Among the Shadows (7 page)

 

Chapter Eleven

I
T
WAS NEARLY
one o'clock Wednesday afternoon when Byron headed down to the police department's first-­floor conference room for the weekly CompStat meeting. As usual, he avoided the elevator, favoring instead the solitude of a darkened stairwell. It wasn't a fear of elevators that motivated him as much as the likelihood of sharing one with someone boorish. Worse still, being stuck in one with such a person. He'd never quite developed a knack for suffering fools.

The conference room was two stories high with walls constructed of exposed brick and Sheetrock. The floor was tiled in an earthy rust-­colored terrazzo. Two large wood-­framed windows overlooked the plaza, which lead to the rear parking garage. At the center of the room stood a massive wooden table, fifteen feet long, surrounded by more than a dozen padded black-­metal chairs. Byron sat down in his usual seat at the far right side of the table closest to one of the conference room doors, just as the others began to arrive. The meetings always made him feel like he was sitting down to dinner as part of some dysfunctional Earl Hamner television family, living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia during the Great Depression. Mind passing me the murders, Grandpa?

CompStat had come to Portland, Maine, by way of a young, stat-­happy police captain, shortly after he'd earned his master's in police administration. When the idea was first implemented, the brain trust at City Hall, unable to contain their giddiness, held a joint press conference at which they trumpeted loudly about things like “leading the Portland Police Department into the twenty-­first century” and “cutting-­edge crime fighting.” Byron wondered what century they'd thought the police had been fighting crime in. Not surprisingly, the captain's rhetoric about saving Portland was really nothing more than a way to garner regional attention for himself in his bid to become a chief. Following that captain's departure, to fix whatever might be ailing some other police agency, Portland PD was left with CompStat, and Byron and his cohorts were left to suffer through the tedious Wednesday afternoon meetings each week.

CompStat meetings were usually comprised of the same personnel: the Chief, Assistant Chief, Commander, CID Lieutenant, CID Sergeants, Captain of Patrol, Community Policing Lieutenant and Sergeant, Crime Analyst, and several Senior Lead Officers. Each attendee was provided with a copy of the weekly Crime Analyst Report showing violent crimes, property crimes, and calls for ser­vice. Each report was broken down into subcategories like murder, gross sexual assault, aggravated assault, robbery, etc. Also factored in were things like location within the city where the crime occurred, time of day, day of the week, and so on. An increase in any given area would require an explanation, along with a plan to fix the problem. Any decrease in criminal activity and somebody would undoubtedly take credit, usually somebody of greater rank and importance than a sergeant.

Byron knew he'd be occupying the hot seat at today's meeting. All anyone wanted to talk about was the murder investigation and why it hadn't been solved. The chief's protocol was to make the supervisor about to be served up as the main course wait until last before being called upon, allowing adequate time for basting the goose.

After everyone was seated, Chief Stanton, the master of ceremonies, started the meeting, beginning with Detective Sergeant Peterson, supervisor of the property crime unit. Peterson covered each of the property crime categories in agonizing detail, at least as far as Byron was concerned. He knew there was zero hope of being called away from the meeting, unless the world came to an end. Next, Stanton called for Detective Sergeant Crosby's report on current drug investigations. And so it went until finally Byron was called upon.

He wanted to keep his cards as close to the vest as possible while still providing something for the group and satisfying Stanton's infernal need to know. The last thing he needed was one of the CompStat attendees leaking valuable case information to a news media vulture like Davis Billingslea, and not for the first time. Byron explained how they'd spent most of the previous week trying to establish whether or not O'Halloran's death was at the hands of one of his nurses.

He could see Assistant Chief Reginald Cross salivating to add his two cents. Cross suffered from what Diane referred to as “stater of the obvious syndrome.” He always led with the same worn out caveats: “I don't want to tell you how to investigate cases, but—­” and “Wouldn't it be better if—­?” Cross wasn't alone in telling Byron how to go about being a detective, but he was the second-­highest ranking know-­it-­all.

“I don't understand why you're trying to connect these two cases,” Cross said. “Cleo's death was a suicide, wasn't it?”

“Inconclusive. We still can't say he didn't take his own life, but we
have
established he wasn't alone when he died.”

“Doesn't mean someone else killed him. Maybe there was someone there and they didn't want to get dragged into a police investigation. I don't suppose that occurred to you?”

Byron bit his tongue, trying to keep his real thoughts to himself. “It has. But we're keeping all possibilities on the table until we can say with certainty it was a suicide.”

“Sounds to me like you're attempting to make a link where there isn't one,” Cross said, playing to Stanton and the rest of the room. “If I were you I'd be focusing my efforts on solving O'Halloran's murder, instead of searching for some conspiracy.”

Byron was fighting exasperation. He glanced over at LeRoyer, who was giving him a watch-­yourself look. “As I said, Chief, we still need to prove Riordan wasn't murdered.”

“Seems pretty friggin' clear to me.”

As the sage advice from all corners of the room faded into a dull pointless hum, Byron imagined how great a dram of the Irish would be at that very moment. He made eye contact with Sergeant Peterson, who was sporting a large shit-­eating grin, apparently enjoying Byron's quandary. He glanced down at his vibrating cell. The text from Peterson read: “Looks like somebody needs a big steaming cup of shut-­the-­fuck-­up!” It was all Byron could do not to laugh out loud.

Homicide 101 continued ad nauseam. He needed to check in on his ­people and get back to the case. What he didn't need or have time for was more useless advice.

CompStat mercifully concluded with a promise from Lieutenant LeRoyer that CID would continue to put all of its resources toward the O'Halloran homicide.

LeRoyer and Byron rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. “Thoughts?” LeRoyer asked, breaking the silence.

He looked up, glaring at the lieutenant. “You don't want to hear them.”

The doors opened and they were immediately confronted by a mousy-­looking young man. His hair was slicked back and he wore a dark pinstriped suit. His general appearance screamed attorney. “Which one of you is John Byron?” pinstripe asked, skipping right past the customary formalities.

Byron was pretty sure he had suits older than the man standing before him. “I'm Byron. Who are you?”

“John Byron, you've been served,” striped-­suit said as he quickly slipped a manila envelope into Byron's hand and escaped into the elevator just as the doors were closing.

“I'm guessing it's not good news,” LeRoyer said.

Byron opened the envelope and unfolded its contents.

“Who's it from? Another happy customer getting ready to sue?” LeRoyer asked with a chuckle as he peered over Byron's shoulder.

Byron turned and stared at his lieutenant.

“Well, who's it from?” LeRoyer asked.

“Kay's lawyer. She's filed for divorce.”

B
YRON
UNLOCKED THE
door and stepped inside his cozy first-­floor Danforth Street apartment. A savvy realtor friend had once told him that “cozy,” a favorite adjective among their ilk, actually meant a place too small to swing a cat. He'd found the description rather disturbing, and he didn't own a cat. A maze of cardboard boxes occupied the floor in each of the four rooms. Some were open but none had been emptied. He removed things as he needed, rather than unpack.

It'd been nine months since Kay announced she wanted a trial separation. Calling it a separation had been her way of letting him down easy. He was pretty sure he'd known even then their marriage was over, but he hadn't been ready for the feeling of finality the act of unpacking would have brought with it. It wasn't optimistic pretense as much as living in denial and hoping things might still work out.

He dragged out a stool and sat down at the kitchen counter with the envelope containing Kay's divorce papers. He pulled out the documents and flipped through them. A twenty-­year marriage dissolved by one stroke of a pen. It was absurd, and would've been laughable had it not hurt so badly.

One by one all of the things they had talked about, all of the dreams for their future, everything had fallen apart. The children, the camp at the lake, the grandchildren, retiring to Florida. All of those bullshit greeting card moments gone. What had happened? Where had they gone wrong? Was it his career? Hers? Or was it just the picture-­perfect dreams of two starry-­eyed kids looking for something more than their parents had had? Was it really anyone's fault? Or had they simply paid the price for a lifetime of dreaming.

“Looks pretty fuckin' official now, John,” he said aloud as he scanned the room. Somehow, in the short span of five minutes, his living space had grown even more depressing. All his meager belongings stacked up like they were about to go into storage or off to the Salvation Army. The sum of his life reduced to a dozen or so boxes in a shitty little one-­bedroom-­ efficiency. No longer a temporary home, it was now his future.

As if on cue, the secondhand air-­conditioner, given to him by Humphrey, began making the horrible squealing noise to which it had lately become prone. The AC wasn't doing much to cool the tiny living space, but it was better than nothing. Besides, when autumn finally did make an appearance, he would no longer need it. He got up, walked over to the window, and gave a hard rap with his knuckles to the side of the aging appliance. The squealing stopped. He returned to the kitchen, rinsed out a dirty juice glass, and poured himself two fingers of Jameson Irish whiskey. The strong smell of the liquor filled his nostrils and the slow soothing burn caressed his throat. He closed his eyes, savoring the restorative powers of the bottle.

He gave a start at the unexpected ringing of his cell. “Yeah,” he answered without checking to see who it was.

“John, it's Kay.”

He paused before responding. Unsure of what to say, he said nothing.

“I know you were served today. I'm sorry about doing it like this.”

He felt the anger swelling inside. “Not too sorry to file them, though.”

“I know you're upset. I guess I probably would be too.”

“No you don't know,” he snapped. “You don't know because you're not me. We couldn't even talk about this in person? Really, Kay? Is this how two responsible adults handle things? Through an attorney?”

“I couldn't tell you in person. I knew how upset you'd get.”

“Upset? You're goddamned right I'm upset! Twenty years of marriage and you couldn't even tell me to my face. You asked me to give you some space and I did. You said you needed time and I gave it to you. I gave you everything you asked for, and for what? What the fuck did it get me?”

“John, please—­”

“I'll tell you what it got me, nothing. Do you have any idea how goddamned humiliating it is to have some pimply-­faced attorney wannabe serve you with divorce papers, at work? In front of my boss. Really?”

“John—­”

“I hope you're happy.” He hung up and threw his phone across the room, striking the air-­conditioner. “Fuck,” he announced to the empty apartment.

The squealing began again, in earnest, like fingernails on a chalkboard. He set his glass down, walked slowly but purposefully to the window, and delivered a forceful side kick to the metal casing. The same kick he'd delivered to scores of doors during his early years on the job. There was a loud cracking noise before the AC tumbled out of its frame. The wire pigtail popped from the wall outlet and gave chase. He heard it crash onto the ground below. Only an empty window frame remained. He slammed the window shut and calmly returned to the bottle.

D
IA
NE STOOD ON
the doorstep to Byron's apartment, waiting. She'd already knocked several times but hadn't gotten a response. She knew from prior visits that the button to the ancient doorbell was probably still broken, but she pressed it anyway.

Byron had already departed 109 by the time Shirley Grant told Diane about the divorce papers. He wasn't answering her calls and she was worried. Worried about what her partner might do to himself. For all his tough talk and posturing, she knew that his crumbling marriage bothered him more than he let on. She wasn't sure if he still held a place in his heart for Kay or if he just hated to fail at anything.

She knew Byron well enough to know that he'd want to be alone as he sorted things out, but she also knew how self-­destructive he could be. The alcohol seemed to be getting the better of him. And she knew firsthand what addiction could do to a person, having gone through it with her brother. The truth was she wanted to be with John. In spite of his many faults, he was a good man, with a good heart, and she had feelings for him. But he was an old-­fashioned guy who had, at least until now, still considered himself married. Probably why she hadn't acted on those feelings.

“John, you in there?” She turned to the sound of giggling behind her on the sidewalk. Two young girls laughing uncontrollably about something, staggering drunkenly by under the cone of light cast by a streetlamp. Diane waited until they were gone, then knocked again. “John.”