Among the Shadows (2 page)

“You are,” Byron said. “We've still got the nurse outside.”

Ellis opened the eyes and confirmed the presence of petechia. “You saw this?”

“We did,” Pelligrosso said. “Along with what looks like bruising inside his lips.”

Ellis pulled O'Halloran's lips back. “Correct, my boy. Did you check the body for any signs of trauma?”

“Not yet,” Pelligrosso said. “Once we found those things, we stopped to wait for you.”

Ellis turned to Byron and grinned. “Wish my ­people were as efficient as yours. Wouldn't consider a trade, would you?”

Byron shook his head. “Think I'll keep what I've got.”

Ellis forced the jaw open. It made an unpleasant grinding sound. Diane winced. The doc illuminated the cavity with his penlight. “Uh-­huh.”

“You find something?” Pelligrosso asked.

Ellis looked back. “Patience, my boy, patience.” Reaching into his black leather bag, he removed a long thin pair of stainless-­steel tweezers. Carefully, he probed deep inside the victim's oral cavity. “Here we are,” he said as he retracted the instrument and held it up for all to see.

“What's that?” Diane asked.

“That, Detective, is goose down.”

“The pillow?” Byron asked.

“That's what it looks like. Most likely inhaled during suffocation. I'll need to perform a full post on Mr. Bones and his pillow to be sure.”

Byron looked at Pelligrosso. “The pillow goes to Augusta with us.”

Ellis continued his exam, cutting off O'Halloran's pajama bottoms and top. The old man was wearing a soiled adult diaper. There were no obvious signs of trauma on either the torso or legs. Ellis waited for Pelligrosso to snap a ­couple of photos before proceeding. He looked at Diane, who was still wearing gloves. “Give me a hand rolling him over.”

Her face squinted up in disgust. Pelligrosso smiled. O'Halloran's body was stiff enough to make it more like flipping a mattress. Again, Ellis checked his upper torso and legs. Lividity, pooling of the blood, was exactly where it should have been on the victim's back and lower extremities, confirming he'd died lying face up.

“So we know the body hasn't been moved.” Ellis said to himself as much as to anyone in the room. “No other obvious signs of trauma,” he said, turning to face Byron.

“How soon can you post?”

“How soon can you get him on my table?”

“Sarge, I still gotta dust everything in this room for prints,” Pelligrosso said.

“We'll lock down the house and post a uniform outside,” Byron said. “You can come back this afternoon after the autopsy. Also, I want elimination prints from everyone who came in here. Anyone who may have touched something, paramedics, cops, nurses, everyone.”

“I'll take care of it.”

Byron turned to Diane. “Let's get Nurse St. John down to 109. I've got a few questions for her.”

 

Chapter Three

P
ORTLAND
'
S POLICE
DEPARTMENT
stands at the corner of Middle Street and Franklin Arterial, beside Portland's revitalized Old Port district. The physical address is 109 Middle Street or, as it's more commonly referred to by the rank and file, simply 109.

Byron pulled into in a metered space a little west of 109. Experience told him the rear garage was most likely full, as there were more police vehicles than spaces, but his real reason for parking in front was to piss off Assistant Chief Cross, or Ass Chief Cross, as Byron fondly referred to him. Cross, thanks to a designated spot inside the climate controlled garage beneath the station, had no concept of 109's parking problems. Byron thought of his own glove box, so packed with parking citations it barely closed. Lieutenant LeRoyer was always yelling at him about parking illegally. “They're gonna slap a boot on your car, John,” he'd say. Byron was pretty sure if the parking-­control Nazis ever got brazen enough to enforce the scofflaw on his car, they'd skip right past the boot and towing options and proceed directly to the salvage yard, where they'd have it crushed. Time to start throwing the citations in the trunk, he thought. With his battered briefcase in hand and a knowing grin on his face, he ascended the crumbling cement steps toward the plaza and the day's first interview.

The 109 was constructed in the early 1970s as a police station/community center, replacing an outdated, turn-­of-­the-­century two-­story brick-­and-­granite structure, which once stood around the corner between Newbury and Federal Streets. The new building's façade is brick and mortar with darkened glass windows. In spite of numerous transformations since its grand opening in 1972, the odd-­shaped exterior still looks much like a child's attempt at building a southwestern Pueblo from blocks than the headquarters to Maine's largest municipal police agency. Unlike the original police headquarters, which Byron visited frequently when he was a boy, when his dad had still worked a beat, the current is a far cry from stations of old. Missing are the granite steps, lighted glass globes stenciled with the word
POLICE
, and the large wooden desk inside the foyer from which the duty sergeant could bark orders. In short, it no longer had any character. The veteran officers joked that the character is now on the inside.

O'Halloran's nurse was seated in Interview Room One, waiting for Byron to return with a coffee. She'd readily agreed to an interview. Haggerty had driven her to 109, leaving O'Donnell to sit on the house, which was now officially a crime scene. Diane monitored the interview from the conference room along with Detective Mike Nugent.

Byron returned with two mugs of coffee, closing the door behind him. “Here you are. Careful, it's hot.”

“Thanks.”

St. John was attractive in a tomboyish way. Cinnamon hair, pulled back into a ponytail, nicely complimented her light blue short-­sleeve top and matching pants. Byron caught a glimpse of freckled cleavage as she bent down and removed a package of tissues from her purse.

“Thank you for coming in to talk to me, Ms. St. John. I want to make it clear again, for the record, this is completely voluntary on your part. You understand you're free to leave at any time.”

“Becca, please. And it's not a problem. I'm happy to help anyway I can.”

Removing a small notebook and pen from his suit jacket, he spent several seconds pretending to read over his notes. “How long have you been in nursing, Becca?”

“Almost ten years. But I've only worked for Pine Tree Hospice the last ­couple.”

“Before that?”

“I worked at Maine Medical Center in the CCU. Sorry, Critical Care Unit.”

“I would imagine with the job you have now, you see a great deal of death.”

She nodded. “Yes. All of my patients are terminally ill.”

“You ever get used to it? Patients dying under your care, I mean.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It's part of the job.”

“Must be tough, though,” he said.

She appeared to be considering her answer while she toyed with the mug. “Am I suspected of doing something wrong, Sergeant Byron?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because, I've already given a statement to the officer at the scene and now you're asking questions about how I deal with the death of my patients. Do you think I killed Mr. O'Halloran?”

Byron was used to the idiosyncrasies of ­people when they were being interviewed. Many became combative, lied, or lawyered up, whether they were guilty or not. Seldom were they as direct as St. John. “Did you?”

“Of course not. He was dying and nothing could have prevented it. It's my job to make patients as comfortable as possible while they await the inevitable.”

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the tissue. Byron knew when it came to ­people's tears, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between the genuine and the crocodile variety. And he'd learned from experience that women were infinitely better at manufacturing them than their male counterparts. His wife, Kay, certainly had been.

“How long had you been caring for O'Halloran?”

“A few weeks.”

“Were you assigned to him every day?”

“Only during the week. Another nurse from the agency covered the weekend shifts.”

“Who was that?”

“Frankie Mathers.”

“And she was the only nurse covering the weekends?”

St. John rolled her eyes. “Frankie's a guy. Not all nurses are women, Sergeant.”

He wasn't in the mood for her feminist sermon, but his headache was threatening to return. Against his better judgment, he let her comment pass. “What about after hours? What happened if O'Halloran needed something after you left?”

“There was a panic button, which automatically dialed up the agency answering ser­vice. They'd either call me or another on call if I didn't answer.”

“Was that the cord I saw wrapped around the headboard?”

“Yes, red button on the end.”

“Do you know if he activated the system during the time you cared for him?”

“I don't believe he did.”

“What time did you arrive and depart each day? Was it always the same?”

“It wasn't an all-­day visit. I have other patients. Normally, I'd get there around eight o'clock and leave by nine-­thirty or ten, depending on his needs. I also made a late-­afternoon stop to make sure he had enough pain meds to make it through the night.”

Byron made a note in his book and watched as St. John toyed with the tissue. “What medications were you administering to him?”

“I gave him morphine for pain along with several other drugs to control congestion in his lungs.”

“How long was he expected to live?”

“His doctor told him he most likely still had two or three months.”

“A long time to suffer.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Sergeant, I'm not sure where this is headed, but I can assure you I did not kill my patient. My job was to keep him comfortable and clean and that's what I did. The next step would have been palliative sedation.”

“Palliative sedation?”

“Yes. It's the term we use for keeping a patient sedated once the pain and symptoms become unbearable. At some point, he would have been kept sedated through the administration of a benzodiazepine until he simply passed away in his sleep.”

Byron couldn't remember ever hearing a term that sounded more politically correct than palliative sedation. He supposed it beat medically induced coma. “And you would've been the one to make that determination?”

“No, Sergeant Byron. I'm only a nurse. If I did what you're suggesting, I'd be wearing an orange jumpsuit and residing at the state prison. Mr. O'Halloran would've been the one to make the decision, along with his doctor. If he'd made it that far.”

He switched gears. “Did you have your own key to the house?”

“The door was never locked.”

“Why would you leave the home unsecured?”

“It was at his request.”

“Did he have visitors?”

“There may have been a ­couple.”

“You ever see them?”

“No, but he'd talk about them occasionally.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“He probably did, but I don't pay attention to those things. I try not to get too attached. You know?

He remained silent, waiting to see if she would say more.

“You asked me before if it was tough taking care of the dying. Well, only if you let yourself get attached to them. I don't.”

Byron saw no sign of tears now, crocodile or otherwise.

“
S
O, WHAT DO
you think?” Byron asked Diane as he rinsed out the mugs in the sink.

“I didn't get to see all of it, got a call from the D.A. A bit of a bitch, isn't she?”

“Definitely not the most affable I've ever met.”

“Think she did it?” she asked as she followed him to his office.

“Too early to say.” He grabbed a necktie from one of his desk drawers and quickly began to knot it around his neck. “What time is it?”

“It's late. Pelligrosso's already waiting by your car.”

“Damn.”

“You lose your razor?”

Byron ran a hand over his stubble. “I forgot.”

“Guinness?”

“Bushmills.”

“Maybe you could get the Emerald Society to schedule their monthly meetings for a Friday or Saturday night, then you'd be fresh for the weekdays.”

“You should consider joining. You must have some Welsh, Scottish, or Irish in you.”

“News flash. What I've had in me is none of your business. I never kiss and tell,” she said, giving him a wink.

Byron blushed. “LeRoyer in yet?”

“Running late.”

“Good. I want to get out of here before he gets in.”

“Trying to avoid CompStat, are we?”

“Of course. You and Nuge take care of the canvas?”

“Of course.”

“I wanna know if someone might've paid O'Halloran an unexpected visit.”

 

Chapter Four

T
HE AI
R-
­
CONDITIONING IN
Byron's aging unmarked needed recharging. His procrastination meant they'd be making the sixty-­mile drive up the turnpike to Augusta with the windows down. The hot air blasting through the windows felt like opening an oven door, but at least it was moving. It was a little past noon as he turned into the lower lot and parked next to the brick building housing the offices of Maine's chief medical examiner.

The cavernous exam room was cool and dry, a welcome contrast to the unseasonal heat. Dr. Ellis's workspace consisted of painted concrete walls and subway tile. High ceilings and harsh fluorescent lighting made the pale and waxy skin of his patients look even worse. The walls were lined with white metal cabinets and rows of shelving, each containing various supplies and implements of deconstruction. A half-­dozen stainless steel exam tables were scattered throughout the room, each with its own hanging scale used for weighing organs, similar to those found in butcher shops.

Like all seasoned investigators, he and Pelligrosso had both been to countless autopsies and were very familiar with the sights and sounds associated with the procedure. That being said, neither had ever developed a true appreciation for the effect dissecting a corpse had on their olfactory senses.

Ellis had donned green scrubs and now looked the part of the professional medical examiner he was—­although, Byron was fairly confident Ellis was still wearing the gray AC/DC shirt underneath.

Ellis's assistant, Nicky, entered the room and nodded at them. The skinny lab technician never spoke unless spoken to, and Byron had never been able to think of a single thing to say to him. His wide eyes made him look like he'd seen a ghost. Given what Nicky did for work, Byron figured it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that he had—­perhaps more than one. Dark purplish circles under those wide eyes made him look significantly older than the thirty-­something he probably was.

Ellis began the exam by gloving up. He carefully unzipped the bag containing O'Halloran's remains, permeating the air with the same stench of bodily fluids Byron and Pelligrosso had been savoring for most of the morning. Byron wondered how Ellis could swim in it every day.

The doctor picked up a scalpel, then paused. “He was a Portland police lieutenant?”

“A long time ago,” Byron said.

“Did you work with him?”

“My father did.”

“I'm sorry.”

Byron appreciated the sentiment but found it an odd conversation, considering what Ellis was about to do to O'Halloran's body.

During the half hour following, Ellis worked slowly and methodically, beginning with the Y incision into O'Halloran's bony chest cavity. It was obvious the cancer had been living inside of him for some time. Ellis cut and probed, weighed and sampled, preserving bits of every organ should they be needed later. He paused from time to time to ask questions and to allow Pelligrosso a chance to photograph evidence. He located two more down feathers, one in O'Halloran's trachea and the other in the right lung.

“I've seen this type of thing before,” Ellis said as he removed his gloves. “What did you say the name of the agency was?”

“Pine Tree Hospice,” Pelligrosso said.

Ellis nodded.

“Have you seen anything like this with any of their other patients recently?” Byron asked.

“Nah. They've got a pretty good track record. Some of these places don't give very good care. You should see some of the bedsores that come through here. You guys like the nurse for this?”

“Too soon to like anyone,” Byron said. “At this point, she's the last person we know of to see him alive.”

“How long did you say she's been a nurse?”

“Ten years, give or take. Why?”

“Well, I was thinking, there are certainly easier ways to commit a mercy killing, John. If that's what this is. If Dr. E was going to do it, he sure as hell wouldn't use a pillow and risk leaving all this evidence.”

“How would you go about it?” Pelligrosso asked.

“I might up the pain medication, just a bit. If he was already on a high enough dose, it wouldn't take much. Or, even better, I could inject air into his veins and he'd die from an embolism.”

Byron looked at Ellis, trying to see if he was serious. His usual smugness was gone. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Doc.”

Ellis smiled and drummed his fingers together.

“So what are you saying?” Byron asked.

“Feels more like someone who didn't know how, a friend or relative maybe.”

“And you're officially going with death by asphyxiation?” Pelligrosso asked.

“Yup, pending toxicology of course. Who knows, I may be able to further complicate this case for you guys by finding something else.”

“Gee, thanks, Doc,” Byron said.

“Gentlemen, as always, it's been a pleasure.” Grinning, Ellis bent forward in the exaggerated bow of a stage performer. “See you at the trial.”

P
ELLIGROSSO DROVE TH
EM
toward the pike while Byron made some calls.

Diane answered on the first ring. “Just about to call you.”

“Anything from the canvass?”

“Zilch. No one home at half of the houses, the others all claim to keep to themselves. Said they didn't know O'Halloran.”

“Nuge fare any better?”

“Nope, but we left a shitload of business cards on doors. Felt like we were running for public office. What's the doc's prognosis?”

“Pending tox. But definitely suffocated. You guys still on the street?”

“We're grabbing a quick burger. What do you need?”

“Do me a favor and swing by Pine Tree Hospice in South Portland. Tell them you want to see St. John's personnel file. I want to know if she's worked any other questionable deaths.”

“They're gonna raise holy hell. What do you want us to do if they refuse?”

“I'm calling the attorney general as soon as I hang up. I'll have them draw up a subpoena and fax it directly to them. Don't leave there without her file.”

“You got it.”

“Also, I want the file on the weekend-­duty nurse, Mathers. And find out if anyone else may have filled in or covered an after-­hours emergency at O'Halloran's.”

“Ten four.”

“One last thing, Diane. Get a hold of Tran and have him search in-­house and NCIC. I want to know if she's got any history.”

“We'll take care of it.”

As Byron hung up, he heard his own stomach's audible protest. Aside from coffee and breath mints, he hadn't eaten since yesterday. “You hungry?” he asked Pelligrosso.

“I could eat a horse.”

“Think I can do better than that.”

Pelligrosso looked at him as if he was waiting for him to finish his thought.

“My treat.”

“Now you're speaking my language.”

“
W
AS THAT
F
E
RGUSON?
”
Pelligrosso asked as Byron ended the call.

“None other. The best assistant AG in the state.”

“Sounds like he's on board.”

“Why do you think he's the best in the state?”

They pulled into the gravel parking lot of Jimmy's Lunch, a hole in the wall located off the Gardiner Exit on Route 126. Prior to Detective Ray Humphrey's retirement, he and Ray always made a habit of stopping at Jimmy's after an autopsy, a custom going back years. This was his first time with Pelligrosso.

Byron liked the young evidence tech. He liked the way Pelligrosso went about his work, taking great pains to be thorough. There was a bit of a dark streak, a brooding quality about him, but Byron chalked it up to the time he'd spent fighting in Afghanistan. Byron figured if Pelligrosso ever wanted to talk about it, he would.

They seated themselves at a booth. Byron commandeered the wall seat, second nature to any veteran officer, which allowed him to watch the door as well as the activities of any other customers. Pelligrosso was fidgety. His discomfort at having his back exposed to the room was obvious.

“Don't worry, Gabe,” Byron said. “I've got your six.”

Pelligrosso smiled. “I know you do.”

They each ordered soft drinks, burgers, and hand-­cut fries. Best in the state, according to a greasy sign on the wall.

“Can I ask you a question, Sarge?”

“Shoot.”

“You remember the whole Dr. Kevorkian thing?”

Byron already knew where this was headed. “Assisted suicide, yeah.”

“Let's say O'Halloran only had a month or two left. Based on the way he looked, I'm probably being generous. If it
was
one of the nurses who suffocated him, maybe they did him a favor.”

Byron took a sip out of the red plastic tumbler as he formulated his response. He remembered rooting for Kevorkian himself. “I think this one's a little different, Gabe.”

“Why is it?”

“In the Kevorkian case, each of his victims had given up and were seeking a humane end to their suffering. They went to the doctor and asked for his help. He had videos to document their wishes. But in this case, whether it was the nurse or not, there's nothing humane about smothering someone to death with a pillow. And there's nothing left behind to indicate O'Halloran even wanted a way out. This is a murder, plain and simple.”

“I guess maybe you're right. I just keep picturing myself lying there, dying from cancer. I'd sure want a way out.”

“I probably would, too,” Byron said.

Byron pictured a younger, stronger O'Halloran, squared away in his dress uniform, sitting beside him in the front row of the church. Byron had been no more than a scared teenaged kid. O'Halloran had provided the strength Byron needed to get through what had been undoubtedly the toughest day of his young life.

He returned to the here-­and-­now and looked over at his young evidence tech. “Someone murdered that old man, and I'm gonna find out who.”