Among the Shadows (3 page)

 

Chapter Five

I
T WAS NEARLY
three-­thirty by the time Byron and Pelligrosso arrived back at 109. Pelligrosso grabbed the evidence van and returned to O'Halloran's in his search for prints and any other trace evidence. Byron headed up to his office on the fourth floor. He was washing up in the CID locker room when LeRoyer walked in.

“Well, that was certainly convenient, John. Did you purposely schedule the autopsy to coincide with CompStat?”

“Hey, I only asked how soon Ellis could do it. The M.E.'s office schedules the exams, not me. Would you rather I sat around the table watching the command staff measure each other's dicks or work a homicide?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I'm part of the command staff.”

Lieutenant Martin LeRoyer was affable enough, and although Byron liked him, they frequently butted heads. It went with the territory. The thing that bothered Byron most about LeRoyer was he'd been a boss for so long he'd forgotten what it was like to be an investigator. Gone from LeRoyer's memory were what it meant to eat, sleep, and breathe a case. It was all about statistics now. Byron had never gained a single thing from statistics. Not once in twenty years as a cop could he remember stats helping to crack a case.

Criminals are an unpredictable lot, with diverse motives. The dumb ones were caught, repeatedly, but the intelligent ones sometimes never. What Byron sought were cold, hard facts, not charts and graphs and questions about who got the credit and who got the blame. The most useful investigative knowledge came from digging, fact-­checking, and interviews—­good old-­fashioned police work, not sitting around discussing absurd statistics. As far as Byron was concerned, CompStat was a waste of time and resources.

LeRoyer went to his locker, grabbing his toothbrush and paste. Byron despised the lieutenant's habit of talking with a mouth full of toothpaste foam. It made him look like a rabid dog. “So, what'd you find out?”

“He was suffocated.”

“Wasn't he damn near dead anyway?”

“Close.”

“We like the nurse?”

He wondered how many times in one day a person could be asked the same question. “No. I don't really care for her. But at the moment, she's made the top two on our list of possible suspects.”

“That's good.”

“Not really. There's only two names on the list.”

“Family?”

“Estranged. I spoke to his only daughter, Susan, by telephone, but she's in Florida. The biggest problem is anyone could've accessed the house. It was always unlocked.”

LeRoyer spat into the sink, spraying foam onto the mirror. “Neighbors?”

“Nuge and Diane canvassed, nothing yet. We're checking the nurses' records.”

“Yeah, I know. Already got a call from the manager at Happy Hospice. Tim Caron. Big asshole.”

“Pine Tree Hospice,” Byron said, grinning.

“Whatever.” LeRoyer rinsed. “Guy's still an asshole.”

“Nothing I'd enjoy more than to hang here all afternoon and chew the fat, Lieu, but I got a case to work.”

“Oh, by all means, Sergeant. Don't let me stand in your way. And stop parking in front of 109!”

D
ETECTIVES
D
IANE
J
OYNER
and Mike Nugent were as opposite as the ends of the earth. The tough-­talking Joyner was a full six inches taller than her wisecracking, foulmouthed sometimes partner. Normally, Nugent and his highly reflective dome would've been partnered with Detective Melissa Stevens, but manpower issues had forced her back into the lab on a part-­time basis. Byron never worried about Diane, but at times Nugent could be a bit too laid back.

“How'd you make out with the records?” Byron asked.

“We got copies of reviews, training, and thank-­you letters for both nurses,” Diane said. “Hey, did you know Frankie was a guy?”

Byron, recalling St. John's remark about him being sexist, began to laugh.

“What?”

“It's nothing,” he said, waving her off and trying to regain his composure. “Anybody else care for him?”

“According to Pine Tree Hospice, St. John and Mathers were the only nurses who had any contact with O'Halloran.”

“The best part was the quality time we got to spend with the hospice manager,” Nugent said.

“Asshole,” they both said in unison.

“So I've heard. Any indication St. John might previously have been suspected of helping a patient along?”

“Delivery from this mortal coil?” Nugent asked. “None. In fact, when he wasn't threatening us with civil action, Caron did manage to say she'd come highly recommended from Maine Med. Why the hell would she risk everything to do in a patient anyway?”

“I don't know,” Byron said. “Why does anyone? Tired of watching ­people suffer, maybe?”

“She wouldn't be the first,” Diane said. “You want us to grab the hospital records as well?”

“Yes, before their legal team starts circling the wagons,” Byron said. “I don't want to overlook anything.”

“You want us to call Ferguson for another subpoena?” Diane asked.

“No, I'll take care of it. I need to speak with him again anyway. Anything new on the canvass?”

“We're still waiting to hear from a few folks who weren't home,” Nugent said.

“Good, let me know if something breaks. I gotta go see Tran.”

D
USTIN
T
RAN WAS
a thirty-­year-­old bachelor who rode his bicycle to work every morning, regardless of the weather. He was the only detective assigned to the Computer Forensics Lab. A virtuoso on all things computer related, Tran actually preferred working alone. Byron wondered if the loner thing was a result of his acne scars or his odd personality.

Tran's office sat at the end of the third-­floor corridor, beside the Regional Crime Lab. He was seated at his desk, which looked more like a display shelf in some big-­box store than a detective's workstation. His jet-­black hair, glistening with gel, had been molded into something resembling a pompadour. Three oversized, high-­definition monitors sat atop his desk while shelves of computer towers whirred away doing God knew what.

“Yo, Sarge,” Tran said.

Byron bristled. He'd never quite warmed up to Tran's casual surfer-­dude demeanor, but he tolerated it because the detective was good at his job. Had anyone else tried talking to Byron like that, he would have lost it. “Any luck on St. John?”

“Nothing in-­house, but NCIC shows one arrest in '93.”

Byron's interest peaked. “For?”

“Disorderly conduct. Looks like she was attending a peace rally at the University of New England. Might've gotten out of hand.”

Byron wondered if caring for O'Halloran might also have gotten a little out of hand.

“Anything else?”

“If there is, I can't find it.”

He flipped open his notepad. “I need you to check on one more person for me.”

“Go with it.”

“Francis Mathers, DOB two, thirteen, eighty-­nine.”

“I'll let you know.”

Byron stopped as he reached the door. “One more thing.”

“Bring it.”

“O'Halloran has a daughter named Susan Atherton. See if you can find out if she's been outside of Florida recently. Like, maybe visiting Portland, Maine.”

After leaving Tran's office, Byron headed for the privacy afforded by the building's stairwell. He still needed to make a phone call he'd been putting off. Even if Atherton had been on the outs with her father, nobody wants to be informed of their parent's murder.

L
E
R
OYER CALLED
B
YRON
into his office. “I just got off the phone with St. John's attorney.”

“Let me guess, one of the senior partners at Dewey, Fuckem and Howe?”

“Close. It's Roger Bertram.”

Bertram was an arrogant windbag, known for stealing defendants from other attorneys. If the case made a splash, he wanted it; not for any merit it may have had, only for the free publicity. Red-­faced and overweight, he got winded riding an elevator. Bertram had crossed paths with Byron on several different occasions, and his disdain for the Portland Police Department was not news.

“Great, so I guess we're done talking with her.”

“Nope. She didn't lawyer up.”

“Then, why the attorney?”

“She wants a polygraph. Says she's got nothing to hide.”

“Wasn't expecting that.”

“Me neither.”

“I still don't like it,” Byron said.

“What's to lose?”

“Everything. You know I don't have any faith in that crap.”

“Maybe you should broaden your horizons, John.”

“All right, Lieu, let's say she fails the test. We won't be able to use it in court.”

“Maybe it'll make her confess.”

“You honestly think Bertram would allow that to happen? Then there's the other possibility—­she passes it.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“If we do end up finding out she killed O'Halloran, don't think for a second that weasel won't try and get the judge to admit the polygraph results as evidence of her innocence.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Don't have much of a choice, do I? We don't give it to her and Bertram will say we refused to let her clear her name.”

Byron knew the polygraph was a double-­edged sword. The idea of catching ­people in lies sounded good on its face, but there was still the monumental problem of getting them to confess if they did fail the test. The inadmissibility of polygraph results meant obtaining a confession would be key. Unlike the desperadoes of stage and screen, the prospect of failing a polygraph never causes the real-­life baddies to curl up in a fetal position and give up the goods.

Byron was heading out to find Mathers when he ran into Shirley Grant, the CID office assistant, in the hallway.

“Sergeant Byron,” she said fixing him with a disapproving stare. “You haven't been checking your voicemail, have you?”

“Been a little busy, Shirley. What'd I miss?”

She held up her hands and began counting on her fingers. “Well, let's see—­your wife called twice, wanting to speak with you. Said it was important.”

It always is, he thought.

“And Davis Billingslea has been by twice and called three times about the body you had this morning.”

Byron always did his best to avoid the
Portland Herald
's young, overzealous police-­beat reporter. Billingslea seemed to get his hands on information even before Byron himself. “You switched them all to my voicemail?”

“I did, and they're both upset because you haven't returned their calls.”

“You're too good to me, Shirley. I promise I'll call them both back as soon as I have two seconds. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, not sounding the least bit convinced.

As he exited the stairwell out onto the plaza, Billingslea was lying in wait.

“Sergeant, you're a hard man to get a hold of,” he said, positioning himself between Byron and the parking garage.

“Davis. What can I do for you?”

“I wanna know about the hospice death you're investigating.”

“Nothing to tell. An elderly hospice patient died. It happens all the time.”

“Really? 'Cause the way I hear it, you brought a nurse in for questioning. There's a rumor the patient might have been put out of his misery.”

“Davis, I don't know where you come up with this stuff, but you know I can't comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“So there
is
an ongoing investigation. Can I quote you?”

“No.”

A car horn blared from inside the police garage. They both looked up; it was Diane and she was waving frantically. She lowered the passenger window. “Sarge,” she shouted, “we just got the call. Come on, we gotta go.”

“What call?” Billingslea asked. “Where do you and Detective Joyner have to go?”

“Sorry, Davis.”

“Come on, give me something.”

“I gotta run,” Byron said as he hurried up the steps to her car. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“Is this connected to the death?” Billingslea hollered after him.

Byron climbed into Diane's car and closed the door as she put it in gear. “Thanks,” he said.

“Don't mention it. Looked like you needed saving.”

“The guy's friggin' relentless. How the fuck does he know so much about this case already?”

“Maybe he's psychic.”

“More like someone's got a big mouth.” Byron adjusted the sun visor. “I thought you were getting the records from the hospital.”

“Won't be ready till tomorrow. Wanna bring me up to speed and tell me where we're headed?”

“Five-­hundred block of Cumberland. Time to interview O'Halloran's other nurse, Frankie Mathers.”

 

Chapter Six

T
HEY SCANNED THREE
dozen white buttons and the accompanying name tags on the intercom system. “Three F, Mathers,” Diane said as she pushed the button.

“Y-­ello,” a male voice said from the speaker.

“Francis Mathers?” Byron asked.

“Frankie's my name. Who might you be?”

“Mr. Mathers, my name is Detective Sergeant Byron and I'm here with Detective Joyner from the police department. We'd like to come up and speak with you.”

“What's this about?”

“It's about one of your hospice patients, James O'Halloran. May we come up?”

“Uh, okay, give me a second.”

It took nearly a minute before Mathers finally buzzed them inside. They ascended the stairs to the third floor.

Diane rapped on the door and Mathers answered. The smell of burnt marijuana wafted out into the hallway.

Mathers looked nothing like Byron had imagined. Blocking most of the open doorway, dressed in cutoffs and a blue sleeveless V-­neck, he stood about six feet tall and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Mathers's physical appearance combined with the curly black hair and receding hairline reminded Byron of the
Full Metal Jacket
actor Vincent D'Onofrio. The resemblance was striking.

Byron made the introductions.

“Sergeants, was it? Or detectives?” Private Pile was obviously high. His bloodshot eyes and stoner's smile were a dead giveaway.

“Either is fine,” Diane said. “Do you mind if we talk inside?”

“Of course I don't mind. Come on in, detectives and sergeants,” he said.

They exchanged a knowing glance and followed him inside. The apartment was surprisingly clean and tidy, despite the strong smell of cannabis. Byron wondered if LeRoyer had been right after all; perhaps Pine Tree Hospice really was Happy Hospice. He also wondered whether or not Tim Caron, asshole extraordinaire, was aware of Nurse Mathers's, little secret.

Mathers led them into the living room with its white furniture, white carpet and white walls. Any surface not white was either chrome or glass. He'd lit a scented candle, probably hoping it would mask the odor. It didn't. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Soda or coffee?”

Or maybe a hit off the bong, Byron thought. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“How 'bout you?” he asked Diane.

“No, thanks,” she said as she sat on the love seat.

Byron, wanting to take his host out of his comfort zone, opted for the Barcalounger, as it looked to be their host's normal relaxation spot. Mathers's sullen expression confirmed it, and he begrudgingly took the couch, the only remaining place to sit.

“So, detectives and sergeants, you said you had questions about Mr. H.”

Byron thought about correcting him, but realized in Mathers's current state it was probably pointless.

“That's right,” Byron said. “We were told you cared for him on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.”

“No, no,” Mathers said exaggeratedly, shaking his head. Just Saturdays and Sundays.”

His lucid answer confirmed he wasn't too stoned to talk with them.

“My mistake,” Byron said.

“Yeah. Bummer, huh? Poor old dude was on the way out anyway, I guess. The big C.”

“Big C, yeah,” Diane said, her sarcasm evident. “Like you said, a real bummer.”

“So when did he die?”

“We're still checking,” Byron said. “How did he look to you yesterday? Any change in his condition?”

“I wouldn't know. I'm on days off. Didn't work yesterday or today.”

Passed another test.
“So Tuesday and Wednesday are your normal days off?”

“Yup, unless I have to cover for a vacationing nurse.”

“How long have you worked for Pine Tree, Mr. Mathers?” Diane asked.

“ 'Bout five years.”

“You ever stop by and check in on your patients when you're not working, Mr. Mathers?” Byron asked.

“Against the rules. Mr. Caron, my boss, he wouldn't like it. Actually, Rebecca would probably go all ape shit too. Especially if she knew about giving him some ganja.” Mathers stopped and stared wide-­eyed like a cartoon, unable to believe the words he'd just uttered. Both detectives remained silent. “Dudes, I can't believe I just said that. I'm one dumb fuck. I know you're, uh, cops, but I'll get fired if you say anything.
Shit
.”

“You gave your patient marijuana?” Diane asked.

“You a doctor?” Byron asked.

“It's not like—­ It's medical, ya know.”

“It's called furnishing, genius,” Byron said.

“I told him it might make his pain go away.”

“Did it?” Diane asked.

“Not sure. Maybe.”

“Were you trying to put him out of his misery?” Byron asked.

“Yeah. No. Wait. That's not what I meant. You're both F-­ing with my head, man. Like I don't believe in that shit.”

“What shit?” Byron asked.

“Killing.”

“Does Rebecca?” Diane asked.

“I don't know. I don't think so. But, you're okay about the weed, right? I can't lose this job.”

A little late for that epiphany, Byron thought. The cannabis probably had made O'Halloran feel better. There were worse things Mathers could have done for a dying man, but that was a doctor's call to make. “We're not here about the weed, Francis.”

“Oh, good,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Can't afford to get fired, man. Thanks.”

Of course, it didn't mean they wouldn't be reporting it later. “Did O'Halloran ever have weekend visitors?” Byron asked.

Mathers closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling with the other as he tried to concentrate, making him look cartoonish once again. “Maybe a ­couple of times. Friends, I think.”

“Male or female?” Byron asked.

“Male.”

“Can you describe any of them?” Diane asked.

He shook his head. “I don't pay particular attention to that stuff. We're not supposed to get involved in their private lives, or get too familiar.”

“How many different men visited?” she asked.

“Maybe two? I can't really remember.”

“Ethnic background? White, Black, Asian?” Byron asked, watching as Mathers scratched his neck.

“White, maybe. Sorry, I'm not sure.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?” Diane asked.

Mathers shook his head again.

“How many times did they come by?” Byron asked.

“Maybe once?”

“You're sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Mathers said in a tone suggesting he wasn't.

“What about phone calls?” Diane asked.

He shook his head.

“So, no one ever called him while you were there?” Byron asked.

“Nope. Not while I was there. You sure you're cool about the weed thing?”

It was obvious Mathers didn't comprehend that a murder trumped a furnishing charge. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” Byron asked.

“I told you guys everything.”

“Where were you last night?” Diane asked.

“Chillaxin' right here.”

“All night?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Alone?” Byron asked.

“Nope, I was with my girlfriend, Sunny.”

“We're gonna need Sunny's address and phone number,” Diane said, handing him a notepad and pen.

“
W
HAT DO YOU
think?” Byron asked as they walked down the sidewalk to her car.

“I think I wanna know how in hell the big Lebowski ever got a nursing license?”

“Maybe hospice nursing isn't as strict,” he said. “I mean, their patients are already dying.”

“I hope you're kidding,” she said as they both climbed into the car. “Where to?”

“Let's grab something to eat. I'm famished.”

“What do you feel like?”

“You're driving.”

“Thai it is.”

Byron made a quick call to Pelligrosso. “How did you make out?”

“I lifted a bunch of prints. Won't know if I've got anything good until I can check them against the elimination prints we've taken. Do you want me to start on those?”

Byron checked his watch. “Mel's in, right?”

“Yeah, she's on until midnight.”

“Why don't you go home, hug your wife and kid, and get a good night's sleep. Have Mel start working on the eliminations tonight and we'll get back at it first thing in the morning.”

“You sure?”

He knew they'd done about all they could to this point. O'Halloran's murder certainly didn't look much like a whodunit, and they did have St. John scheduled to poly in the morning. “See you tomorrow, Gabe.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

B
YRON AND
D
IANE
were seated at a table in the back of the restaurant. Eastern Thai was located at the top of Munjoy Hill, Byron's childhood stomping grounds.

“Bet you came here all the time when you were growing up,” she said.

He smiled and shook his head. “Not many Thai restaurants around in those days.”

“Too bad. New York was full of them.”

“It used to be a butcher shop.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I was a kid, we had steak once a week. My dad would always bring me down here to pick out the cut.”

“That's a pretty cool memory. You must have all sorts, growing up here.”

Byron was only half listening. His mind entranced in the vivid childhood memory.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, twirling some noodles onto her fork.

“Sorry. I was just remembering how good that steak smelled on the barbecue.”

“I'll bet.”

“That and I keep thinking back to something Ellis said this afternoon.”

“Which was?”

“Well, I still like one of the nurses for this, but we do have at least two unidentified males who might have been paying visits to O'Halloran.”

“And? You're thinking what? An old friend?”

“Maybe.”

“So what
did
Ellis say?”

“He said it felt like something an amateur would do. He told us if
he
wanted to kill O'Halloran, he would have administered an overdose or injected air into the IV in order to cause an embolism. Something along those lines.”

“Comforting thought,” she said, ditching the straw in her gin and tonic and lifting the glass to her lips.

“He said anyone with medical experience wouldn't risk leaving the evidence associated with suffocation. Yet we found bruising on the inside of the lips, petechia, even the down feathers he inhaled. I think he may be right. The whole thing feels amateurish.”

“Like a family member or old friend,” she said, nodding.

“Except his family isn't close. I spoke with his daughter and she sounds like she'd rather he went on suffering.”

“Okay, so that leaves old friend.”

“Or a nurse wily enough to make it look amateurish.”

“Which would certainly rule out Mathers.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
eight by the time Diane dropped Byron off at 109 to retrieve his car. He stopped by his office long enough to retrieve the Pine Tree Hospice personnel files on both nurses before driving to his Danforth Street apartment.

He stripped off his jacket and tie, poured himself a tall nightcap, and lay on the couch as close as he could get to the squealing air-­conditioner. It was annoying as hell, but the cool air made the small apartment at least bearable.

He wrote a summary of the day's activities on a yellow legal pad. He'd get Shirley Grant to type it later. Some of what he wrote was from memory, the rest from the hieroglyphs he called notes. He finished his summary, then turned to the files. By all accounts both nurses seemed like model employees, except of course Mathers's and his marijuana issue. According to their personnel records, neither had ever been reprimanded for anything, not even excessive use of sick time. Considering their line of work, Byron thought that was impressive.

He continued reading until his eyelids became heavy. It was after eleven by the time he finally returned Kay's call. Her cell went directly to voicemail. “Kay, it's John. Sorry I couldn't call sooner. I'm in the middle of a case.”

How many times had he said those words to her? Did it now sound as hollow as it felt?

“I'll try you back tomorrow.”

He almost said “love you” out of habit more than anything, but caught himself. Did he? Did he still love her? Did she still love him? They hadn't lived together for over nine months, hadn't had a meaningful conversation in six, and hadn't seen each other in at least a month. Whatever they had, it certainly couldn't be mistaken for a marriage. Not anymore.

Byron knew he bore most of responsibility for their separation. He couldn't really blame Kay for wanting some time alone. He was far from a model husband. Juggling the responsibilities of a marriage and the demanding life of a cop hadn't been easy.

Once this case is solved I'll sit down with Kay, he thought. I'll make a real effort this time. We'll even try counseling if she wants.

While contemplating the nature of their relationship, he drifted off to sleep.