Among the Shadows (9 page)

 

Chapter Thirteen

B
YRON TOOK
THE
elevator to the basement, only because the stairwell at this end of the building ended at the first floor. The overhead garage door was closed and the lights were out. At first he thought someone had tripped a breaker until he saw the familiar blue glow. The evidence techs frequently used an alternate light source (ALS) to locate latent trace evidence. The high-­intensity lamp was capable of emitting light at different frequencies or colors. When used correctly, the ALS often made visible hairs, fibers, and prints, which had previously been invisible, visible to the naked eye.

He walked down the ramp to the caged area used for securing and processing larger pieces of evidence, like vehicles.

“Anything, Gabe?” Byron asked.

Pelligrosso shook his head. “I've lifted a ­couple of prints, but I'm guessing they're yours.”

“Why?”

“Because they're all from the outside handle of the driver's door.”

“What about inside, the steering wheel or rearview mirror?”

“Wiped clean.”

“Everything?”

“Whoever returned this thing to the parking lot knew exactly what they were doing.”

Wiped it clean and came back for the video.
Byron checked his watch, one-­thirty. “I'm planning a team meeting in the CID conference room at three, will you be done by then?”

Pelligrosso looked at his own watch. “No, but I can be done by four.”

I
T WAS FOUR-
­
FIFTEEN
before they were all seated in the CID conference room. Tran had written the pertinent case facts in his ridiculously neat script on the large whiteboard dominating one of the room's longer walls. On the opposite wall, he'd posted a three-­foot enlargement of the black-­and-­white SRT photo. Next to this, he'd hung four colored mug shots that were faded with age.

“Okay, everybody, listen up,” Byron said. “I've asked Dustin to give us a rundown on all the information he's gathered so far. Go ahead, Dustin.”

“Bonjour, my fellow crime fighting compatriots. You've all seen the photograph taken from Cleo Riordan's home, depicting the Portland Police Department Special Reaction Team as it looked in 1985. As you can see, the team was comprised of ten members. Starting in the back row from left to right they are Sergeant Cleophus Riordan, Officer Dominic Beaudreau, Officer Bruce Gagnon, Lieutenant James O'Halloran, Sergeant Christopher Falcone, Officer Reece Byron, Sergeant Reginald Cross, Sergeant Eric Williams, Officer Ray Humphrey, and finally Officer Anthony Perrigo.

Tran was sounding a bit hoarse. He paused long enough to sip some water from his lime green Nalgene bottle and continued. “I conducted a global history search using internal records, news archives, and link searches. My goal was to find one incident involving several if not all of these officers. Some singular event that could be the catalyst for these murders. The first thing I discovered was how short a period of time this grouping of officers served together. Portland PD didn't even have an SRT until 1981, this group began working together at the end of '83 and remained cohesive until the death of Reece Byron in November 1985. Byron took his own life.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he stopped and turned toward Byron. All the color had drained from Tran's face. “Sergeant, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sound—­”

“No worries, Dustin,” Byron said, raising a hand. “I know you didn't. Please, continue.”

Tran cleared his throat and continued. “I managed to locate several major arrests involving four or five of the officers. Their assignments at that time were varied, with some assigned to Patrol, some to Traffic and some to CID. Most of them only worked together when they were acting in an SRT capacity. Even some of the SRT call-­outs didn't involve the entire team. Things like vacations, training, and illness kept them apart. But I did find one incident that involved every single one of them, and these four men”—­pointing to the old booking photos—­“they are: Nicholas Andreas, Fredrick Ellis, Marvin Rotolo, and Leslie James Warren.”

“Nice uni-­brow,” Nugent said, referencing Warren's Neanderthal-­like appearance.

“The incident in question was a robbery arrest gone bad. Back in '85, these last four were suspects in a Boston armored car robbery. As you're all aware, Officer Bruce Gagnon was the last Portland officer killed in the line of duty. He died on October nineteenth, 1985, during this SRT call-­out. They were attempting to take these guys into custody when Gagnon was shot and killed. Subsequently, Warren, Ellis, and Rotolo were killed by officers during the exchange.”

“What happened to the fourth guy, Andreas?” Diane asked.

“It appears he avoided capture. And here's an interesting factoid: none of the money was ever recovered.”

“How much money was taken? Stevens asked.

“According to the news articles, about one point four million.”

Nugent whistled. “I'd say that might qualify as motive.”

“None of it was recovered?” Byron asked.

“Nope. And this shooting was by far the biggest thing to happen involving all of the officers in this photo.”

Byron's cell phone rang. He stepped into the next room and took the call. “Byron.”

“Sergeant, it's Shirley. Do you have a moment?”

“Not really, I'm in the middle of a meeting,” he said, trying hard to hide his annoyance with the secretary. “Can it wait till we're through?”

“It's important. I've got something you need to see. It's about the case you're working.”

B
YRON STOOD NEXT
to Shirley, both of them staring at the photocopies lying on her desk.

“These just came?” he asked.

“Yup, ­couple of minutes ago. There's the envelope, addressed to the Portland Police Detective Bureau at 109 Middle Street. No return address. I didn't dare to touch anything once I saw what it was.”

Someone had mailed a photocopy of a newspaper article pertaining to the shootout Tran had described, along with the SRT photo. Red Xs were marked across the faces of O'Halloran and Riordan. Byron looked at Shirley. “Have you got a clean file folder?”

“Sure, right here,” she said, handing it to him.

Carefully he slid the envelope into it, followed by the photocopies. “Thanks, Shirley. Would you scratch out a quick case supplement?”

“Of course,” she said in a tone suggesting he needn't have asked.

He was hurrying back to the conference room when LeRoyer stopped him. “You got a sec, John?”

“Not really. I've got two things going right now.”

“Look me up when you're done. It's about Stanton's press conference.”

He frowned. “Press conference? Little early for that, isn't it?”

“Come find me when you're done.”

So much for keeping the wolves at bay, he thought as he continued toward the conference room.

Tran wrote the letter
D
in red marker next to the name of each decedent on the list. He stopped and took another swig from his water bottle before continuing.

“If I'm right, and this is the event linking these two murders, someone may well be planning to kill the remaining members of the 1985 Special Reaction Team.”

“Looks like you are right,” Byron said.

“I am?” Tran said, sounding surprised.

Byron had donned a pair of white rubber gloves. He opened the folder and set it on the table. “Someone just mailed this to us.”

Everyone bent to look.

“Shit,” Nugent said.

“Shit is right,” Stevens agreed.

“Gabe, I'll need you to dust these for prints when we're through here.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“Okay, so who's left?” Diane asked Tran.

“As far as I can tell, there are six officers still alive: Beaudreau, Perrigo, Falcone, Williams, Humphrey, and Cross.” He circled each of the survivor's names in black then added one additional red
D
beside the name of Reece Byron.

“What about Nicholas Andreas?” Diane asked. “Is he still alive?”

“As I said, Andreas managed to avoid capture. He wasn't present when the shootout occurred and he's still on the FBI's most wanted list,” Tran said. “Although, his ranking dropped significantly after September eleventh.”

“That would make him our best suspect at this point,” Pelligrosso said.

“How in hell are we supposed to find a guy the FBI hasn't been able to locate in thirty years?” Nugent asked.

“I don't know,” Tran said. “But isn't the more important thing locating the other officers, before Andreas or whoever does?”

“Dustin's right,” Byron said. “We've gotta find these guys before the killer does. Looks like we have the target, and with the missing money, at least a possible motive. The press doesn't have this information yet, but it's only a matter of time.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” Diane said.

“Stanton's already planning a press conference.”

Several of the detectives groaned.

“Here come the bullshit leads,” Nugent said, throwing his hands up. “Detective, I think this is the work of aliens. You know, little green men.”

Byron continued. “I've no idea what the chief is gonna say, but once this thing breaks, we'll likely be hampered by more than a few bogus leads. We've got to do as much as we can before the case goes public. Diane, I want you and Dustin to locate addresses for Beaudreau, Perrigo, Falcone, and Williams.”

“We're on it,” she said.

“What about the Ass Chief?” Nugent asked.

“I'll handle Cross,” Byron said.

“I got a question, Sarge,” Pelligrosso said. “Some of these guys have been gone from the PD for a long time. They might not be so easy to find. Most cops have unlisted numbers and P.O.s for addresses.”

“I'll check with the State Retirement System,” Diane said. “They'll have records for these guys.”

“Or at least the ones who actually retired,” Stevens added.

Byron looked at his watch. “It's almost five. I highly doubt anyone working for the retirement system will still be at work.”

“There are ways around that,” Tran said.

Byron stared at him. “I probably don't want to ask.”

“You don't,” Tran agreed with a shake of his head.

“Nuge, I want you to hit the basement archives and pull the shooting case file.”

“Mold city, goodie for me,” he said hunching his shoulders and rubbing his hands together in mock excitement.

Byron shot him a look of disapproval.

“On my way, Sarge.”

Byron turned his attention to Pelligrosso. “Anything from the car?”

“Everything I found either belongs to Riordan himself or you. Whoever this guy is, he's good at covering his tracks.”

“Mel, I want you and Gabe to compare the partial from the O'Halloran case with the seven names on the board.”

“Done,” she said.

“Are we thinking one of the cops is responsible?” Nugent asked. “Or are we just ruling all of them out?”

“Both,” Byron said. “Someone returned to the location Riordan's car was dumped, pretended to be a cop, and grabbed potential evidence. Let's do exactly what we'd do on any other case, assume everyone is a suspect. I want each of you to report directly to me. Hand off or back-­burner anything else you're working on. This takes top priority.”

It was obvious to each of them their free time had evaporated before their very eyes. None of them would be having anything close to a personal life for the foreseeable future. Such is the life of a homicide investigator.

B
YRON FOUND
L
E
R
O
YER
in his office. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you tell Cross I want to interview him?”

“Yes. He said he'd get back to you. Said he couldn't do it tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's got a budget meeting with the city council.”

“A budget meeting? Are you kidding me? How, exactly, is that more important than solving a murder? Strike that. Two murders.”

“John, I don't know what to tell you. I'm only a lieutenant, I've got ­people to answer to, just like you.”

“Well, that's just dandy.”

“Stanton wants me to start writing up key talking points for his press conference. Any thoughts on what you want released?”

“Yeah. Nothing. A press conference is the last thing we need right now. We've still got ­people to find and interview.”

“Are you absolutely sure the target is the SRT?”

“I am now.”

“Afternoon,” said a voice from the hall. “Hope I'm not interrupting.”

They both looked toward the doorway where Davis Billingslea stood, salivating like a rabid dog.

B
YRON DEPARTED FOR
his own office, leaving LeRoyer to joust with Billingslea. He made a quick call to Ray Humphrey, who readily agreed to meet and suggested the Black Gull, a West End watering hole they'd often frequented.

Humphrey was his closest confidant and oldest friend. A history buff, Humphrey knew more about Portland than anyone Byron had ever known. He'd taken Byron under his wing, mentoring him, first as an officer then as a fledgling detective. Prior to retiring from the police department, he'd worked under Byron as a detective. His wife Wendy's yearlong battle with cancer had ended unsuccessfully. Her death had devastated him and was one of the reasons he'd laid down his shield.

Byron parked about a block from the Black Gull, as parking in the West End was hard to come by. There were several Portland bars known as cop hangouts. The Gull wasn't one of them. The Black Gull catered toward the working-­class outlaw type. Byron couldn't remember ever having seen another cop there, which was precisely why they both liked it. Humphrey was already there, seated at a corner table. He waved Byron over.