by James Hayman
‘I don’t know,’ said Maggie.
‘Kelly wouldn’t have told her if it was him. Neither would some other so-called real killer. So who did?’
‘Connor lived at Sanctuary House. Lainie worked with the kids there. Maybe he told her himself.’
‘Maybe. But Lainie only worked with the girls.’
‘He still could have told her. Or he may have told one of the girls.’
‘Again, maybe. But here’s another thought. What if the real killer was abusing one or more of the kids, but it wasn’t Callie Connor he was abusing. In fact, what if it wasn’t a boy at all. What if the real killer isn’t gay but heterosexual and the person he was abusing was a girl. Or maybe girls plural.’
‘That makes no sense, McCabe. If Lainie was confronting him about abusing a girl, why would he kill Connor and not the girl?’
‘It does make sense if his goal is to make us think John Kelly, the gay ex-priest who was abused as a child, is the murderer. If he was using Connor’s death as nothing more than another piece of carefully orchestrated misdirection to push the investigation in Kelly’s direction.’
‘Then he would have also had to kill the girl who told Lainie,’ said Cleary.
‘Yes, he would. Or girls. Plural.’
‘If he did,’ said Maggie, ‘their bodies may not be as easy to find as Connor’s was.’
‘You guys are blowing my mind,’ said Fraser. ‘As of now this is all pure conjecture. And, if you’ll pardon my French, maybe pure bullshit. As of now all the evidence for all the killings still points straight to John Kelly.’
Fortier’s phone rang. Cleary picked it up. ‘Lieutenant Fortier’s office. Cleary speaking. Hey, Joe.’ Pause. ‘Really?’ Pause. ‘Interesting.’ Pause. ‘You’re sure the final reads will back up the prelims? Okay. Yeah, I’ll let ’em know.’ Cleary hung up. ‘Well Sergeant, I hate to throw a monkey wrench into your Sherlock Holmes conjectures, but –’
‘But Pines says the semen on Kelly’s sheets came from the kid?’ asked McCabe.
‘Yeah, some of it did. But not all of it. Some of it came from Kelly himself. None of it comes from some unknown mystery killer. Does that convince you Kelly’s the guy?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s Kelly. Maybe not.’
‘If not Kelly,’ asked Maggie, ‘then who?’
‘I don’t know, but there are two people who might be able to tell us.’
‘Yes.’ Maggie nodded. ‘Unfortunately, at the moment, Abby can’t and Barker won’t.’
‘Did you ever get the search warrant for Barker’s place?’
‘Krickstein signed it this morning. Said we could pick it up anytime.’
‘Good. Let’s pay Andy a little visit. Would you like me to get you a wheelchair?’
‘You mean like Ironside?’
‘Sort of. Except you’re way better looking than Raymond Burr.’
‘I don’t know. He was cute in an ugly sort of way. Anyway, I’d rather hobble. It hurts too much to sit down.’
‘After Barker, let’s see if we can get some answers from Abby Quinn.’ McCabe picked up the phone and called Wolfe’s office. There was no answer, but he left a message saying Abby was at Winter Haven and it was time to try hypnotherapy as they’d discussed. The sooner the better.
On the way out they could still hear Shockley bragging to whoever was still listening about great police work.
Thirty-Six
At exactly 10:32 A.M. four PPD vehicles pulled up around the corner from 342 Brackett Street. Uniformed cops emerged from two black-and-white units and slipped around the back and sides of the building to keep Andy Barker from sneaking out. When they were in position, McCabe and Maggie, along with evidence techs Bill Jacobi, Jeff Feeney, and Carla Morrisey, entered the building. Jacobi and Feeney lugged two silver-colored metal suitcases filled with electronic equipment up to the second floor. Maggie limped up behind them, and they all waited silently on the landing. Downstairs McCabe knocked on the door to apartment 1F. ‘Barker?’ he called out.
There was no answer, but McCabe could hear the sound of someone shuffling around inside.
He knocked again. ‘Andrew Barker? This is the police. Please open the door now.’
He heard more scurrying on the other side.
‘Mr Barker. We have a warrant to search your apartment. If you don’t open the door now, I’ll be forced to have it removed.’
Another few seconds passed. The door opened an inch or two, a gold-colored security chain stretched across the opening. Barker peered out. ‘You again. Why won’t you people leave me alone? What do you want now?’
McCabe held up a sheet of paper. ‘I have a warrant signed by Judge Harold Krickstein of the district court authorizing a search of your premises. Please open the door now.’
‘What if I say no?’
‘Trust me, Mr Barker, I don’t think you want to do that.’
There was a moment’s further hesitation; then Barker slipped off the chain and opened the door. He was unshaven and wearing a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe. Probably had nothing on underneath. Skinny white legs wearing black ankle socks protruded from under the robe. From upstairs, McCabe could hear Maggie and the three techs unlocking Goff’s apartment and going in.
Barker frowned at the sound. ‘Who’s that up there?’
McCabe ignored the question and moved past Barker into the room. A wave of hot air hit him. It had to be over eighty degrees, and the place stank of sweat, garbage, and dirty laundry.
Barker eyed McCabe warily. ‘Who’s upstairs?’
‘Move away from the door, Mr Barker,’ said McCabe. ‘Come in and close it.’
Barker didn’t argue. McCabe looked around. Almost every surface was covered with something. Clothing, videos, and magazines. A fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV dominated one wall. A single La-Z-Boy recliner covered in stained brown corduroy faced the screen; a copy of a publication called Boobz lay open on the seat, its cover graced by a naked woman with the biggest breasts McCabe had ever seen. Behind the recliner were a couple more chairs and an old-fashioned couch covered in a brown gingham check.
‘Who’s upstairs?’ Barker asked again.
McCabe pointed to the gingham couch. ‘Sit over there, Andy. We need to talk.’
Barker sat. McCabe stood over him and showed him a piece of paper. ‘This is a warrant to search your apartment.’
‘I know. You told me. So what are they doing upstairs?’
‘Detective Savage and a team of police technicians are sweeping apartment 2F for hidden cameras and microphones, Andy. The ones you used to spy on Elaine Goff.’
Barker started to rise, his face red with rage. ‘They can’t … What the hell?’
McCabe pushed him gently back down. ‘I think you better stay right where you are, little Andy-Man, and tell me all about your video collection.’
Barker’s rage turned to fear. His eyes started blinking rapidly, perhaps uncontrollably. His hands were shaking. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, sure you do, Andy. The spycam videos you took of Lainie. You liked watching her, didn’t you, Andy? Better looking than those gals in Boobz magazine, don’t you think? Y’know, I can just see you now, sitting there in your La-Z-Boy getting off on watching Lainie when she didn’t know you were looking. What did you like best? Watching her getting undressed? Or maybe taking a bath? Or maybe your best fun was watching her have sex with somebody? You watched it all, didn’t you? Right there on your super duper fifty-two-inch high-definition plasma TV. Or is it an LCD? I always get them mixed up.’
Barker just kept blinking.
‘In fact, you’re a regular little Peeping Andy, aren’t you?’
Barker closed his eyes and began repeating his mantra. ‘I have the right to remain silent –’
‘Andy, Andy.’ McCabe held up a hand like a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. ‘Please don’t start that again. We all know that song.’
‘I have the right to r
emain silent,’ Barker began again. ‘Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to have an attorney present during questioning –’
‘Yes, you do, Andy, but hold on. When you hear what I have to offer, maybe you won’t want to remain silent.’
Barker just looked at him.
McCabe’s cell rang. ‘Yes? Yes. Good. Thank you.’
He put the phone away and turned back to Barker. ‘That was the folks upstairs. They found your cameras hidden in the old ceiling light fixtures. One in the bedroom. One in the bathroom. One in the living room.’ McCabe looked at his watch. ‘Took them about ten minutes start to finish. They’re just double-checking now to make sure there aren’t any more.’
Barker took a deep breath and looked toward the TV. ‘What do you want?’
‘Now, since you wouldn’t want all that good stuff you were watching to go to waste, my guess is you were recording videos. My other guess is you have them right here in this apartment.’
McCabe paused for a response. There was none, so he continued. ‘Since we have this search warrant, we can rip this place apart until we find your stash, wherever it is, and then go back to Middle Street and sit there watching your dirty movies till we find what we’re looking for. Then again that seems like a lot of unnecessary work, don’t you think, Andy, when you can just point us to the right ones?’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘The video of the guy who searched Lainie’s apartment Friday night before I got there. Plus any other video that shows her talking to a man, maybe the same man, either in person or over the phone.’
‘What do I get out of it?’
‘You hand them over and you get charged with a Violation of Privacy. A Class D offense. Max sentence only one year, which you’d probably serve in the county jail and not state prison. In fact, if you have a clean record and no priors, you might get off with no jail time at all. Just probation.’
‘What if I don’t hand them over?’
‘That becomes what I call helping the bad guys and what the Maine statutes call Hindering Apprehension. A Class B crime. Up to ten years in the state prison. Even without priors, you’ll do at least four. And it’s hard time, Andy. In a place where a cute little fella like you might not do very well. So it’s no jail time if you help. Four to ten if you don’t. Sounds like a good deal to me, but it’s your call. Take it or leave it.’
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Sure. You’ve got one minute.’
‘Can I get it in writing?’
‘It already is in writing. Just check the Maine statutes. Violation of Privacy versus Hindering Apprehension.’
‘Do I get to keep my other videos?’
‘You mean of Lainie?’
‘Yes.’
McCabe did his best to keep a straight face. Who was this goofball? ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Barker sighed, got up, and walked to a DVD machine on a table next to the television. He took one video off the top. Then he hit POWER, pressed EJECT, and took out a second disk. He handed both to McCabe. ‘I think these are what you’re looking for.’
‘Where are the rest of them?’
‘Back of the closet. There’s a false panel. It slips right out. You just have to find the latch. There’s a box in there. That’s where I keep them.’
Thirty-Seven
Word of the spycams spread fast. By the time McCabe and Maggie walked in with the box of videos, the conference room was full, everyone gathered and waiting. All of McCabe’s detectives plus Starbucks and Bill Fortier. Even Shockley was there, seated at the head of the table, impatience written all over his face.
Maggie found a chair between Fortier and Tasco. Sturgis slid a foam rubber seat cushion across the table. ‘Here you go, Savage. I heard you weren’t as much of a hard-ass as I thought. I figured this might help.’
‘Why, thank you, Carl,’ said Maggie, slipping the cushion under her. ‘How very thoughtful of you.’
McCabe waited for them to settle, then ran through the two-minute drill on what he hoped to find on the two disks they were about to watch. Brian Cleary volunteered to review the rest of Barker’s stash. On the house. No overtime. McCabe declined. Maggie rolled her eyes. Shockley glared.
‘Can we get moving here, people?’ asked McCabe. ‘The clock is ticking.’
The two disks Barker had handed McCabe were differentiated by a letter code and dates handwritten across the top in red marker. Seemed Barker was an organized guy. One was marked LR-1/3/07. That would have been last Tuesday. The day of Lainie’s death. The other read LR-12/20/06. Two weeks earlier. He figured LR stood for living room as opposed to bedroom or bathroom. Jacobi told him Barker’s spycams were motion activated. That was good. There’d be no need to waste time looking at nothing happening.
McCabe slid the disk from January third into the machine and hit PLAY. The room went quiet. No gossip. No cracking jokes. Nobody nibbled on a sandwich or even sipped a cup of coffee. At first all they could see was a blank screen, then black, then a flash of white, then a view of Goff’s living room as the apartment door swung open, activating the camera. A shaft of light from the hallway hit the Angela Adams rug, the glass coffee table, the white chairs and couch. A fish-eye view looking down from the ceiling. The time code read 2:33:19 AM 1/03/07. The middle of the night. Or, more accurately, very early morning, the Tuesday of the murder. A dark figure entered, dressed in a dark hooded coat. The same kind of coat they’d seen fleeing Leanna Barnes’s apartment. It was impossible to tell whether the figure inside the coat was John Kelly or someone else. All they could see was a hood pulled up over the head and a pair of shoulders. The intruder turned, closed the door. The image went black, then lightened as the lens automatically adjusted to the ambient light entering through the windows.
The intruder turned on a flashlight and scanned the beam around the room, the lens once again adjusting the aperture to available light. He went through the living room and disappeared into the hall between the kitchen and bedroom, making sure, McCabe guessed, that the place was empty. Ten seconds later he was back.
‘Alright, you’re alone,’ McCabe murmured to the figure on the screen. ‘Now take off the hood and show us who you are.’
Almost as if reacting to the request, the guy reached up, put a hand on the dark cowl, and held it there.
‘C’mon, baby, just pull it off.’
The guy paused. There wasn’t a sound in the conference room. They were all holding their breath. The intruder dropped his hand.
There were moans and grumbling from around the table.
Still hooded, the intruder walked to the bookcase on the right side of the room. He shined the light at the top shelf. The camera angle was down and at his back, and you couldn’t see a damned thing except the coat and hood and the flashlight beam running along the row of books. The light stopped at one of the books. Then another. Then it went back to the first and stayed there. He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. It was an oversized volume, maybe an art or travel book. He set the flashlight carefully on one of the lower shelves and rotated his body to the right. A thin sliver of face became visible. But not enough. You could tell he was a white guy, but that was it. He stood there, angling the book so the light was pointed directly at the pages. Happily, so was the spycam.
They watched him riffle through the pages until he found what he was looking for. A nine-by-twelve orange envelope. He removed the envelope, closed the book, returned it to its space on the top shelf. He turned the envelope in his gloved hands. Once. Twice. He paused.
McCabe could make out something written in the upper left-hand corner, where a return address would go. He froze the image, then moved ahead one frame at a time, but it was impossible to read what the words said. Palmer Milliken? Maybe. Maybe Starbucks could enlarge it and play with the focus so they could read it. Maybe not. McCabe hit play again. The guy turned the envelope over again. Probably debating whether to ope
n it here and now or wait till later. Apparently here and now won, because he removed the leather glove from his right hand and slid a bare finger under the seal. He reached inside and pulled out what looked like a stack of black-and-white photographs. McCabe again froze the image and advanced the frames one by one. He couldn’t tell what the pictures were of. Again he’d have to depend on Starbucks to manipulate the images. The intruder slid the pictures back in the envelope and folded it lengthwise and pushed it into his coat pocket, not seeming to care if he bent the pictures. The pictures must have been what he was looking for, because he took his flashlight, headed for the door, and left. The time code read 2:36:15. He’d been in the apartment less than three minutes. He’d turned out no drawers. Dumped nothing on the floor. McCabe was certain it wasn’t the same guy who tossed the apartment night before last. This guy had found what he wanted. That guy hadn’t. McCabe fast-forwarded through the rest of the disk. It was empty. He hit eject, and it slid out.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ asked Shockley. ‘Is that your murderer?’
‘I’m sure it was,’ said McCabe. ‘Unfortunately, we still don’t know if it was Kelly or someone else.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake McCabe, every piece of evidence we’ve got points to Kelly. Even the DNA says it’s him. I say we arraign the sonofabitch and stop screwing around watching TV shows.’
‘Let’s just see what’s on the next disk.’
He inserted the disk marked LR-12/20/06. The camera turned on when the top of Lainie Goff’s head entered frame. Same fish-eye view as before. The time code read 12/20/06. 8:34:44. Seventy-two hours before her abduction. Two weeks to the day before her death. Lainie turned on a table lamp, the sudden light creating a white flash in the upper corner of the frame. There was a knocking sound. She crossed the room, opened the door a crack, and peered out.
She said something to whoever was on the other side of the door. A male voice said something back. Both voices too far from the mike to make out what was being said. The male voice spoke again. Lainie seemed to hesitate, as if debating whether or not to let him in. She apparently decided she would and opened the door all the way. If she knew he was a killer, why would she do that?