Among the Shadows (5 page)

“John, you still with me?” Ellis asked.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said as he started his car and pulled out of the garage. “I got another call coming in.”

“Call me back if you need to take it.”

“No, it's okay. Go ahead. You were about to give me the results of the tox screen.”

“Indeed, I was. We found four different drugs in his system: morphine, doxepin, glycopyrrolate and prednisone. All are commonly used to treat dying cancer patients and their symptoms. The levels were also consistent with the norm if you factor in his body weight.”

“What about his doctor?”

“You mean the vacationing Dr. Edward Rosenstein? I made contact with him and he confirmed all of the administered meds, their dosage and frequency.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Byron ended the call with Ellis and checked voicemail. No messages. He redialed Kay's number. After several rings, it went to her voicemail again. He hung up without leaving another message. Wishing he'd taken Ellis up on his offer, he continued toward Bartley Avenue.

Retired Detective Ray Humphrey, one of Byron's oldest and dearest friends, had always said: “If you find your train derailing during the course of an investigation, the best thing you can do is go back to the beginning.” Humphrey had been his mentor both when Byron first started on the job and again after he made detective. And in a promotional twist of fate, Humphrey had even worked for Byron as a detective during his last few years on the job.

Byron parked his Taurus across the street from O'Halloran's and got out. He used a spare key to unlock the evidence padlock Pelligrosso had installed on the outside of the side-­entry door, and stepped inside.

In spite of the day's bright sunshine, the interior of the house was dark, gloomy, and empty, no longer bustling with activity as it had been only thirty-­two hours prior. He walked to the center of the kitchen and stood, making a slow three-­sixty, taking in everything he saw, checking for anything they might've missed. The ringing of his cell shattered the silence and gave him a start. He looked at the ID. Diane.

“Hey, partner,” he said.

“Hey, yourself. You off sleuthing without me again?”

“Busted.”

“You're so predictable. I knew exactly where you'd be. Want another set of eyes?”

He walked into the living room and looked through the front window. Diane was leaning against her car, parked directly behind his. “Come on in.”

“Any idea what we're looking for?” Diane asked as she stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.

“Nope. How did you make out with St. John's hospital records?”

“Nothing to indicate she was capable of killing her patients. Highly rated employee is the standard jargon on her monthly performance reports.”

“You?” Byron asked. “Any luck with Frankie's girlfriend?”

“Sunny Day?”

Byron turned and made eye contact. “You're kidding?”

“Nope, Sunny Day. And she alibied Nurse Mathers.”

“Of course she did. So here we are back at square one.”

“Okay, talk me through the case again,” she said.

They both knew the trick. Detailing the facts of a case out loud to another person added a fresh perspective. Occasionally, something previously overlooked would become apparent.

Byron summarized everything they knew. “Elderly male dying of cancer, lives alone. Family disowns him. He's former military and former cop. Doctor says they can't do anymore for him at the hospital so they send him home. He receives in-­home hospice care from a reputable local company. Only two nurses have contact with him. The home is never locked. He may have had a ­couple of unidentified male visitors during his remaining weeks. Who are we looking for?”

“Family members?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Very doubtful. He burned a lot of bridges. And I had Tran check, none are local.”

“Friends. Ex-­military buddies or cops.”

“Good. Where?”

“Address book, fridge notes, or business cards. Something along those lines.”

“See, you're not just a pretty face.”

Diane smiled. “Damn straight. I'm a lot more than that.”

They searched methodically through drawers, cabinets, and tabletops in each room. Diane located a handful of business cards in O'Halloran's top bureau drawer. The refrigerator yielded a lawn care rep, an oil burner ser­viceman, and garage mechanic. Byron found a tattered address book inside a desk drawer in O'Halloran's study.

“Hey, look at this,” Diane said, holding up a framed photograph. “Looks like an old PPD team photo.”

“It's the old SRT,” Byron said, referring to Special Reaction Team, PPD's version of a SWAT team.

“How do you know that?”

“That's my dad,” he said, pointing to one of the men in the photo.

O
N THE WAY
back to 109, Byron got a call from Tran.

“Sarge, I just heard from the Transportation Security Administration. If Susan Atherton made any recent trips to Maine it must have been by car.”

“No record of any flights?”

“Negative,
mon capitaine
. Not for the past two years. Last trip she took was to Phoenix—­about as far from Maine as you can get.”

“Thanks, Dustin.”

“I'm here to serve. Over and out.”

Byron hung up and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.

“Well, Lieutenant O'Halloran, if not your daughter, who
were
you getting visits from?”

 

Chapter Eight

T
HE
C
HARLES
J
.
L
ORING
AMVETS Post, chartered in 1955, is located on the in-­town side of Interstate 295 on Washington Avenue in Portland. Post 25, as it's known to the senior members of the club, is an odd-­shaped structure built into the side of a hill that slopes sharply away from the street toward Kennedy Park. The only exception to its flat roof is the peak protruding from the right side where a lighted AMVETS sign is attached to clapboard siding. Two steel doors bookend a long windowless brick-­and-­mortar façade, separated from the paved road by only a sidewalk.

It was getting late and Cleophus Riordan, or “Cleo” as he was known to his friends, had long since lost track of exactly how many Bacardi-­and-­Cokes he'd consumed. It was a typical Sunday for Riordan. He always arrived around four in the afternoon, parked his tan Buick in the dirt parking lot across the street, sat at his usual table in the corner, told stories to anyone who would listen, cursed the news on television, and got drunk.

On this particular Sunday night, Riordan had been drinking and telling war stories to an old friend who had strangely shown up that evening.

“Pretty friggin' weird running into you like this, Hawk,” Riordan said with a pronounced slur. “Hadn't thought about you in years.”

Hawk smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. From the corner of his eye he watched as Ralph Polowski, the on-­duty bartender, walked over toward their table while wiping his hands on the filthy white apron he wore.

“Hey, Ralph,” Riordan said. “I got one for ya. How does a Muslim like his pie?”

“I give. How?”

“Allah mode,” Riordan said with a cackle. “You get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Polowski said. “Okay, you two, it's eleven-­thirty, time to call it a night.”

“Aw, come on Ralphie. Just one more for me and my friend?”

“No, Cleo. I think you've had more than enough for tonight,” Polowski said as he laid the handwritten bill on the table.

“See what I mean?” Cleo told Hawk. “Zero respect anymore.”

Hawk waited as Riordan awkwardly pushed himself up and out of the chair and began fishing for his wallet.

“I got this,” Hawk said, handing four twenties to Polowski.

“Like I said, you're A-­OK. Now, I gotta take a piss,” Riordan announced to the empty room.

Hawk watched Riordan stagger toward the bathroom and out of sight. Hawk bid good night to Polowski, then turned and headed for the door.

H
AWK WAS STANDING
outside next to the building waiting when Riordan stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to light a cigarette. The nighttime air still felt warm and humid. Hawk was watching Riordan dig into his pocket for his keys, wondering how long it would take the old drunk to notice him, when Riordan looked over.

“Hey, Hawk,” Riordan said excitedly. “I've got a brand-­new bottle at home that needs to be drunk.” He laughed at his own bad joke until the laughter tailed off into a series of raspy coughs.

“I don't know, Cleo, it's getting kinda late.”

“Nonsense, it's still early. Whatdaya say? That bottle ain't gonna drink itself, ya know.”

Hawk pretended to mull it over. “Okay, but I'm driving.”

“Done and done. Let's take my car,” Riordan said, tossing him the keys.

“Be just as easy to take mine,” Hawk said, catching them easily.

“My bottle, my car.”

“You're the boss,” Hawk said.

The two men walked across the street, although in Riordan's case it was more of an unsteady shuffle, and got into Riordan's LeSabre. Hawk pulled out of the lot and onto Washington Avenue. A faded bumper sticker affixed to the rear bumper read: “Drink Responsibly.”

I
T WAS NEARLY
one-­thirty in the morning. Both men had been drinking at the kitchen table since they'd arrived. Hawk kept getting up to mix their drinks at the counter while Riordan regaled him with stories. Hawk had been giving Riordan nearly pure alcohol while his own glass was mainly soda.

Riordan, well past the point of constructing anything resembling an articulate sentence, was barely able to hold his head up. He didn't seem to notice that the alcohol wasn't affecting Hawk.

The sidearm Riordan had carried while fighting in Vietnam lay on the table next to his glass. “Home protection,” he called it. Hawk imagined the old man probably showed it off to anyone who cared to see it, and even a few who didn't.

Hawk studied Riordan as they sat at the table. His eyes were glassy and the road map on his nose told a tale of years of self-­abuse. Riordan exhibited the thousand-­yard stare only an experienced alcoholic can master.

“Fuckin'-­A right!” Riordan announced to no one in particular, before taking another drink.

Realizing that Riordan was close to passing out, and not wanting him to spoil the plan, Hawk excused himself, then headed for the bathroom.

He returned to the kitchen several minutes later, dressed from head to toe in a white Tyvek suit, complete with boots, gloves, and a hood.

“Hey, now, what in the hell are you up to?” Riordan croaked before he was once again overcome by a fit of laughter that gradually morphed into a body-­racking cough.

“Just righting a wrong, old man. Righting a wrong.”

Hawk snatched the handgun from the table, pressed it against Riordan's temple, and pulled the trigger.

 

Chapter Nine

L
E
R
O
YER HAD BEEN
hounding Byron about going down to the firing range all morning. “I know you're working a case. I get it, okay? But Cross has been riding my ass about having the bureau qualify on time, for once. That's how it works, John. He rides my ass and I ride yours.”

“Well, there's a picture I'm gonna need therapy to get over,” Byron said. “You missed your calling, Lieu. You should've been a writer of porn.”

“Gay porn,” Diane added.

LeRoyer gave her a disapproving scowl. “Watch yourself, Detective. Look, I'm begging the both of you. Get your asses down there. Now!”

“Well, if you're gonna get all sentimental about it, okay,” Byron said.

Sergeant Gary “Cowboy” Mullins was the PD's senior range officer and armorer. Everyone called him Cowboy on account of the thick white handlebar mustache he sported. Too old to effectively work a beat, he was still one of the best sharpshooters on the department. Mullins had instructed Byron during his academy days, when the state's basic police school was still located in the Central Maine town of Waterville.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Mullins said.

“Morning, Cowboy,” they said in unison.

“Didn't expect you two till sometime after Christmas.”

“We like to keep you on your toes,” Diane said.

“And I suspect you could, young lady,” Cowboy said with a wink. “You know the drill, empty your mags on the table and unload your guns down range. Grab some eye and ear protection and I'll go hang your targets.”

“Thanks, Cowboy,” Byron said.

“I aim to please,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down to the far end of the range. “Hey, you guys know why there'll never be a range officer named Will?”

Byron and Diane glanced at each other. They'd both heard him tell the joke countless times but neither wanted to burst his bubble. “Why?” Byron hollered down range.

“Ready on the right, ready on the left, fire at Will.” Mullins chuckled.

Byron was unloading his magazines when he noticed his hands were shaking. He clenched his fists to try and stop it.

“That happen very often?” Diane asked in a whisper.

He heard the concern in her voice. “Every once in a while. “Nothing I can't handle.”

She frowned and placed her hands on her hips.

“Really, I'm fine.”

Mullins returned. “Jesus, John. When you gonna lose that forty-­five caliber dinosaur and get a nine like the young'uns?”

“Can't teach an old dog, I guess.”

“Ain't it the truth?”

Mullins ran them through the qualification drills simultaneously, starting at fifty feet and working toward the targets until they'd each exhausted their fifty rounds.

“Okay, let's see how we did,” Mullins said. “John, you scored eighty-­four percent and Diane, I've got you at ninety. You're both clear to carry.”

“God, I'm so relieved,” Diane said, holding a hand up to her chest for effect.

“There's cleaning supplies in the next room if you want to take care of it here,” Mullins said.

“Thanks, Cowboy,” Byron said. But I've got a funeral to attend. “You coming?” he asked Diane.

“I'm gonna give my gun a quick once over. Besides, I've got to catch up on some paperwork.”

“Suit yourself.”

A
FTER
B
YRON LEFT
the firing range, Mullins turned to Diane. “You know you're not doing him any favors.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

Mullins crossed his arms and stood facing her. “Young lady, Byron carries a Glock 30 and you carry a 26. You think I can't tell the difference between a hole made by a forty-­five and one made by a nine? I could go and study them if you'd like, but my guess is you gave John the five rounds you missed. I know you, Detective. You almost never miss. Why are you helping him?”

“Because, he's my partner.” Diane quickly reassembled and loaded her gun, then headed for the door.

“I hope you don't live to regret that decision,” he said.

She stopped at the door and looked back. “Don't worry about me, Cowboy.”

“Not you I'm worried about.”

I
T WAS A
­
couple of minutes after eleven Tuesday morning and Byron stood in dress uniform at the sparsely attended graveside ser­vice of former Lieutenant James O'Halloran. The sky was overcast and the air was still thick with summerlike humidity. He counted maybe a dozen current Portland officers and half as many retirees. Only half listening to the familiar words of the priest as they drifted by on a warm breeze, his thoughts were occupied by other things, not the least of which were the murder and why Kay wasn't returning his calls. She'd obviously wanted something, so why not leave a message saying what it was? He didn't have time for a prolonged game of phone tag.

“A warrior for peace, both here and abroad,” the priest said. “James O'Halloran answered the call. Serving his country overseas, then returning stateside where he defended the peace.”

Byron had attended many police funerals during the course of his career, but he'd never quite been able to stomach them. Truth was he hated going. It wasn't that he didn't want to show respect for a fallen officer or to honor their ser­vice to the community, because he did. His disdain for these funerals went much deeper. Dark thoughts of his own mortality and of those he worked with and cared about would inevitably come creeping in, thoughts he could do without. Memories of his Irish Catholic upbringing intertwined with his father's suicide, the one event that most clearly marked the end of his faith, left behind only anger and distrust for all religion.

Byron had been seventeen years old the day his father committed suicide. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and he had grabbed his bike and peddled over to pop in on old dad. His parents had already split by then. He knew his father would be at home, it was his day off. Byron grabbed his father's uncollected mail from the box out front, then entered the apartment. He yelled out a greeting but got no response. Worried that his father might either be in the midst of an afternoon tryst or drunk, he quietly searched each room. He found his father slumped over the dining room table, his revolver was lying on the floor. The image never left him.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” the priest continued.

Byron tried to refocus on the murder. The weekend had been largely uneventful, save for two more pharmacy robberies and Frankie Mathers's decision not to submit to a polygraph test, effectively closing the door on his cooperation in the O'Halloran case. Byron didn't really believe the simpleton stoner was up to the task of a mercy killing anyway, but it might have been nice to put that theory to the test seeing as how St. John had already done her part. Mathers felt like unfinished business and Byron despised anything left undone.

“Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me . . .”

Byron didn't know about anyone's cup running over, but he was pretty sure he could relate to walking in the valley of the shadow of death. It was after all, his job.

The priest passed along the traditional invite to the home of one of the other retirees for fellowship and refreshment. Byron knew the obligatory post-­party was really an excuse to tell war stories, and refreshment meant getting drunk—­and while he was never totally averse to the latter, today he wasn't in the mood for either. He walked alone through the cemetery to his car, then drove to the Public Works garage to get the Taurus's air-­conditioner recharged.

H
E WAS STANDING
in the CID locker room changing out of his sweaty dress uniform and into a wrinkled but dry suit and tie when his phone, still on silent from the ser­vice, began to vibrate. He looked at the caller ID. It was dispatch.

“Byron,” he answered.

“Hey, handsome, it's Mary.”

Police Dispatcher Mary O'Connell was a sweetheart of a lady. She'd been with the department far longer than Byron. Aside from Humphrey, O'Connell was probably the closest thing to family he had. She had taken him under her wing dating back to his first day on the job. When he was a rookie cop, still wet behind the ears and still two years from having earned the respect afforded the officers who'd already completed their probationary period. On more than one occasion, Byron had ended up in the emergency room while O'Connell was working the board. Barroom brawls, motor vehicle accidents, or trying to take a crazed suspect into custody. Each time, after learning O'Connell was beside herself with worry, Byron would stop by dispatch to see her before he went off duty.

“Hey, Mare, what's up?”

“Didn't know if you were tied up at the reception or not. I can call one of your detectives if you'd rather.”

“No, I'm available, just changing.”

“I'd pay to see that,” she said in her deepest, sexiest voice.

Byron laughed.

“Well, since you're available I've got patrol units out at a possible suicide. They're requesting CID.”

He copied down the address and asked her to contact Pelligrosso and Joyner.

“Gabe's already on scene and Diane's en route with Nugent. Let me know if you need anything else when you get there, Sarge. I'm on till six.”

“Thanks, Mare.”

I
T WAS ONE-
­
TWENTY
by the time Byron pulled up in front of the Osgood Street address. The short dead-­end street in the Libby Town section of Portland was only a stone's throw from the Westgate Shopping Center. The home, a small gray-­shingled Cape, was in serious disrepair. Several faded red shutters had fallen off and were now sitting among the weeds up against the house. Peeling paint gave the siding a distinct brindle-­like appearance. The evidence van was parked in the driveway, two unmarks and a black-­and-­white lined the street in front.

Byron was very aware of unseen eyes peering out from neighbors' windows. They were always there. Others, far less subtle, stood gawking in a small cluster, down the street, hoping to get a good look at whatever had happened. In the great train wreck of life, some folks couldn't get their fill of tragedy.

Officer Sean Haggerty appeared as Byron pried himself from the car. Built like a linebacker, Hags would've been handy to have as a partner during Byron's early years on the beat. If Hags had been at his side, he likely wouldn't have come out on the losing end of so many fights.

“Afternoon, Sarge. We've got to stop meeting like this. ­People are beginning to talk.”

“What do we have?”

“Looks like the homeowner killed himself in the kitchen. Handgun. A real mess.”

“Who called it in?”

“Victim's daughter.” He looked down at his notepad. “Amy Rubio. Says she came by to visit and found him.”

Byron ran the surname through the memory bank in his head but came up empty. “How'd she get in?”

“Key.”

“Victim married?”

“Divorced.”

“Where's the daughter now?”

“Down the street at a neighbor's,” he said, pointing. “She's pretty shaken up. Both Detective Joyner and the victim advocate are with her.”

“Good. Let's make sure she doesn't come back here.” He knew her statement might have to wait. “Pelligrosso inside?”

“Pelligrosso and Detective Nugent.”

“Who else has been in there?”

He checked the log. “Other than the one MedCu attendant and me, only your folks.”

More ­people than he would have liked, but he'd had to contend with worse. Too often his scenes were trampled by firefighters and paramedics alike. ­People who only wanted to see the body. CID was fond of referring to the EMS folks as the “Evidence Eradication Unit.”

“I want supplements from everyone.”

“Already on it. Working on mine. Vickers, the paramedic, told me he'd call when his is ready. Holler if you need anything else. I'll be out here writing.”

“Thanks, Hags.”

The home's front door was standing open, and Byron walked toward it, taking care to watch where he stepped. Evidence can exist anywhere. He visually inspected the doorframe, as he always did, checking for any signs of forced entry. The casing was intact.

“Gabe, you back there?” he hollered.

“In the kitchen, Sarge.”

“Okay to walk in?”

“Yes. I left a box of Tyvek booties inside the front door on the living room floor. You're gonna want them. Hold up when you get to the kitchen doorway.”

“Okay.”

Byron slipped on the foot protection along with a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket, deliberately making his way through the living room, careful not to disturb anything as he went. He knew Pelligrosso would've already photographed every room in detail, prior to working the scene where the body was located, but protocol was everything, especially at a suspicious death scene. And suicides by their very nature were suspicious deaths, each one a potential crime. He'd taken more than one officer aside at a crime scene to lecture them on the importance of leaving everything exactly as they'd found it. “There are no mulligans in evidence collection,” he'd tell them. What he wouldn't do was tell them twice.

Pelligrosso was busy photographing the kitchen. The victim was seated in a wooden ladder-­back. His head was flopped over the back of the chair, like a broken Pez dispenser. The man looked as though he'd simply passed out in the chair, were it not for the blood spatter on everything. In addition to the spatter, there were pieces of skull and brain matter clinging to the cupboard doors, counter, and wall to the victim's left. His arms hung by his sides, nearly touching the floor. A semiautomatic handgun lay on the once-­white linoleum beneath his right hand.