Among the Shadows (29 page)

“Hurts like a sonofabitch, but I don't think it's too bad. Where's Cross?”

Cross
. He'd nearly forgotten about him. Byron got to his feet, moving carefully toward the water's edge where the ocean was crashing against the rocks. Twenty feet below, Cross's lifeless body was floating face down in the surf as waves washed over it, moving it back and forth.

“Cavalry's on the way,” Nugent said.

Byron turned and headed back to Diane.

B
YRO
N AND
N
UGENT
stayed with Diane as paramedics prepped her for transport.

“How the pain?” Byron asked.

“You kidding? I've had cramps worse than this,” Diane said, gritting her teeth.

Both men grinned.

“I'm sorry about your friend, John,” she said.

Byron's smile faltered. He wasn't sure which was worse, finding out that Ray was the killer they'd been chasing or that his father had been murdered by Cross. What was obvious, was how much Diane cared. In agony from a bullet wound yet still concerned about him. “Let's worry about getting you patched up, all right?”

Byron and Nugent assisted one of the EMTs and a young, wiry Cape Elizabeth cop in carrying Diane's stretcher up the uneven path toward the parking lot to a waiting ambulance. Red and blue strobes reflected off every wet surface like rabid fireflies. More sirens coming.

“You gonna be okay?” Diane asked Byron as they slid her into the back of the transport.

“Yeah. Gonna be a bitch explaining all of this, though.”

Byron looked up to the sound of tires skidding to a stop on the wet asphalt. LeRoyer's Crown Vic.

“We gotta go,” the bearded MedCu attendant said to Byron.

“I'll be up to see you later,” Byron said, stepping back from the ambulance.

“Good luck,” she said as the attendant closed the doors.

“Take good care of her,” Byron said.

The attendant nodded, then hurried to the front of the truck.

Byron walked toward the lieutenant's car as the red and white MedCu unit pulled away.

“John, what the fuck happened here?” LeRoyer demanded as he jumped out of the car.

“Cross, Pritchard, and Humphrey are dead. Diane was shot.”

LeRoyer stood in obvious shock, his mouth agape. “Jesus Christ. Where's the shooter?”

 

Chapter Thirty-­One

T
HE FO
URTH FLOOR
of 109 was a flurry of activity, more closely resembling the start of a workweek than seven o'clock on a Thursday night. Every available detective had been called in, along with the president and vice president of the Superior Officers Benevolent Association (SOBA), two SOBA attorneys, the FBI, and several members of the Attorney General's Office, including the Maine attorney general herself.

Byron sat in interview room one. Alone and tired, he was sitting on a side of the table he'd never seen. Mike Nugent brought him a change of clothes and a coffee. Stevens and Pelligrosso had taken his damp clothing, gun, and spare magazines. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He knew there was legal wrangling happening in another room, most likely the conference room. He knew all too well the questions that would be asked. Did you have to shoot Cross? Wasn't there a better course of action you could have taken? What about the bad blood between you and Assistant Chief Cross? Why involve your already injured detective in this? Why didn't you follow department protocol and notify your superiors about the meeting? Byron knew he had much to answer for, but he didn't care. He knew he wouldn't have done anything differently. Except maybe he wouldn't have involved Diane. If he hadn't given her the heads-­up, she wouldn't have gotten shot.
Christ
,
Diane shouldn't have even been out of the hospital yet.
He should have called Stevens instead.

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.”

A
T
SEVEN-
­
THIRTY
A
SSISTANT
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.