Darkness First (20 page)

M
aggie sat quietly all the way back from Whiting listening to Ganzer whoop it up in the front seat. A couple of times she caught Sean Carroll glancing back in the rear-view mirror. Once she saw him mouth some words that in the reverse image of the mirror looked like, ‘I'm sorry.'

Maggie turned and stared out the window. She was sorry too.

Carroll pulled up in front of the house on Center Street a little before six.

A beautifully restored cherry-red '57 T-Bird convertible was sitting, top down, in the driveway behind Maggie's Blazer and Savage's Subaru. Carroll walked over and looked at the Bird admiringly.

‘Man, that is one gorgeous car,' he said. ‘Not yours, is it?'

‘No, it belongs to a friend,' said Maggie, wondering what McCabe was doing here but, at the same time, with all the evidence piling up implicating Harlan, feeling glad she had at least one certain ally.

‘Your boyfriend?' asked Carroll.

‘No. Just a friend.'

‘Lucky friend,' said Carroll. ‘Car like this must have set him back a bundle.'

As he walked around the T-Bird, gazing admiringly both at the body and the interior, he started talking to Maggie in a low voice. Anyone watching would have assumed they were talking about the car.

‘I didn't want to say this in front of Emmett and I'm sorry to keep hammering away on it, but Maggie please make sure you let me know if your brother contacts you in any way. Or if you figure out where he's gone. Things will go much better for him if he gives himself up and cooperates than if we have to hunt him down. That's especially true if, somehow in spite of the evidence, it turns out you're right and he didn't do it.'

Maggie folded her arms around herself. The air was feeling decidedly cooler. ‘But you don't think that will be the case do you, Sean? You're certain he's guilty.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Given what we've just seen, I am. And so should you be.'

‘Don't you wonder, even the tiniest bit, why someone like Harlan, who grew up in a house with two cops who talked constantly about crime and criminals and the rules of evidence, why somebody like that would be so incredibly stupid as to leave all that stuff – the gloves, the murder weapon, the bloody shirt, the pills – just lying around where he had to know the police would find them? Didn't even try to hide anything or burn it or bury it? Left it more than twelve hours after I personally warned him he was going to be considered a suspect? Left it even after Emmett shows up to question him? Doesn't take it with him when he flees? Don't you find that level of carelessness a little bit strange? No, not a little bit strange. Totally nuts? And,' she added with more conviction than she felt, ‘as far as I'm concerned, totally unbelievable.'

‘Yes, it does sound crazy. But your brother happens to be someone who, maybe because of his experiences in Iraq or maybe because of the brain injury he sustained in the war, may, in fact, be mentally unbalanced.' Maggie wondered how Carroll knew all that stuff about Harlan. Maybe Savage had told him. ‘Or maybe,' Carroll continued, ‘Harlan left all that stuff because deep down he feels so guilty about what he did that he wants to get caught. Wants to be punished for it. Psychically
needs
to be punished. We've all seen stranger behavior from criminals.'

‘I don't buy it, Sean,' she said with more certainty than she felt. ‘Even if Harlan is suffering from some form of PTSD or guilt disorder or whatever you want to call it, don't you think the evidence we saw at his house today was just a little too perfect? Everything a prosecutor could possibly ask for all placed exactly where anyone with half a brain would know the cops would look first and have no trouble finding it.'

‘You're saying you think someone planted the evidence?'

‘Yes.'

‘And that someone is … ?'

‘Whoever really killed Tiff Stoddard. He's the only one who would have had access to it. The only one who would benefit by having us pin the crime on Harlan. Assuming, of course, it's all genuine and both the blood and the hair match Stoddard's.'

‘And this real killer of yours figures the cops will buy it?'

‘That's right, Sean. He figures the cops will buy it.' Maggie was starting to tire of the conversation and wanted to be done with it. ‘In fact,' she added with more than a little anger, ‘it looks like the cops have already bought it. Including the one cop who's so hot for a promotion to lieutenant that maybe he figures a fast conviction on a high-profile case will get him where he wants to go just a little faster than he would have gotten there otherwise.'

‘That's what you really think of me?'

‘Yes, Sean. That's what I really think. Of you and of that jerkwater buddy of yours over there who's convinced himself the minute you make lieutenant he's getting sergeant's stripes.'

‘Jesus Christ. I don't believe this.' Carroll sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘If you actually think I would play games like that when there's more than a damn good chance whoever killed Stoddard also killed my wife, well all I can say to you, Maggie, is why don't you just go fuck yourself.'

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to get control of her anger. ‘You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. It wasn't fair and I am sorry about what happened to your wife.'

But Sean Carroll didn't hear any of that because by the time she opened her eyes he was already heading for the driver's side of the unmarked Impala. She repressed an urge to call him back. To apologize to his face. To hope he accepted it.

Maggie stood next to McCabe's T-Bird and watched Carroll and Ganzer drive off. She was still gazing into the empty street after the car was long out of sight. As she stood she was aware of tears forming in her eyes. She didn't want anyone to see them because everybody knows cops don't cry. Certainly not the cop Detective Carl Sturgis down in Portland liked to call ‘Little Miss Hardass'. She heard a familiar voice behind her. ‘C'mon, Mag, let's go inside.' McCabe slipped his arm around her shoulder and walked her back toward the house.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked before they went in.

‘Like I told your old man, it was a beautiful day for a drive.'

8:12
P.M
., Sunday, August 23, 2009

Machias, Maine

A
nya served company dinner. Roast chicken with pan gravy, mashed potatoes, snap peas from the garden and home-made buttermilk biscuits.

Savage opened a bottle of a good California Cabernet and shared it around.

‘How long are you in town for, Mr McCabe?' Anya asked.

‘Two or three days. And please call me Michael or Mike or even just McCabe. That's what Maggie and most everybody else in Portland calls me.'

‘Okay, McCabe,' she smiled. ‘You call me Anya.'

It was obvious to Maggie that Anya had noticed the absence of a wedding band and was sizing McCabe up as potential husband material for Maggie. Anya made no bones about thinking it was wrong that Savage's only daughter was already well into her thirties and still unmarried. On the other hand, she had no idea that a woman named Kyra Erikson even existed. For better or for worse, McCabe was taken.

‘Well, I know you've made reservations down at the Inn but it seems kind of silly to pay for a hotel when we've got two perfectly good bedrooms going begging right here.'

‘That's very kind of you, but I don't want to impose.'

‘Nonsense. I insist.'

‘Well, thank you. Let me think about it.'

After that there was nothing but the sound of eating and drinking for a good five minutes.

Finally Maggie figured somebody had to acknowledge the 800 pound gorilla in the room.

‘I went up to Harlan's place this afternoon. With Carroll and Ganzer.'

Everybody looked up. Nobody spoke.

‘They're going to charge Harlan with Tiff Stoddard's murder. I expect they've already got a full-scale manhunt underway.'

A pained expression appeared on Savage's face. ‘They already had one,' he said. ‘But it was for assaulting a cop. Not for murder.'

‘It's about to be upped to murder,' said Maggie. ‘I'm sure they've already issued ATLs. To all their own units plus every local department in Maine and New Hampshire. Probably Canada as well, considering how close we are to the border.'

‘Jesus,' said Savage, looking at Maggie from the head of the table. ‘That was mighty quick. What makes Carroll so sure Harlan did it?'

‘Carroll, Ganzer and I just got back from Harlan's place in Whiting.'

‘Wait a minute,' said McCabe. ‘Are you talking about a detective named Emmett Ganzer?'

‘Yeah,' said Maggie. ‘Why? You know him?'

‘I've heard his name. Just this morning. In kind of an interesting context.'

‘Such as?'

‘I'll tell you later. You finish up what you were saying first.'

John Savage listened stony-faced as Maggie went through the evidence Bill Heinrich's techs had found at Harlan's place earlier in the day. ‘Sean Carroll's convinced Harlan's the killer,' Maggie concluded.

‘And you're not?'

‘No. I don't believe Harlan could ever do what I saw done to Tiff Stoddard.'

‘My God, Margaret,' Savage shouted. A loud bang reverberated through the room as he slapped the table hard with an open palm, clattering the china and nearly spilling his wine. ‘All that solid evidence and you're still not willing to accept it?' There was an angry edge to Savage's voice. ‘I swear to Christ you're exactly like your mother. Joanne's beautiful baby boy could do no wrong. Ever. Not even when I caught him in the act. What in hell is it gonna take to convince you that your little brother is no damned good? More than no good. He's a goddamned killer.'

John Savage rose from his chair and stormed out on to the porch, slamming the screen door loudly behind him. Maggie got up and followed. And then McCabe.

Anya sat by herself for a minute, surveying the wreckage of her meal. Then she quietly rose from her seat and began clearing away the remains of the half-eaten dinner.

‘C
an't you see it, Pop?' Maggie stood close by her father's side. He was leaning against one of the porch columns, not looking at her, instead staring out into the night. ‘Or are you so filled with anger and hatred for Harlan that it's blinded you to the truth?'

‘And what truth would that be, Margaret?'

‘For one thing, if Harlan really killed that girl there's no way he'd be dumb enough to leave all that stuff lying around. About the only thing they didn't find implicating Harlan was a notarized letter of confession.'

‘Harlan's always been careless.'

‘Careless, maybe, but not stupid. And not looking to be locked up the rest of his life. All that stuff had to be a plant.'

‘Not stupid, you say? He was stupid enough to attack a cop, wasn't he?' Savage spat out the words. ‘Whacked him in the face with a rifle butt's the way I heard it.'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, that's bullshit too. Big as he is, Harlan wouldn't have needed any rifle butt to take Emmett Ganzer down.' Maggie was surprised how angry and defensive her own voice sounded. But at this point she didn't give a damn. She was as pissed at her father as she ever had been.

‘So you think everybody's making all this stuff up. That the state police are so hot to pin this murder on poor innocent Harlan that they went out and planted fake evidence all over the place just so they could get their man. Is that what you think?'

Maggie took a deep breath, determined to keep her temper in check. ‘No. I don't think the evidence was faked. I think it was the real thing, planted by the real killer.'

‘And why would this real killer decide to pin the murder on Harlan?'

‘Because he found out about Harlan's relationship with Stoddard and decided to take advantage of it.'

‘Someone like who?'

‘I don't know. Maybe it was Emmett Ganzer. We know he was all by himself on Harlan's property for we don't know how long.'

‘You think a cop did this?'

‘No,' she shook her head. ‘Maybe. I don't know. It wouldn't be the first time a cop turned bad. Or maybe it was Sam Harkness. I know he was having sex with Stoddard and, unlike Harlan, Sam has a record of assaulting women. Most likely I think it's somebody we haven't thought of yet. The investigation's not even forty-eight hours old and I get the feeling Tiff was the kind of girl who was involved with a lot of guys.'

Savage didn't respond. Just tamped out the remains of the butt on the bottom of his boot. Field stripped the paper and tossed the unburned tobacco over the railing and on to the lawn.

‘Maggie,' said Savage, ‘maybe you're right. I hope you're right. But we're both cops, you and I. It's our job to weigh the evidence as best we can and then act on it. Not twist the evidence to fit some theory concocted to protect someone you love.'

‘Or maybe concocted to convict somebody you no longer love.'

Savage stared hard at his daughter, then went inside, ending the conversation. At least he didn't slam the door.

Maggie walked down the porch steps. ‘I'm going for a walk.'

‘Mind if I come along?' asked McCabe.

‘Suit yourself. Just don't talk.'

They walked side by side in silence, heading north up Center Street away from the center of town. Then they circled around and came back south.

10:21
P.M.
, Sunday, August 23, 2009

Machias, Maine

I
n the language of the Passamaquoddy, the earliest inhabitants of Washington County, the word Machias means
bad run of water
and for most of its seventy-five miles the Machias River lives up to its name, twisting and raging through a forested wilderness before indulging in its final, swirling tantrum, a short whitewater rush down a rocky incline in the center of the city of Machias called Little Bad Falls.

After walking in near-total silence for more than an hour, Maggie and McCabe found themselves standing side by side on the narrow footbridge that spans the river just below the falls. They stopped midstream, leaned against the steel railing and looked down at the rush of water coursing furiously over and around the rocks below. On one side of the bridge was the campus of UMM, where, in the English Department offices in Kimball Hall, Sam Harkness first met Tiff Stoddard.
You know me Maggie, I took one look at those luscious legs and invited her in
. Just a few hundred yards upstream on the other side of the bridge was the small four-unit where Tiff Stoddard had lived.

‘
Ever go to her apartment?
'

‘
Only once. A grubby little place on the other side of the river from campus and, frankly, a little too close for my taste.
'

She thought about Sam committing murder and planting incriminating evidence at Harlan's place. She supposed it was something he might do if he was drunk enough and pissed off enough about Tiff dumping him. But Tiff had dumped Sam way back in May and Sam, always impulsive, always slightly out of control, would have gone after her right away just like he did the woman in the hotel room in Philadelphia. No way would he have waited two minutes let alone two months before striking out. Nor would he have killed Tiff in such a sexually savage way. No, Maggie didn't think Sam was the killer. As far as Sam was concerned, what she was most curious about was what else beside the name Conor Riordan might have found its way into his manuscript.

Maggie and McCabe stared silently at the rushing water below for another five minutes.

It was McCabe who finally spoke. ‘Still angry with your old man?'

‘Yes. And with Sean Carroll.'

‘How about Ganzer?'

‘Ganzer's just an oversized jerk with too much testosterone. I wouldn't have expected anything better from him.'

‘Aren't you overreacting a little?'

‘I don't think so. And if you plan on taking sides on any of this, McCabe, please make sure it's my side.'

McCabe didn't respond.

‘I'm sorry. That wasn't fair,' said Maggie.

‘Not a problem.'

‘I think my father's buying into this bullshit without thinking it through because he's always been ready to think the worst of Harlan.'

‘Why?'

‘Just the way it's always been. Trevor was the good son. Harlan the bad one.'

‘How about you?'

‘I'm the only girl and the only one to honor what my father did by following him into law enforcement. But Harlan never had a chance. He never was and never could be the good and dutiful son my father wanted and expected. He's impulsive and uncontrollable. He drinks too much. Gets into fights in bars. Makes his living, such as it is, bouncing from job to job. None of those things are likely to endear him to a father who's a lifelong law enforcement officer. But, more than any of that, my father has never forgiven Harlan for not being around more when our mother was dying of cancer. I haven't forgiven him for that either. But it doesn't make him a murderer. And it doesn't make him somebody I can't or won't love.'

‘Mag, I know how difficult this has got to be for you.' McCabe reached out and took one of her hands in his. ‘But can you really discount all the evidence against your brother on nothing more than gut instinct?'

‘I'm not discounting it. The evidence is real. I don't question that. My problem is only an imbecile would bring all that stuff home and leave it lying around just begging to be found.'

‘Maybe not an imbecile, Maggie. Maybe just someone so consumed by guilt, at killing Tiff, or maybe from killing all those people in Iraq, he couldn't live with what he'd done.'

Maggie pulled her hand from his in a sudden surge of anger. ‘You too, huh?'

‘No, not me too, huh. You told me on the phone this morning Harlan showed no remorse, no emotional reaction at all to Tiff Stoddard's death except to start talking about how many people he'd killed in Iraq. Yet this was a woman he supposedly loved. We both know there's something wrong with that picture. Isn't it at least possible the brain injury made him into someone you no longer know? It does happen.'

‘Yes, it does happen and I'm sure he has problems coming out of the war. Displaying emotion may be one of them.
Death hasn't shocked me in a very long time
.'

‘What?'

‘That's what Harlan said when I asked him how he felt about Tiff's death. Then he started talking about Iraq. Having flashbacks to Ramadi. That's where he was wounded. He said he gets the flashbacks a lot. They're not like remembering, more like he's really there.'

‘Isn't it possible he killed her in the middle of one of those flashbacks? Maybe thought she was one of the enemy?'

‘I don't know,' Maggie sighed. ‘That's pretty much what Sean Carroll said.'

‘Carroll may be right. He's supposed to be a smart detective.'

For a moment Maggie felt herself reluctantly accepting McCabe's words. Then she stopped herself. ‘No, damnit. I don't think he is right,' she said, punching the railing on the bridge with her fist.

‘Why not?'

‘You didn't see the cuts on Tiff Stoddard's body. I did. The killer cut her nose and lips and breasts. Mutilated her vagina with multiple stab wounds. He attacked all the places on her body that made her female. This guy's a pervert who on some level hates women. Derives sexual pleasure from torturing them. That's not Harlan. Never was and never could be, no matter what happened to him in Iraq. Even if he thought he was killing an Iraqi woman, an enemy, no way would he have killed her like that. I think the real killer, let's call him Conor Riordan, was involved with Tiff in the drug trade. Probably killed her because of some kind of falling out. But it wasn't a simple execution. One drug dealer bumping off another. This was a sex act. This killer enjoyed what he did. Got off on it. And when he finished his little blood orgy, he went and planted all the incriminating evidence at Harlan's place so he could get away with it and maybe do it again some other place with some other woman. Maybe Emily, if he thinks she can identify him.'

‘Okay, I respect your instincts. So let's say the killer's not Harlan. But if he isn't, what made the killer choose him as the fall guy?'

‘That one's easy. Harlan and Stoddard were lovers. Maybe the guy learned she was having sex with Harlan and didn't like it. Or maybe he saw their affair as an opportunity to cut the investigation short. Being an Iraq veteran makes Harlan a great choice for a frame-up. Papers are full of stories about vets coming home and doing bad things. People almost expect it.'

‘Who knew Harlan and Tiff were lovers?'

‘Who knew?' Maggie shrugged her shoulders. She hadn't thought about that. ‘I don't know. Probably a lot of people. Me, 'cause Harlan told me. My father, 'cause I told him. Sean Carroll knew, because I told him as well. Most likely everybody who attended Carroll's detectives' meeting, including Ganzer and Heinrich. Tommy Flynn, the guy who owns the Musty Moose. That's where Tiff worked. Emily's ex-husband Sam Harkness may have known, 'cause Tiff dumped Sam to hook-up with, quote,
someone younger
. Sam told me he wasn't pleased about that. And anyone else who might have seen them together, including Tiff's landlady, a woman named Paula Laverty, who according to my father is a big-time gossip who might have mentioned it to anybody and everybody in Machias.'

McCabe frowned. A lot of possibilities. ‘But Carroll knew for sure,' said McCabe. ‘Emmett Ganzer as well?'

‘Yes, Ganzer knew. No way Carroll wouldn't have mentioned it at the meeting.'

‘We also know Ganzer went to Harlan's place yesterday. Easy enough to plant the evidence after he was done licking his wounds.'

‘So you're saying Ganzer's the killer? That Emmett Ganzer's the real Conor Riordan?'

‘I'm thinking about it,' said McCabe.

Maggie pictured Ganzer's leering face as he sat in her car the previous day. His hand sliding on to her leg. His last threatening words before he got out. She had no problem seeing the guy as a psychopath. A sadist.

‘I'm thinking,' McCabe continued, ‘that maybe Ganzer didn't just go there to plant the evidence. If Ganzer
is
Conor Riordan and he wants Harlan to take the fall he sure as hell wouldn't want the case going to trial, where, planted evidence or not, a tough defense attorney might start asking difficult questions. On the other hand, if the presumed suspect …'

‘Harlan.'

‘Yeah, Harlan. If Harlan is dead, hey, guess what? No trial, no defense attorney, no tough questions. And no more Conor Riordan. Everybody's happy.'

‘So Ganzer went there intending to kill Harlan?'

‘Yes. To plant the evidence and at the same time to kill Harlan and call it self-defense. We both know that song by heart. Words and melody.
Justifiable use of force against an armed suspect resisting arrest
. No witnesses, because Ganzer didn't bring back-up. But when Harlan's body was found, a loaded weapon with his fingerprints on it would no doubt have been found lying next to him. And all the evidence any prosecutor could possibly wish for is right there lying all over the place.'

‘Means. Motive. Opportunity,' said Maggie.

‘They're all there,' said McCabe. ‘Now all we need is some evidence proving Ganzer's the bad guy that's not totally circumstantial.'

They stood silently for a while, watching the falls, enjoying the feel of the soft summer night.

‘McCabe?'

He turned and looked at Maggie standing close to him, her dark hair reflecting moonlight, taking in the familiar scent of her shampoo. While he knew it had been much smarter for him not to accept Anya's offer to stay at the house on Center Street, he was kind of sorry he hadn't. On impulse, as if pulled by some magnetic force, he leaned in and kissed Maggie on the lips. She slipped her arms around him and kissed him back. At first softly and then harder.

Finally she pulled back.

‘I don't know about you,' he said, avoiding the silent question on her face. ‘But right now I could use a drink. And maybe something to eat. Didn't get more than a nibble of that chicken dinner.'