Finding Amy (16 page)

I once again stomp my feet in the cold dirt. It's incredible, amazing, that we've found her, but I hate this part. I start my journey out to the road, trying to tell myself it's just another note, we do them all the time. But it's not.

How the hell do I say this one? Your daughter's buried? We found Amy? How? Your daughter is in the woods? Hey, Diane, just wanted to let you know we're digging up your daughter. If I didn't know her so well, couldn't see her face so clearly, this would be easier. She's got the saddest eyes I've ever seen, and I've seen enough.

Out of the dark, a small cat appears and rubs up against me. I stop and scratch and am able to pick him up. “What are you doing out here, Bootleg?” I say Bootleg because of his black front paw, like he's wearing a little boot. I put him down and tell him to go home but he insists on following me. I think of Amy. Of how she loved cats. Perhaps she's sending an emissary to say it's going to be okay.

Ahead I can see the lights at the street. Cars, noise, the Salvation Army truck. There's that kitty again, rubbing hard against my legs. Amy? Is that you? Helping me? Comforting me?

I get to my car, parked on the shoulder away from the bustle of people. I want to get inside and start the heat but I pause and look at the gray Taurus. Hesitating. A voice in my head asks, “Do you find it hard to do your duty?” A movie quote that keeps coming back to me.

I'm inside, engine on, police radio spitting out info. Back in the city, it's busy. Gratefully, I suck in the heat. Delaying. Turn off the car radio, Bach mixed with police radio. I shut the police radio off, too, and stare at my cell phone on its mount. Hey, I can talk hands free. Delaying as I pull out my notebook to look up a number I know by heart.

I capture my own interest as I flip through my beat-up pocket notebook, flipping through a plethora of stories, destroyed lives, most of which I can no longer remember, escaping into other scenes.

I turn page after page. Some I remember, some I see. Some I smell. Some are just names and gross information. The pages are torn. White. Stained. Yellowed. Just people. Just life … to us.

Come on, you know the number. Just call, Joe. Call! The heat has finally seeped to my core. I see a hand reflected in my driver's side mirror. A knock jolts me. The electronic window hums down. “Hey, Lieutenant, there's a guy from Channel 23 news, wants to talk, etc….”

“Yeah, yeah. Hang on.”

My leather jacket's creaking with noise. Why did I wear this? I turn down the heat, mentally creating a silence in which to speak, shutting out the world, the city, everything but the dark space in my car.

I press the numbers … beep, beep, beep … and the noise is almost deafening. I already see her eyes, asking why.

Third ring. “Hello?”

I know it's her. “Diane?”

“ Yes?”

“It's Joe.”

“ Yes?”

“We found her … We found Amy, Diane. We found her.”

Silence. Silence. A strange, muted sound of pain. Then she says, “Where?”

I tell where we are and how she must remain quiet for now.

“How?” she asks.

“Diane, she was buried in the woods.” I'm grasping now, hoping to say the right thing, waiting for her reactions. “Diane, she was buried, but Diane, we found her. She's home.” I repeat it. “She's home.” Trying to avoid the barrage of feeling and questions she must have.

A muted, “Thank you.” Then, “That bastard. That rotten bastard.” I can see Diane's face through her voice. The pain. Anger. Her tired, beautiful eyes, hopeless but thankful.

“Diane, we will get him. We will. But you must remain vigilant. Prepare for the news. It's going to be all over the media. They will be calling so be careful in what you say.” We talk about the next journey and all the work to do. I tell her about the kitty and how I felt Amy's spirit and comfort. I say I will call in the morning and update her.

Then, because I want to be sure she isn't alone, I ask, “Is Lucille with you? Julie? God bless you, Diane. Stay strong.”

I hang up. Take a minute before I move on to the other calls I have to make. Stay strong. Diane is so strong. She's amazing. But I have just shattered those last faint hopes that Amy might be found alive.

As they removed the carefully cut sod that had been reassembled on top of the grave to mask the signs of digging, Danny Young couldn't help remembering how Gorman had told his friends that the police were never going to find the body. Gorman had tried hard to make sure that was true, but he hadn't counted on Lieutenant Dorian and the warden service.

To ensure that evidence from the body or clothing, including small hairs or fibers, wasn't lost, all the dirt was carefully removed with small trowels, whisk brooms, and soft brushes. It was carried in plastic buckets to detectives who sifted it through two screens. The work was physically hard because of the cold and the weight of the soil and the time and care it took to sift every inch.

All the excavation was done by Drs. Greenwald, David, and Sorg, on their hands and knees, peeling the soils away one slow layer at a time. Huge lights illuminated the scene with stark white light, creating a surreal patch of activity in the pitch black woods. There was noise but it was muted noise, everyone subdued by the circumstances.

Portland evidence technician Chris Stearns and MSP detective Angela Blodgett took photographs. Sergeant Joyce consulted with Portland and MSP evidence technicians. In the background, the generators hummed. Metal detectors beeped as they were run over the ground. The site began to be dotted with rulers and crime scene tape and little tented markers with numbers on them, marking places where evidence had been found. On the tote road, a single sock was found and then a hair scrunchie.

As the excavation progressed, the investigators discovered that much of Amy's body was covered by an old white foundation form, used for pouring cement, which measured approximately fourteen by forty-eight inches, one of many that were scattered throughout the woods at the end of the tote road. The form was carefully exposed, lifted off, and collected as evidence. Each hair or other object from the screening was carefully logged, bagged, and tagged. Dozens of pieces of potential evidence were collected from the soil, the body, and the area surrounding the grave.

Hours passed. The crime scene workers could feel that the snow was close. Everyone was bundled against the cold, breath steaming in the icy air, fingers and toes going numb as the chill worked its way to their bones. Except for brief trips to the heated vans to thaw their fingers, they worked steadily in the circle of light, toiling with warring senses of overwhelming triumph and profound sadness. We've found Amy.

For each of those who had been deeply involved in the investigation, there were two different “heads” reacting to the scene. The emotional head grasped the sadness of the moment and the tragedy of how two lives had intersected so briefly and things were changed forever. No one had ever abandoned the faint hope that their suspicions of foul play were wrong and one day Amy would turn up. Now they knew that wouldn't happen. At the same time, the professional investigator's head was excited. Now they could leap to the next plateau and get this guy.

Down in Troy, Alabama, Gorman was getting phone calls from his mother telling him police were digging in the woods behind her house and her road was blocked. Something big was going on, and it was taking a long time.

As the cement form was lifted off and the digging went deeper, maggots were spotted and the smells of dirt and pungent pine needles were joined by the unmistakable scent of decomposition. Gradually, Amy's head and the outline of her body began to emerge from the reddish brown soil. Despite the dirt, the Pratt & Whitney logo on her sweatshirt was still clear and bright, a disquieting image when the woman who wore it was so thickly crusted with earth she looked like a mummy. Dr. Sorg noted that the soils in which the body was found were dry and sandy. Top of body twenty-three inches below surface. Spade marks were found with an imprint nine by nine and curved.

Investigators eager for information about the cause of death observed seepage from what appeared to be a wound to the head. But little could be known for certain until Dr. Greenwald had conducted her autopsy.

A fairly wide excavated area was circumscribed around the body, with Amy's remains on a pedestal created by digging on all sides down to the lowest level of the body. As her hands and feet became visible, they were carefully covered with brown paper bags to protect against the loss of any evidence. Soil and hair from around her head and pubic area was collected and bagged. Samples of maggots and other insects were carefully collected and bagged for study by a forensic entomologist.

It's dark now and I'm in the command post with a few detectives and Lieutenant Brian McDonough, my counterpart on the Maine State Police. The news people are still out there and Brian is on the phone with Stephen McCausland, the spokesperson for the MSP. I can hear, from the receiver, “Brian, Brian! You tell Chitwood that I am the damned spokesperson for the state. You tell him that.”

Brian looks at me and we both roll our eyes at our predicament. Eventually he hangs up and I ask, “Okay, Brian, would you rather deal with Chief Chitwood or McCausland?” Chitwood backs down from no one.

Matt pops into the trailer, glasses steamed, and notes that it's a lot easier when only our small group is involved. So true, Matt, I think. And things are about to get more complicated.

Outside in the cold, the exhumation is beginning in earnest. I hear the generators churning. Through the windows I catch slashes of bright lights. One of the detectives calls me on the radio and tells me the father is out on the road and wants to come up.

“No,” I tell him, “no. Hold him there. Tell him I'm on the way.”

I had met Dennis St. Laurent a few times but did not have a relationship with him like Danny did. I could have sent Danny out, but he was in the center of things, busy working on the dig.

I exited the command post van and noticed a leaning white birch lit up like a beacon, leading to the path where Amy was. The red plastic tape that led into the trail across the saplings and brown leaves was illuminated in the dark. That's not our tape. Must be the ME's [medical examiner's] or the state's. So strange to be doing a joint scene like this. We've got our own tape, equipment, SOPs, and techniques.

I could see a blue tarp through the trees and hear voices floating on the air, breath rising up in clouds on the fringe of the darkness. It was spooky, ghoulish. Got to get to Dennis. I walk through darkness toward the road, light from the site fading, and stop, snatching a moment's peace between the commotion of the scene and the chaos at the street, wondering how Dennis will be.

As I approach the road, I can see the red blinking flashers of several vehicles. When I'm closer, I see one is a Salvation Army truck with coffee and food. I'm thrilled at the prospect of eating something. But first, there's Dennis. He's standing there, shivering, his breath forming clouds. A small man, a quiet man. Brown hair starting to gray, thick eyebrows and a salt-and-pepper mustache. Absolutely destroyed by all this.

We shake hands and talk about Amy for a moment. I don't know what he'll do so I make some small talk while I assess him. He's calm and I start the process again and I tell him that I believe we've found her. That she's buried in a shallow grave up that road. I point. He wants to go up but I can't let him. “Let's get a cup of coffee, Dennis.” I put a hand on his shoulder. I tell him we have a lot of work to do and it's going to take a while, but I believe in my heart that Amy's there.

We sip our coffee in silence. It tastes so warm and good and I'm reminded to be grateful for the simple things. Especially in this cold we're standing in. He's shaking with cold. We both are. He breaks his silence with “You, you guys did a good job.”

I tell him it's important not to tell anyone about this except his partner, Kathy. The news doesn't know yet and we don't want to compromise things with the case. The next step will be arresting that Gorman bastard!

He looks at me with pleading eyes and asks again if he can go up. Again I tell him no. He's pretty good about things, compared to others I've seen, who are unable to listen through their pain and charge forward. The pain in his face is so clear it transfers to me. But I've given him as much time as I can. I've got to get back. “I'll call you,” I tell him. “I'll call you later or Danny will. God bless and stay strong.”

We shake hands and I move off into the dark. I wish he'd go home. There's nothing he can do here. But he won't. He's going to stay as close to Amy as he can. Later I learn that he remained there until they took her away and Danny went out to talk with him.

Up the trail, I feel angry and sad. Who knows what we'll find when … I think brutally … when we finish digging Amy up! I remember, again, “Do you find it hard to do your duty?” As a servant for those who can't possibly understand? My eyes are moist as I think of Diane, Dennis, and Julie and how grueling their wait has been. And how there's no way we can protect them from what is coming.

Up ahead there's a yellow plastic triangle in the dark, catching glints of light. Crime scene triangle number 4, then number 2, then number 1 along the road, marking evidence.

When I get close enough, the quiet is broken. Generators sputter and hum. Metal detectors zing. In the bright white light, green gloves, red ones, plastic gloves push and pull at the earth. Soil is loaded into green buckets and poured through the screens. The colors gleam unnaturally bright in the reddish dirt.

Around me, the crew are wearing dirty jeans, dirty sweatshirts, dirty uniforms. The air smells of dirt as it pours through the sifters. Flashes from the cameras document everything.