours.”
“Did you get a chance to listen to any of it?”
“Most of it. Everything you’ll need is here. Cross, Pritchard, Humphrey, all of it.”
“Thank you, Dustin,” he said, slipping the disks into his jacket pocket.
“I’m sorry about not making the connection sooner between—”
Byron cut him off. “You’re a good detective, Dustin. Thank you.”
AT SEVEN-THIRTY ASSISTANT Attorney General Eugene Marchand entered the interview room, followed by SOBA Attorney Jack Bennett. Bennett sat next to Byron while Marchand, clearly announcing his side, sat across from them.
“Gene,” Byron said.
“Sergeant Byron,” Marchand said, already cloaked in formality. “Do you need anything before we start?”
“I’m fine.”
Byron knew when he agreed to give his statement directly to an AAG today, instead of waiting to speak with an investigator in a couple of days, that he wouldn’t get Ferguson, especially since Ferguson had been working this case with him. But he had hoped to draw someone from the pool a bit more fair-minded than Marchand. Unlike Ferguson, Marchand’s every move was designed to increase his value in the mind of the attorney general. Byron figured Marchand most likely even had aspirations to one day place his rotund backside in the big chair.
“For the record, Sergeant, you are here voluntarily to answer my questions, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have been advised by union counsel that you don’t have to do this right now?” he asked, nodding toward Bennett.
“He has,” Bennett said.
“I have,” Byron agreed, “but I’m ready to proceed.”
Marchand activated the digital recorder and set it on the table between them. Byron glanced at the camera again, wondering how big the audience was in the other room.
“The time is 7:33 P.M. Today is Thursday, October the eighth, 2015. My name is Eugene Marchand, assistant attorney general for the state of Maine. Also present is John Byron, detective sergeant for the Portland Police Department, and Attorney Jack Bennett, representing Sergeant Byron on behalf of the Portland Police Superior Officers Benevolent Association. We’re here on the matter of the shooting death of Reginald Cross, formerly the assistant chief of police for the Portland Police Department. Sergeant Byron, for the record, would you please confirm you are here voluntarily to give your statement concerning the shooting of Assistant Chief Cross.”
“I am here voluntarily.”
“And are you ready to proceed?”
“I am.”
“Sergeant Byron, would you please tell me how it was you came to be at Fort Williams Park this afternoon?”
“I was conducting surveillance on Assistant Chief Cross.”
“Was this surveillance department sanctioned?”
“No. I was conducting it on my own.”
“Why were you surveilling your chief?”
“The surveillance was part of my investigation into the murders of several former Portland police officers.”
“Were you conducting surveillance on any other individuals or just Assistant Chief Cross?”
“Yes. I was also running a surveillance detail on one of my former detectives, Ray Humphrey.”
“Why were you surveilling one of your former detectives?”
“I had come to believe Ray Humphrey might be a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation.”
“Did you share your suspicion with anyone else?”
“Yes. My detectives, Diane Joyner, Mike Nugent, and Melissa Stevens, also former FBI Special Agent Terrence Pritchard.”
“You were working this case in conjunction with the FBI?”
“Not formally. Agent Pritchard is retired. He was the primary on a related case from years ago.”
“Would that be the First Bank of Boston armored car robbery connected to your murder investigation?”
“It would.”
“And was your involvement of Pritchard department sanctioned?”
“No.” Byron waited as Marchand scribbled something on his notepad.
“Where were you surveilling Humphrey?”
“The surveillance had been ongoing but began today at his place of employment on Commercial Street in Portland. Around one o’clock this afternoon, Agent Pritchard informed me that he’d followed Humphrey to Fort Williams Park in Cape Elizabeth.”
“And how did you come to be at Fort Williams?”
“I followed Assistant Chief Cross from Portland police headquarters to the same location.”
“Did you also consider Cross a suspect in your murder investigation?”
“No. I’d considered him a possible target.”
�
�Why?”
“Because he was a part of the department’s Special Reaction Team from thirty years ago, and the killer was targeting members of that team.”
“Was Detective Humphrey a part of that team?”
“He was.”
“What did you think when you found out Cross was meeting Humphrey?”
“Several possibilities occurred to me. I thought either Cross was in danger or that he and Humphrey might be in collusion.”
“Did you notify your department superiors?”
“No.”
“Did you notify the Cape Elizabeth police department, in whose jurisdiction you were operating?”
“No.”
“Did you notify the Maine State Police?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you share any of this information with your superior, Lieutenant LeRoyer?”
Byron leaned across the table toward Marchand. “There were only four people with whom I shared my suspicions regarding Humphrey: Detectives Joyner, Nugent, Stevens, and former Special Agent Terrance Pritchard.”
“You didn’t trust the other officers?”
“Someone was killing former cops—it’s a little difficult to fully trust your own when you think one of them might be responsible.”
“What happened next?”
“Agent Pritchard and I met up after Cross entered the woods on foot near the ruins. Pritchard informed me that Humphrey had gone into the woods about ten minutes before Cross.”
“Then what happened?”
“We followed them into the woods.”
“Did you call for backup?”
“I had already notified Detectives Joyner and Nugent about what was happening. They both informed me they were en route to our location.”
“Detective Joyner was your backup?”
“Her and Mike Nugent. Yes.”
“Why didn’t you wait for them?”
“I had no idea what I was walking into, and I was afraid if we waited another cop might be killed. Also, I figured if my detectives were behind us, they’d be in a better position to back us up if we got into trouble.”
“Did you find Cross in the woods?”
“Yes. We located Cross and Humphrey behind the ruins, walking toward the fort’s battery.”
“What happened next?”
“We followed them. They stopped upon reaching the water. Humphrey stood behind Cross, pointing a gun at him.”
“What did you do?”
“I had Agent Pritchard hang back while I approached with my gun drawn. I ordered Humphrey to lower his weapon.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Did Cross have a weapon?”
“Not that I could see at the time. But, yes, he did.”
“Why didn’t you shoot Humphrey? He was threatening your chief with a firearm.”
“I didn’t shoot him because of what Humphrey was saying.”
“You sure it wasn’t because of your hatred of Cross?”
Byron looked across the table at Marchand, making direct eye contact. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re saying you didn’t hate the assistant chief?”
“He was an asshole and you’re right, I didn’t care for him, but that’s not the reason I didn’t shoot Humphrey.”
“Why, then? Was it because you allowed your friendship to cloud your judgement?”
“I didn’t shoot Humphrey because he was trying to get Cross to admit what he’d done.”
“What he’d done?”
“Humphrey said he’d found out that Cross had murdered my father.”
“Your father was murdered?”
“Officially, my father committed suicide, or so I’d thought. Reece Byron, also a member of the SRT, was reported to have committed suicide by his own gun shortly after a police-involved shooting thirty years ago.”
“So Humphrey told you Cross murdered your father. Is that why you shot Cross?”
“No. I shot Cross because he shot Humphrey.”
“You shot Cross because he shot the man who’d assaulted him and was holding him at gunpoint?”
“Humphrey had lowered his gun before Cross shot him. Cross was trying to silence him. Don’t you want to know about Special Agent Pritchard, the man who shot Detective Joyner?”
“The FBI agent killed by Detective Joyner, right? Maybe she was accidentally struck by rounds meant for Humphrey?”
“You can twist this any way you want, Gene. But that isn’t what happened. You weren’t fucking there.”
Bennett placed a hand on Byron’s forearm, which Byron promptly shook off.
“I would’ve liked to question Assistant Chief Cross about what happened,” Marchand continued. “But I can’t now. Can I?”
Byron glared at Marchand. He wondered if Marchand was only trying to rattle him or if he was doing Stanton’s bidding—the chief’s attempt at preserving his career in the face of a public scandal. “No, I guess you can’t. And I think we’re done here,” Byron said as he stood up.
“I’m not finished with you, Sergeant.”
“That’s too bad, because this was voluntary, remember? And I’m finished with you, Gene.”
Byron whipped the door open, banging it against the wall, and stormed out of the interview room. Bennett chased after him. All eyes were upon Byron as he marched through CID toward his office.
Byron was packing up some personal belongings as Bennett walked in accompanied by LeRoyer.
“What the fuck was that?” Byron snapped, directing his question at the lieutenant.
“John,” Bennett began, “I have to advise you against saying anything that could be used to—”
“Great, you’ve advised me.” He turned back to LeRoyer, “Well? Did he really just ask me if I fucking murdered Cross?”
“John, look, I know you’re upset but—”
“You’ve already got my gun, might as well take this too,” he said, unclipping the badge from his belt and tossing it at LeRoyer.
“John,” LeRoyer said, putting a hand out to try and prevent him from leaving.
“Save it,” Byron said as he walked out of his office and out of 109.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“HOW’S MY FAVORITE PATIENT?” Byron asked as he peered around the curtain.
“You’re lucky I wasn’t in the middle of a sponge bath,” Diane teased.
“My timing’s never been that good.” Byron leaned over the bed and kissed her. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I got shot.”
“Nice outfit,” he said, poking fun at her pink johnny.
“You like it? You oughta see it from the back.”
Byron surveyed the brightly colored bouquets lining the windowsill and floor beneath.
She followed his gaze. “It’s a little much, I know.”
“Nonsense. They look great. Almost makes the hospital room bearable. By the way, I brought you a present,” he said, handing her a white box with a red bow.
“Ooh, you got me a going-steady ring?”
“Better.”
Diane removed the box top and looked inside. She reached in and held up a ballistic breastplate.
“Your old one has a big dent in it from Pritchard’s forty-five,” Byron said.
“Ah, that would match the big-ass bruise on my chest.”
“Thought you might want a new one.”
She batted her eyes at him. “You’re such a romantic.”
“I read somewhere if something doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”
“Oh, so now you’re a reader?”
“Well, okay, maybe I saw it on television.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting the gift on the bedside table, wincin
g as she did so.
“Hey, have I thanked you for saving my life?”
“Nope. Not since yesterday, you unappreciative bastard.”
“Thank you, again,” he said. “Maybe I’ll show you some proper appreciation once you’re out of here.”
“Promises, promises. Anyway, you’d have done the same for me.”
“Stanton just had his big dog and pony show at 109.”
“Sorry I missed it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What’d he say?”
“Called you a bona fide hero.”
“Not sure I want him discussing my bona fides in public.”
“How is it you can even make that sound dirty?”
“It’s a gift. So the chief decided to spin this in his favor. How do you like that?”
“Not like he had a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ray’s recording and statement. I handed them over to the FBI. Special Agent Sam Collier, to be exact.”
“The feds took the case from the state attorney general?”
“Yup. The U.S. attorney general himself. Evidently, they’d been trying to get something on Pritchard for years, while he was still on the job. They’re searching his old files and his house.”
“Stanton must be livid.”
“I hope so.”
“What about Beaudreau?” Diane asked.
“Feds picked him up in Pennsylvania and he’s talking like there’s no tomorrow. From what Sam told me, it looks like Beaudreau confirmed that Andreas, the missing robber, was one of Cross’s CIs. Following the armored car robbery, Andreas got cold feet. He contacted Cross about giving up the other three robbers in exchange for half of the money and a way out of the country. Cross contacted his old army buddy, Pritchard, after he learned they were hiding out in Portland.”
“Holy hell.”
“Pritchard posed as a money launderer and Cross introduced him to Andreas. They killed Andreas and got half of the money before the SRT raid even happened.”
“What about Andreas?”
“The feds are planning to search the old Ocean Avenue landfill for his remains.”
Diane looked puzzled. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?” Byron asked.
“How did Dustin make the military connection between Cross and Prichard?”
Among the Shadows Page 32