Among the Shadows (19 page)

“22, copied. En route.”

“22, do you want additional units?”

“Negative, I don't wanna contaminate the scene for the dog. Get ahold of 720, Sergeant Byron, and let him know what we've got out here.”

“10–4, Sergeant.”

B
YRON PU
LLED UP
in front of Humphrey's house just after one in the morning, and parked the noisy Jetta between two black-­and-­whites. The sound of a police dog's excited barking came from the backyard. He approached the house and was met by Humphrey and Sergeant Alan Morrell.

“Hey, Sarge,” Humphrey said.

“You okay, Ray?”

Morrell answered for him. “He was a little winded when we found him. Maybe less time in the weight room and more time jogging, huh?” He patted Humphrey on the back.

“Did you get a look at him?” Byron asked.

“Not really. A figure dressed in dark clothing near the rear door. I think we startled each other. Whoever that was is friggin' fast.”

“Mercer and K–9 Roscoe are starting a track from the back of the house,” Morrell said. “I'm sending Hutchins with him.”

“What the fuck are you driving?” Humphrey asked.

“It's a long story. Have we alerted the other details?”

“We informed all of them,” Morrell said. “But I'd be surprised if he tried again tonight.”

“Even so, let's get a second officer to watch the rear of Ray's house.”

“I don't need any more babysitters,” Humphrey protested.

“Another officer, Al,” Byron repeated.

“I'll take care of it.”

The dispatcher's voice came over the radio again, “222.”

Morrell keyed the mic on his lapel. “Go ahead.”

“Is 720 with you?”

“Yeah, standing right here.”

“Have him call the Westbrook shift commander, 10–18.”

“10–4. Westbrook wants a call from you right away.”

“Now what?” Byron said, gesturing for Morrell's portable mic. The sergeant obliged.

“720. I'm a little busy right now.

“10–4, 720. I think you're gonna want to call them, Sergeant. It's about location three.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Three

A
T QUARTER OF TWO,
John Byron stepped out of his car and began walking down the long paved drive toward Williams's house. Flashing blue strobe lights illuminated his path. He stopped at the yellow crime-­scene tape marking the perimeter long enough for a uniformed state trooper to record his name in the log.

The gray-­and-­blue state police evidence unit, a large RV conversion, was parked near the home. Several members of the SP Evidence Response Team (ERT) were busy photographing and marking the scene near the front door. Police floods illuminating the entryway made the dooryard look more like a nighttime sporting event. Byron pulled out and looked at his ringing cell. LeRoyer. He returned the phone to his pocket. The good lieutenant's update would have to wait. He wasn't in the mood.

The person he was seeking found him first. “John. Over here.”

Detective Sergeant Lucinda Phillips, Byron's state police counterpart, was the Major Case Unit supervisor, responsible for all homicides occurring outside of Portland in the southern half of Maine.

“Hey, Luce.”

“Sorry about the jurisdictional bullshit. This is most likely your serial.”

“No worries. Thanks for involving us. What can you tell me so far?”

“The victim, Eric Williams, was shot as he stood in the open doorway. Close quarters, two rounds to the chest and one to the head, execution style. Looks like he opened the door to the killer.” Byron scribbled in his notepad. “I've got one of my folks, Detective Curtis, and your Detective Joyner interviewing Sergeant Pepin.”

Byron saw the three of them seated in an unmarked Impala. He had no love for Curtis, having crossed paths with him before, when they were both detectives. Besides the rank, the only other thing they'd shared was a mutual dislike for each other. Byron saw Curtis as an overbearing asshole who thought being a Maine State Trooper made him God's gift to law enforcement. As for what Curtis thought of him, Byron couldn't have cared less.

“Where's the surveillance detail I had assigned out here?” Byron asked.

“Sergeant Pepin pulled it,” Phillips said.

His head whipped around in her direction. “Why?”

“I'd better let him tell you.”

Byron looked back at the unmarked.

Phillips continued. “My ERT is working the area around the body with two of your ­people, Pelligrosso and Stevens.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Doesn't look like it. The victim was home alone. We've woken up half of the neighborhood canvassing, but most of them slept through it. The ones who didn't weren't close enough to see anything.”

“Sounds like you're on top of it,” Byron said, trying hard to hide that not being in charge was nearly killing him.

“John, I know this jurisdictional thing is a huge pain in the ass, for both of us. Whatever you need, I'll see to it. I want your ­people involved in every aspect of this.”

“Thanks.”

“But remember this when I need your help,” Phillips said. “Want to take a look at the scene?”

“Not yet,” Byron said. “I want to give the evidence techs a chance to get some of their work done before we start interfering. Think I'll pop in and listen to what Pepin's got to say.”

“Whatever you need, I'll be right here.”

Byron knocked on the rear door of Curtis's unmarked. The state police detective waved him inside.

“Andy, how you holding up?” Byron asked Pepin as he climbed into the backseat and sat next to the patrol sergeant.

“I've been better,” Pepin said. “A whole lot better.”

“I don't want to interrupt,” Byron said, turning his attention toward Curtis and Diane, “but I'd like a quick thumbnail of what happened before I start poking around.”

“No prob, Sarge,” Curtis said as he glared at Byron in the rearview mirror. “We're almost finished here anyway. Sergeant Pepin can fill you in while we write this up.”

“What happened? Why did we pull the surveillance?”

“I wish I knew what happened, John. The surveillance pull was my fault. I let Williams talk me out of it. It feels like this whole night was one big setup.”

“How do you mean?”

For the next ten minutes, Pepin recounted the story while Byron listened. The two detectives seated in the front of the car worked on their reports and the patrol sergeant's statement. The only interruption was the ringing of Byron's cell phone, which he promptly silenced.

“I was just clearing the jail when I got a phone call from a Westbrook dispatcher telling me they were sending units to the area near location three for multiple reports of shots fired. I drove out here expecting it was kids with fireworks or something, but instead I found Williams dead in the doorway. I was just talking with him, John, not even a half hour before. I shoulda put my foot down about the surveillance. If I had, he might still be alive.”

“Maybe, and maybe not, Andy,” Byron said, trying to assuage his guilt. “Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference. He might still be dead, and Galletti too.”

“I guess.”

“What the hell was Billingslea doing here anyway?” Byron asked.

Diane spoke up from the front seat. “Said he'd gotten a tip.”

“From who?”

“Told me he didn't know,” Pepin said. “Said he got an anonymous phone call.”

The gloves are coming off, Byron thought. No way does Billingslea get off the hook that easy. He doesn't get to hide behind that protected source bullshit. Not on this one.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNI
NG
Byron, Detective Sergeant Lucinda Phillips, Davis Billingslea, and Everett Goldman, Esquire, were all seated in Portland police CID interview room one while the rest of the bureau was packed standing-­room-­only into the conference room, monitoring the interview. Goldman was representing the interests of both the
Herald
and their star reporter.

During the prior nine o'clock meeting, which had also included Chief Stanton, his legal counsel, Cross, and LeRoyer, the ground rules for the interview had been established. Both Byron and Phillips knew whenever possible Billingslea and his lawyer would hide behind the rules of confidentiality. The detectives had at least won the battle over recording the interview.

The interview itself was much like a teenager's first time driving stick: lots of stops and starts without much forward progress. Each time they asked Billingslea a question, Goldman interrupted, arguing it was the reporter's privilege not to answer.

Byron was beyond frustrated. “Listen,” he said to Billingslea, “you and I have worked together many times before, haven't we?” You little shit, Byron thought but wisely did not add.

“We have,” Billingslea agreed.

“And haven't I helped you out whenever I could?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“You mentioned a nickname before. So, am I correct in assuming you don't even know who you were speaking with?”

“Davis, don't answer that,” Goldman cautioned.

“Think of this as your own little Watergate,” Byron continued. “Only instead of Deep Throat sending you out into a murder investigation, it was your caller—­a caller who I'm assuming used a different moniker.”

“Not sure I'm following you,” Billingslea said.

“Neither am I,” Goldman agreed.

Byron glared at Goldman, who flinched ever so slightly. It took every ounce of Byron's self-­control not to jump over the table and loosen some of the asshole's teeth. He wondered if the pompous attorney would even bother trying to get the blood out of his three-­piece suit or simply purchase a new one. He turned his attention to Billingslea. “Everyone knows the Watergate leaks to Woodward and Bernstein came from a person who went by the name Deep Throat, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so tell me who Deep Throat was?”

“I can tell you who I think it was.”

“That's not what I asked you. I asked you to tell me the identity of Deep Throat.”

“I don't—­I don't know who he was.”

“Exactly,” Byron said. “You don't, and do you know why? You don't know because all he ever provided was the nickname, Deep Throat. His sole purpose for doing it was to ensure his true identity would not be known. What harm could possibly come from you revealing the nickname your anonymous caller used to hide his identity?”

“Once again, Davis, I am advising you against answering the question,” Goldman warned.

“He's a big boy, Everett,” Byron said. “He's capable of making his own decisions. Let him speak.”

“Sergeant Byron,” Goldman began. “May I remind you—­”

“No,” Byron said, pounding his fist against the table, causing Billingslea to jump. “No, you can't, but let me remind you there are fucking lives at stake.”

“Hawk,” Billingslea blurted out. “He told me to call him Hawk.”

Goldman jumped out of his chair, furious. “This interview is over.”

Billingslea sat stunned, unable to believe he'd actually uttered those words.

“Thank you,” Byron said.

Byron opened the door to the interview room and he and Phillips walked out.

“
T
HIS IS WHO
we're looking for,” Byron said, writing the name on the whiteboard with a black marker. “Hawk.”

“How are we supposed to find the guy with only a nickname?” LeRoyer asked, combing his fingers through his hair.

“We know more than that,” Byron said. “We know who he's going after.”

“Feels like he's trying to send us another message,” Diane said.

“Message received. He's a sick cop-­killing bastard,” Nugent said.

“I think you're onto something, Diane,” Byron said. “He's definitely on a mission here. Taking chances by calling Billingslea and sticking him in the middle of this.”

“And he's obviously conducting his own surveillance,” Diane said. “He waited until Williams called off the detail, then killed him. Pretty brazen.”

“He's taunting us,” Nugent said.

“Daring us to catch him,” Stevens said.

LeRoyer spoke up. “Say you're right and he is trying to send us a message—­what the hell is it? So far no one has told us anything different from what we already knew, and they're still dropping like flies.”

“What's the one thing all of his targets have had in common?” Byron asked.

They each considered his question before answering.

“They were all supervisors,” Diane said.

“Exactly,” Byron said.

“Meaning what?” LeRoyer asked. “He's going after the SRT bosses first?”

“Or maybe only the bosses,” Diane said.

“But why?” LeRoyer asked.

“Maybe they took part in something the others didn't,” Diane said.

“Something Hawk wants to settle,” Byron said.

“Say you're right he's only targeting the bosses,” LeRoyer said. “Who's left?”

“Only Falcone and Cross,” Byron said. “Neither Humphrey nor Beaudreau were supervisors.”

“How do we know it's
not
one of the others?” Stevens asked.

Byron returned the marker to the tray. “We don't.”

B
YRON AND
D
IANE
stood outside of the Williams home, getting a look at the scene by daylight.

“What do you see?” he asked her.

She looked around, taking it all in. “A long driveway, house well back from the main road, secluded.”

“What else?”

“No light source in the yard. Easy house to approach.”

“Probably how Billingslea got so damned close.”

“Steps leading to a front door with glass sidelights. What are you thinking?”

“Do you have the scene inventory?”

“Yup.” She pulled out the copy Pelligrosso had made.

“Run down the list for me.”

Diane read aloud the list of items recovered, among them a .357 Magnum.

“Hang on a sec.” Byron pulled out his cell and dialed Pelligrosso.

“Gabe, it's Byron.”

“Hey, Sarge.”

“Your list shows a .357 was recovered from the Williams house. The shooter's gun?” he asked hopefully.

“No, not the shooter's gun. The one we recovered wasn't fired. It's registered to Williams. We found it lying on the living room coffee table.”

“Thanks, Gabe.” He hung up and turned to Diane. “Pepin told me Williams was carrying a .357 last night when he confronted Billingslea, walked him right to the detail officer with it. So why leave it in the living room to go answer the door when he knew someone was gunning for him? It doesn't make sense.”

“You're right. It doesn't.”

“When you got here last night, was the outside light on?”

“Yes. It was on and Williams definitely should have seen the person standing at the door before he answered it.”

“So, either the killer was known to Williams or, at the very least, was someone he didn't see as a threat.”

“Like one of the remaining SRT members,” she said.

“With the exception of Falcone, they were all under surveillance.”

“Were they? We're watching their houses but not the ­people. How hard would it really be to sneak out and do this?”

“I suppose, but they'd still need transportation.”

“They could get around that any number of ways. Taxi or maybe a borrowed vehicle.”

“Good thinking,” he said, pulling out his cell. “I'll have Tran run down the taxi companies and see if one of them had a fare out here last night. You really think this is a cop?”

“If it isn't, they certainly think like one. And another thing. Who else trains to deliver a double tap to the chest and one to the head?”

He raised his brows. “You're not just a pretty face.”