Among the Shadows (4 page)

 

Chapter Seven

D
E
TECTIVE
V
INCE
H
AYWAR
D
was the official polygraph operator for the Portland Police Department. Although technically a detective, his primary responsibility was interviewing police candidates, both civilian and sworn. Occasionally, and to his great delight, he'd be given the green light to polygraph and interview a suspect in one of the other detectives' cases. Usually, if the case fell as far as Hayward's desk, it was either an outright whodunit or the lead detective was grasping at straws. For many in the bureau, the polygraph was nothing more than a desperate attempt to maintain their clearance rates; and in the land of detectives, nothing was more important than clearance rates. Nobody knew that better than Byron. Unsolved cases, specifically murders, were to a career like ink on a tie.

Byron had never had much use for polygraphs or, for that matter, for Hayward. But even he had to admit, they needed something. If St. John was offering to poly, why not let her? O'Halloran's relatives had all disowned him. During a second phone call, Susan said she'd have preferred it if the “old bastard” had gone on suffering. Not exactly a loving endorsement. None of the neighbors had seen anyone coming or going, aside from the nurses. Much like fighting for yards and a new set of downs on the gridiron—­when you can't find what you seek, take what they'll give you. Byron couldn't remember where he'd heard that particular turn of phrase, but it had always stuck with him. He wasn't sure if a football analogy was the best way to describe working a tough murder case, but it was better than nothing.

Byron, Diane, and Nugent were seated in the conference room or, as Nugent referred to it, the “war room.” They were briefing Hayward on the case in preparation for St. John's nine-­thirty poly.

“I think I've got a pretty good handle on it,” Hayward said. “All we need to do now is come up with the questions.”

“Let's see if she knows where the Lindbergh baby is buried,” Nugent said. Byron, who wasn't in the mood, shot him a disapproving glance.

“We only want to know if she did it, Vince,” Diane said. “It's not complicated.”

“I understand, but I need to design questions she can't dodge.”

“Jesus, Vince,” Nugent said. “What a crock of shit. Just ask her if she put the fucking pillow over O'Halloran's face and pressed down on it until he died. How's that design work for ya?”

“Works for me,” Hayward said, swallowing nervously.

“Get her to confirm that she was home Tuesday night and not paying a visit to our victim,” Diane said.

“How should I ask it?” Hayward asked.

“Ask any way you want,” Byron said. “But don't screw this up.”

T
HE THREE DETECTIVES
monitored the interview from LeRoyer's office, observing as Hayward covered the preliminary questions with St. John. Did you sleep last night? How many hours? Are you on any medication? Each question designed to evaluate her fitness to give accurate responses during the actual test.

“Jesus, his instructions are putting me to sleep,” Nugent said. “I oughta have Vince come by my house tonight and fucking talk me to sleep. Ten bucks says it's inconclusive. Who wants in?”

Byron hid a smile as LeRoyer looked up from his computer, annoyed. “Look, I told you guys, if you're gonna be in here you're gonna have to keep it down. I got work to do. And get your goddamned foot off my desk, Mike.”

“Sorry, boss.”

It was almost eleven by the time St. John was wired up to the polygraph and answering control questions. Roger Bertram, her attorney, was also in the room, seated right outside of the camera's view. Bertram had made sure he'd seen and approved the questions before they were asked.

“Are you currently in Portland, Maine?” Hayward asked.

“Yes,” St. John answered.

“Is your name Rebecca St. John?”

“No.”

Hayward continued through the initial battery of questions, asking her to tell the truth on some and lie on others. These simple control questions allowed him to calibrate the instrumentation to most accurately measure her physiological responses. The nurse looked calm and composed, sitting in the black leather chair.

Finally, Hayward began asking the questions they'd all been waiting for.

“Did you cause the death of James O'Halloran?” Hayward asked.

St. John shifted slightly in the chair. “No.”

“Remember not to move, okay? Try and sit still.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Did you cause the death of James O'Halloran?”

“No.”

Hayward questioned the nurse for twenty minutes before allowing her a break. He needed time to evaluate the printed charts and to consult with the others.

“So? Did she kill him?” Diane asked.

“She's not showing any deception,” Hayward said, pointing to the charts resembling topographic mountain ranges.

“You're saying she didn't do it?” Byron asked.

“I'm saying she believes she's telling the truth when she says she didn't cause O'Halloran's death.”

“It was the damned pillow, right?” Nugent said. “You missed your calling, Vince. You shoulda been a fuckin' lawyer.”

“Give me the bottom line,” Byron said to Hayward.

“I'd be looking at someone else.”

Byron would've bet his paycheck the polygraph results would be inconclusive. But now, assuming Hayward knew what he was talking about, and assuming St. John wasn't a sociopath, they needed to explore other possibilities. Mathers? Nurse Feel Good had already demonstrated no qualms about bending ethical boundaries when it suited him. But bending them and chopping them up into kindling were two entirely different things. Either way, it was time to pay another visit to Frankie Mathers, this time on Byron's turf.

Diane and Nugent headed to the hospital to pick up St. John's records. Byron left a message for Mathers to call him back regarding a follow-­up interview. It took the nurse less than five minutes to return the call.

“I thought we were cool,” Mathers said.

Cool? Is that what we are?
“It's just follow-­up, Frankie. We've been talking to Rebecca St. John as well.”

“Yeah, I heard. Lie detector. No way am I taking one of those, man.”

“I'm not asking you to. Right now all I want is for you to come down to the station and talk with me. Voluntarily.”

“At the police station? Not too sure about that, man.”

“I only want to talk, Frankie. But if you won't talk to me, I guess maybe I'll have to talk to Tim Caron instead.” The other end of the line went silent for what seemed an eternity. Byron could picture Mathers squirming.

“I'll be there in half an hour.”

B
YRON WAS READIN
G
over supplements from the O'Halloran case when his desk phone rang. “Byron.”

“Sarge, it's Gabe. You have a sec?”

“Be right down.”

He found Pelligrosso seated in front of the AFIS computer. AFIS, short for Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was a one-­stop shop for computerized fingerprint indexing and comparison, maintained by the FBI. The benefit of AFIS was that it was a database containing millions of prints, greatly improving the odds of finding a match. The problem: it was a time consuming process. Crime scene prints had to be classified manually into types and converted into an electronic format before they could be uploaded and compared to those already in the database.

“What's up?” Byron asked.

“Remember you asked me to dust O'Halloran's bedroom for prints?”

He nodded.

“Well, I might have something. It's only a partial, not good enough for a positive ID, but if we develop a suspect, I can at least rule them out or keep them in contention.”

“It doesn't match anyone?”

“I took comparison prints from everyone who entered the room, including St. John and the MedCu attendants. This partial doesn't belong to any of them.”

“What about the weekend-­duty nurse, Mathers?”

“Don't have his prints yet.”

“He's on his way in now. I'll call you when he gets here.”

“
F
RANKIE, THIS IS
Officer Pelligrosso,” Byron said as he led the nurse into the first-­floor interview room and closed the door.

Mathers reached out to shake Pelligrosso's hand, then awkwardly pulled it back when the evidence tech made no effort to return the gesture.

“I've asked him to take your fingerprints, okay?” Byron continued.

“I thought you just wanted to talk, man? Why are you asking for my fingerprints? I haven't done anything.”

“We've printed everyone who was known to have been inside O'Halloran's house, Frankie. We're trying to rule ­people out.”

“I gotta tell ya, I'm not real comfortable with this. You said we were only gonna talk.”

Pelligrosso spoke up. “Mr. Mathers, I lifted fingerprints from everything in O'Halloran's room. These are elimination prints so we can rule you out.”

Mathers's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked back and forth at both cops. “How do I know you're not trying to set me up?”

Byron tried a softer approach. “Frankie, you were caring for O'Halloran as part of your job. You were supposed to be there. We're looking for anyone who wasn't. You've got nothing to worry about if you didn't do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but you already know I did.”

“Trust me, this isn't television. We're not trying to set you up.”

Mathers glanced over at Pelligrosso. “What about the thing we talked about?”

“We're trying to solve a murder, Frankie,” Byron said. “You really think I give a damn about a marijuana charge?”

Byron waited as Mathers thought it over; his distrust of the police was obvious. “Okay. Let's get this over with.”

Pelligrosso obtained a full set of fingerprints from Mathers, handed him a short stack of paper towels to wipe the ink off his hands, then left the room.

“Take me through it again, Frankie,” Byron said. “From the beginning.”

After he had finished, Byron reapproached the subject of the polygraph.

“I told you it's not gonna happen.”

“If you didn't kill him, you've got nothing to worry about.”

“I got plenty to worry about. I'm no killer, but I'm no angel either.”

“Will you at least think about it?”

Mathers continued scrubbing at the black ink stuck to his fingers. “Could I see the questions beforehand?”

“I'll have to check with the expert, but I think it can probably be arranged.”

Byron escorted Mathers out of the building, then headed straight up to the lab. “Any luck with Mathers's prints.”

“Found him in AFIS on a minor possession charge. Guess they don't screen nurses like they used to.”

“There's a shocker. What about the partial? Tell me it's his?”

“No can do. Doesn't match. That print may be the glass slipper, Sarge.”

“Okay, Gabe. I'll see if I can find you a Cinderella.”

“
W
HERE ARE WE AT?”
LeRoyer asked, looking rather frazzled seated behind his desk. “Chief Stanton's breathing down my neck.”

Byron deposited himself in one of the chairs across from the lieutenant. “In a word? Nowhere. The neighborhood canvass yielded dick. At the moment, both nurses seem in the clear. O'Halloran may have had a ­couple of male visitors who may have been white, but nobody can identify them or remember what they looked like. Pelligrosso lifted a partial print from the scene, that doesn't match anyone. It's not in the system and probably wouldn't hold up in court even if we could find a match. If this were New York City instead of Portland, Maine, you'd be calling this a misdemeanor homicide by now and telling me to move on.”

“What about the nurse who gave O'Halloran the weed, Matthews?”

“It's Mathers, and he's a dumb-­ass, more concerned about a furnishing charge and losing his job than anything else. He seems much too “love all, be all” to even think about a mercy killing. Frankly, he's not bright enough to have pulled this off anyway.”

“You still think it's a mercy killing?”

“I don't know what to think. What I do know is we seem to have hit a dead end.”

“Can we use the press?”

“Sure, if you don't mind the lawsuits that will likely be filed by both nurses and Pine Tree Hospice.”

LeRoyer sighed. “What
do
you suggest?”

“I don't know. Let me think on it.”

A
S
B
YRON ENTERED
the stairwell to the rear garage, he pulled out his phone and tried Kay's number again.

“Hello, you've reached Kay's cell. I'm either on the phone or with a client. Leave a message and I will return your call as soon as I'm able. Thanks and have a great day.”

“Kay, it's John, again.” He checked his watch. “It's about three o'clock. Call me.”

He slipped the cell back into his pocket. Exactly what the last few years of marriage had been like, he thought. Never-­ending games of phone tag, Kay working late while he either got called in nightly or never made it home. Was it any wonder they were apart?

No sooner had he stepped out onto the plaza when his cell rang.

“Byron,” he answered.

“Ah, the illustrious Detective Sergeant John Byron. Greetings from Augusta, Maine. Second home of the world famous and brilliant pathologist Dr. E,” Ellis said.

“Hey, Doc. Give me something, anything.”

“Alas, I cannot.”

“Toxicology?”

Byron's cell began to vibrate with an incoming call. He looked quickly at the number. Kay.