Among the Shadows

by Bruce Robert Coffin

  “After the Perrigos were murdered, I asked him to go through everything again. Looking for any link between the FBI agents who originally investigated the shooting and the SRT. Collier provided the bio stuff, including the DD214s on all the agents, and Dustin compared military records for everyone who’d served. They met at Fort Dix, advanced infantry training, then on to Fort Bragg as members of the 101st Airborne.”

  Diane shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus.”

  “Even deployed to Vietnam together.”

  “You suspected Pritchard might have been involved?” Diane asked.

  “Since our witnesses were killed at the safe house, I suspected someone from the bureau might be. I’d hoped I was wrong about it being Terry.”

  “So, then you knew you might be walking into a trap at Fort Williams?”

  Byron shrugged. “It was a possibility. But I knew you and Nuge were coming.”

  “Jesus, John. That’s pretty reckless.”

  She was right, of course. It was reckless. Maybe he’d been too tired to think it through. Or maybe that was just a convenient excuse. Maybe he’d been so hell-­bent on catching the killer and on finding out what role his father had played that he had acted recklessly. Endangering all of them. “I had to know the truth.”

  Diane shook her head again. “I still can’t believe it.” She reached for the plastic water cup and took a sip from the straw. “So you’re still working?”

  “Of course not. I killed the Ass Chief, remember? Suspended with pay, at least until the AG’s office announces their finding. They’re also pissed about the feds taking the case, so it might be a while.”

  “I’ll bet they are. How are you doing, John? Really?”

  He looked down at the floor, trying to avert his eyes from her prying ones. “Still trying to wrap my head around everything, I guess.”

  “You thought about talking to someone?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “Ha-­ha. I mean someone trained to help you through it.”

  “Therapy?” He shook his head dismissively. “Not really my thing.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with getting at little—­”

  “Please, don’t run that ‘strong ­people ask for help crap’ on me. Okay? This is something I’m gonna have to work through on my own. I’ve spent the last thirty years believing my dad was a coward and that Ray was a good man. It’s gonna take me some time.”

  Diane smiled and slid her hand over his. “You know, I read somewhere if something doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”

  He grinned. “Oh, so now you’re a reader?”

  She returned the smile and stared into his eyes. “John, I think maybe I’m falling—­”

  “Hey, lady.”

  They both looked up and saw Melissa Stevens standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, Mel!” Diane said.

  “Catch you guys at a bad time?” Stevens asked with a knowing grin as she looked from one to the other.

  “Not at all,” Byron said, sliding his hand out from under Diane’s. “I was just leaving.”

  “Where are you going?” Diane asked.

  “I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

  Epilogue

  BYRON STOOD AT the nursing station where a woman in her late fifties, wearing a crisp white uniform, was busy berating one of the young orderlies about maintaining her room schedule instead of sneaking outside to call her boyfriend. He waited off to one side, pretending to read something on his cell phone. When the supervisor had finished properly chastising her subordinate, the young woman with the ponytail returned to her rounds.

  Byron approached the counter and the nursing supervisor turned her attention toward him.

  “Kids,” she said, flashing a knowing smile, which he returned. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so,” he said as he showed her his credentials. “I’m a police officer and I’m looking for Christopher Falcone’s room.”

  “Of course. He’s in room 121. Take this hallway down to the end and turn left, fifth door on your right. Can’t miss it; it’s the one with the police officer seated at the door.”

  Byron thanked her and headed toward Falcone’s room. He wasn’t expecting much, having had his detectives already attempt an interview. They reported during their previous visit that his Alzheimer’s was in the advanced stages.

  If there was one place Byron did not enjoy spending time, aside from the chief’s office, it was nursing homes and homes for the aged. What the hell did that mean anyway? Wasn’t home for the aged really a fancy way of saying we’re waiting for you to die? And would you please step it up, there’s a waiting list for your bed.

  The facility reminded Byron a little too much of his last visit to his mother. The hallway was painted the same depressing pale blue and tiled with the same stark white-­speckled linoleum. The air smelled strongly of bleach, masking the faintest hint of urine. He forced his mother’s image from his head.

  At the far end of the corridor, he turned left as the nurse had instructed. A uniformed Maine State Trooper was seated in the hall, flipping through a magazine.

  “Help you?” the trooper asked as Byron approached. He stood, facing Byron in a bladed position, gun hip turned away.

  Byron identified himself, explaining that he only wanted a ­couple of minutes with the old man.

  “My instructions are not to let anyone in there other than FBI.”

  “He’s in your custody, right?” Byron asked, hoping to gain his trust.

  “Right.”

  “I’m not taking him anywhere and I’m not here to fuck with the FBI’s case. Just wanna talk with him.”

  The trooper looked down the hall nervously, then back at Byron. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  Byron could tell the trooper wasn’t a rookie. There were some miles under his campaign hat. “Look, how many times have the feds muscled you aside on a state police case?”

  The trooper stared at him, unblinking. Byron could see the wheels turning.

  “I just need a few minutes with him. This may be my last chance to find out something I need to know, about my father.”

  “You got five minutes.”

  Byron walked through the open doorway and saw the old man, dressed in blue pajamas, dozing in one of two adjustable beds. Falcone’s torso was raised slightly. The room was a two-­person, but Falcone was the only occupant, situated in the bed nearest the window. The wall-­mounted television was on, but muted. Byron quietly entered the room and sat down in one of the bedside chairs. Falcone was frail. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. A plastic tube had been inserted into his left nostril, the other end of which was connected to a large green oxygen tank. Falcone looked nothing like the young man he had been in the SRT team photo.

  A woman and her two children walked noisily by the door, carrying yellow flowers and a bright red balloon. Party for the dying, he thought. When Byron looked back, Falcone was wide awake and had fixed his eyes upon his visitor.

  “Mr. Falcone,” Byron began as he reached into his jacket pocket for his identification. “I hope I didn’t wake you. My name is Detective Sergeant John—­”

  “I know who you are, Sergeant,” Falcone said, gruffly cutting him off.

  “You do?” Byron asked, surprised at the old man’s response.

  “Yup, I do. I watch the news, ya know. Got nothing else to do. Well, except for waiting around to kick the ol’ bucket.”

  Byron supposed it was probably true, given the way he looked.

  “Congratulations on killing that fucking psycho bastard.”

  “Ray Humphrey? But I didn’t kill him.”

  “Not Humphrey. Cross. Figured whoever was doing it would get to me eventually. Maybe a pillow over the face or a needle in my IV bag, like in the movies. G
uess I’ll sleep a little better now. Been expecting you, actually.”

  “The police, you mean?”

  “No, you personally, Sergeant Byron.”

  “Why me?” Byron asked, proceeding cautiously. Normally, he was in control when conducting an interview. Falcone had somehow gained the upper hand during what should have been a surprise visit.

  “Because I knew you either wouldn’t or couldn’t let it go. You’re here about your father, right?”

  “I am.”

  “And you want me to tell you what really happened?”

  “Guess that’s true as well, but I thought you—­”

  Falcone cut him off again. “You thought I was bat-­shit crazy with Alzheimer’s, right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yeah, that was my general impression.”

  “Ha,” Falcone cackled. “Well, sometimes I am, I guess. Fucking can’t remember periods of time, though some days I’m still pretty good, like today. But I can still pretend if I don’t want to do something or if I don’t want to talk to someone, like when your detectives were in here.” Falcone grinned, revealing several blackened teeth. “That Joyner, she’s a pretty one. Wouldn’t mind seeing her again,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Back along, we didn’t have too many women on the job.”

  “What can you tell me about 1985, Mr. Falcone?”

  “Enough with the Mr. Falcone crap, okay? It’s Chris, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Okay, Chris. What can you tell me about 1985?”

  “Guess I can tell you the whole damn thing. Not like you’re gonna arrest me. Feds already got me anyway.”

  Falcone proceeded to tell the tale to Byron with surprising clarity. He confirmed almost everything Byron had learned about the robbery, the call-­out, the money, and subsequent cover-­up. Falcone only got emotional once, while describing the death of Officer Bruce Gagnon. Falcone’s eyes were red and his voice cracked. He stopped talking and looked out the window.

  Several minutes passed. Byron began to worry Falcone’s mind might have slipped from the here-­and-­now into that place where the shroud of Alzheimer’s was impenetrable. At last, he spoke again. “I’m sorry about your dad, son. I didn’t have anything to do with that. It was Reggie Cross who pulled the trigger. I thought we were going over there to talk some sense into him. I’ve had plenty of time to think about that night. I think Reggie planned to kill him all along.”

  Byron continued to listen, saying nothing.

  “I did more than my share of bad shit over the years, Sergeant. I’ll admit it and I’ll take whatever punishment the Almighty sees fit to bring down on me. Guess I got it coming. But I never did anything like that. My life turned to shit the day he killed Reece. I blew my share of the money, my wife left me, and my kids haven’t spoken to me in years. It was like Reggie cursed all of us. I hated that son of a bitch.”

  “Why didn’t any of you do something?” Byron asked. “Why didn’t you come forward?”

  “We almost did. A ­couple of us talked seriously about coming forward and giving the money back, and turning states evidence, but we couldn’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we were all fucking scared of him, even O’Halloran was. That’s the God’s honest truth. Reggie was a bully. He had stuff on all of us—­well, almost all of us. He never did manage to get anything on your dad.”

  “Perrigo told me you’d been ripping off drug dealers, even before the armored car robbery.”

  “Some of us had. When we could get away with it. Your dad never knew about those and he never took a cent until the robbery shootout.”

  “If that’s true, why involve him at all?”

  “This wasn’t like taking down a drug dealer. We needed the whole team for this one. I guess Reggie probably figured there was so much money, everyone would go along with it.”

  “But everyone didn’t,” Byron said.

  “No, everyone didn’t. That money was the only money your dad had ever taken, and he was going to turn it over to the feds. Reece Byron was the only guy I ever knew man enough to stand up to that asshole, and it got him killed.”

  Byron leaned forward in the chair, forearms on his knees. He looked down at the floor as his eyes welled up. He felt a single tear run down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Falcone reached over the bedrail and gently placed a weathered old hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Son, your dad was a good man, an honorable man, and one of the best cops I ever worked with. Somewhere along the way, I guess we just forgot what being cops was all about.

  Byron lifted his head and looked at the old man.

  “Your dad never did.”

  BYRON PARKED OUT in front of Kay’s office on Meeting House Hill in South Portland. He picked up the manila envelope from the passenger seat and opened it. He pulled out the papers and looked at the cover sheet. It looked the same as it had each of the previous times he’d looked at it during the course of the morning, and there had been at least a dozen. He slid the documents back into the envelope and stepped out of the car. He climbed the office steps and went inside.

  Byron didn’t recognize the attractive young receptionist. She was new.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m dropping something off for Kay Byron.”

  “Dr. Byron is in session, but she’ll be done in about ten minutes, if you’d care to wait.”

  He glanced beyond the lobby into the empty waiting room, considering it. “Thanks anyway, but I can’t stay. Would please you make sure she gets this?” he said, handing her the envelope.

  “Certainly. May I tell her your name?”

  “Tell her it’s from John.”

  BYRON GRABBED THE brown paper bag off the passenger seat, then ducked under a damaged section of cyclone fencing separating New Street from Evergreen Cemetery. Neighborhood kids had most likely vandalized the rusted barrier, which now served as a cut through.

  He walked slowly but purposefully toward the back corner of the property, attuned to everything around him. The smell of freshly cut grass and rotting leaves filled the air. He heard the sounds of kids playing, the twitter of birds, and a power mower.

  It had been decades since he’d been to the grave, but he still remembered the way. The area looked vastly different. The maples and pines had grown along with the number of stones. A chilly breeze rustled through the leaves, making a whispering sound. He no longer felt like a man in his late forties. It was as if the last thirty years never happened and he was once again a teenager sneaking into the cemetery to drink beer with his friends from the Hill. He felt vulnerable and unsure as he approached the marker.

  A simple granite stone, nearly obscured by debris, was embedded in the turf. He knelt in the grass, removed a small branch, and brushed pine needles from the grave. Reece James Byron 1939–1985. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes watered as he tried to speak.

  Memories came flooding back after years of repression. Good memories. Playing catch on the Eastern Prom, fishing off the docks on Commercial Street, riding in the police cruiser. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a faded picture of them. Reece was in uniform, holding a young John Byron on his lap. He was wearing his father’s police hat, awkwardly cocked to one side. They were both smiling and happy.

  He pulled a brand-­new bottle of Jameson and a single shot glass from the bag. He twisted the cap off the bottle, catching a whiff of the Irish, filled the glass, and placed them gently upon the stone, then he leaned the photograph against the bottle. Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he sat down cross-­legged in the grass.

  “Thought it was about time we had a talk, Dad.”

  Acknowledgments

  AMONG THE SHADOWS is the culmination of a long journey, from my first days attending the University of Southe
rn Maine—­to study writing—­through nearly three decades in law enforcement. I am eternally grateful to a number of ­people instrumental in my transition to published novelist. You’ll forgive me if I’ve left any of you out, it was certainly not my intention.

  Kate “Doc” Flora for your friendship, sage advice, counsel, ruthless editing, and ongoing psychotherapy as I blindly navigate my battered dory through the forbidding, shark-­infested waters of writing and publishing. And for pushing me to reach beyond while talking me off the ledge.

  The many writing teachers who’ve inspired me, among them Scarborough High’s Gerald Hebert, Eileen Matrazzo, and Deborah Kerr.

  My proofreaders, critics, and fact-­checkers: Nancy Coffin (my mom), Michael Cunniff, Sherry Simons, Jen Printy, Judy Ridge, Barbara Nickerson, Marge Niblock, Lee Humiston, Cindy Swift, and Inger Cyr.

  Fellow crime writers Brenda Buchanan, Dick Cass, Kate Flora (yes, again), Al Lamanda, and Rick Simonds.

  My immediate family and friends for their constant encouragement and support along the way.

  Dave and Theresa Cote for providing me with an opportunity.

  The many men and women in the field of criminal justice, true professionals I was fortunate enough to have served with, whether municipal, county, state, federal, corrections, prosecutors, defense counselors, or magistrates. I will always consider each one of you my extended family (Wouldn’t that make for a great tax deduction?).

  My agent, Paula Munier, at Talcott Notch for believing in me.

  Nick Amphlett, my editor at Harper­Collins, for allowing me to stick my foot in the novel publishing door and for prodding me to reach further. And Patrice Silverstein, my copyeditor, for catching what I missed.

  Lastly, and most importantly, my wife, Karen, for her love, support, inspiration, infinite patience, and for believing. Without you in my life there would be no story.

  About the Author

  BRUCE ROBERT COFFIN retired from the Portland, Maine, police department in 2012, after more than twenty-­seven years in law enforcement. As a detective sergeant, he supervised all homicide and violent crime investigations for Maine’s largest city. Following the terrorist attacks of September 11, he worked for four years with the FBI, earning the Director’s Award (the highest honor a nonagent can receive) for his work in counterterrorism.