Finding Amy (21 page)

What about the Christmas party? Christmas party! We're working twelve-hour days, twenty-hour days. Running nonstop. But I'm the lieutenant. I should go.

At the bar after work, I feel surreal and spacey. People around me talk about normal life. Christmas parties. Going to eat. Going to shows. I shouldn't have come. I feel so out of sorts here. Everyone is in such an upbeat mood. The tinkles of glasses and silverware mix with laughter.

Tommy catches my eye. Something's going on and I know he needs to talk now. I bring my manhattan with me, as Tommy, parakeeting and jumpy, his tie swaying from the movement, backs me into a corner away from the noise.

He pauses, giving me that blue-eyed stare. I know he's got something good. Then he starts in, excited as he tells me Danny's just called. “The guys got a second confession from Gorman direct to a woman down there. She told them everything!”

Excitement grips me as I grab Tom's arm and shake him. “This is getting good, Tom.” I clink my glass against his beer bottle.

Yes, I think, yes, we are gonna get this guy.

It's good news, but it doesn't put me in a party mood. I move through the crowd and out the side door into the street. It's cold and wet and I'm refreshed to be away from everyone. I'm heading home as soon as I stop at the station. I'm sick of the “station.”

You can't explain the whole process to people. They're thinking, hey, you've found her, it's over, when it's just the beginning of a new chapter for us. A new chapter that is getting very interesting.

Walker's interview was followed by three more interviews at the Troy Police Station, including a woman Gorman had slept with who claimed to have had an out-of-body experience in which she saw the whole crime and knew that Gorman was innocent. Two others told the detectives that they had witnessed situations where Gorman had become uncontrollably angry when turned down by a woman. One said Gorman had been driving around with a gun in his lap. All the interviews were videotaped, and Young and Harakles brought those tapes back to Maine.

Later in the evening, around 8:00 p.m., the detectives, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Everage, went to the home of Gorman's paternal grandmother, Dot Gorman. Although Gorman had boasted to his ex-girlfriend Jamie that his “grammy” had plenty of money, it was clear this was a family that was just making do, as evidenced by the fact that although part of the living room floor had collapsed, the residents hadn't fixed it but were simply walking around the hole.

While Harakles took Dot's son, Daniel Gorman, out to the porch and spoke with him, Detective Young interviewed Dot Gorman. She told Young her grandson couldn't have done it and began to cry. Asked if she had ever seen Gorman with a gun, she stated that he'd gotten one when he arrived in Alabama, explaining that he needed it because he'd been “threatened.” She then related Gorman's story about being threatened by Jason Cook and Kush Sharma. Gorman had told her he knew where Amy St. Laurent's body was only because of the threats and the fact that Jason had asked him where to put a body.

It was hard for the detectives, even though they knew she was “family” and had a difficult time facing the fact that her grandson had committed such a horrific act, to listen to the denials of a woman who had, herself, sometimes been the victim of Gorman's crimes.
⁵
To hear, as they so often did, about what a sweet little boy Russ Gorman had been, going to Sunday school and saying his nightly prayers.

When Young and Harakles arrived in Troy, they had gone straight to work. They interviewed steadily for about twelve hours. Around 11 p.m. Friday night, as the two weary detectives finished their last interview, they realized that they had been so focused they hadn't eaten all day. They also hadn't thought about a place to sleep.

Since there weren't many places to stay in Troy, they decided to drive as far as Montgomery, grab some of the fast food that Harakles loved, and find a motel.

In Montgomery, revived by food and coffee, Harakles decided he really wasn't all that tired and might as well drive awhile. Young agreed, and the two of them, running on only about four hours of sleep in the past thirty-six hours, hit the road again. From the start, these two men had been mission driven. Now, with their investigation finally going right, they were moving into another realm. A week of getting big breaks, which told them they were going to be able to get a killer off the street, had filled them with excitement and adrenaline. They just wanted to get home and start working with all they'd learned.

They never did stop for the night. Combined with their passion for the job was their passion for their families. Harakles was eager to get back to his wife and two small children. Danny Young had a grandchild appearing in a Christmas program on Sunday and he really wanted to be there. With all that on their minds, the two men figured, what the hell, why not, and kept on driving.

On Saturday afternoon at 6:00, Danny Young pulled into his driveway. His wife, Linda, came out of the house, ready to be mad at him for being so crazy. But it was just Danny Young, being, as always, unstoppable. A man who cut himself no more slack than he gave the bad guys and who believed in honoring his commitments. Young diffused his wife's anger with a tired grin. “Give me a hug,” he said, “and welcome me home.”

O
n Friday, December 14, while Danny Young and Scott Harakles were in Troy, Alabama, working on the case, and Probation and Parole was bringing Gorman back to Maine, Amy St. Laurent's family and friends gathered in the chapel at Conroy-Tully Funeral Home in South Portland to hold a memorial service for her. Although her principal champions were unable to be there, representatives from the Portland and Maine State Police were.

A large, framed photograph of Amy stood on a table at the front of the chapel, while twenty-five white candles set amid evergreens and pink roses marked the years of her short life. The same kind of roses Amy's father, Dennis, had given her every year on her birthday. Pink roses for Amy, yellow for Julie. A sad reminder that there would be no more birthdays.

Amy's mother, Diane Jenkins, told the listeners that her daughter “would rather we celebrate her life than dwell on how it ended,” while her stepfather, Don Jenkins, reminded her friends to keep her memory alive by sharing their stories among themselves and with others who hadn't known her. Her mother recited the Prayer of Saint Francis:

The prayer summed up Amy's character for those who had known her. Amy St. Laurent had been a loving and generous young woman, a giver, not a taker, and a consoler of those who needed consolation. Amy's mother chose it, as well, as a message from Amy to those she had left behind, about how their lives should be lived in remembrance of her.

The Reverend Eric Kelley urged his listeners to honor Amy St. Laurent's memory by making choices that would make the world a safer place for themselves and for others. “We are gathered today because of a profound tragedy that defies words. We also are gathered because of a young woman who packed a lot of living in twenty-five short years.” Summing up the woman investigators had come to know, Kelley said, “Her living was marked by generosity, optimism, kindness, enthusiasm, humor, and love of life.”

“Amy Elizabeth St. Laurent.” Her composed, smiling face staring at me again, only this time from the obituary page. “25, of South Berwick, who was missing since October 21, 2001, was found Saturday, December 8, 2001, in Scarborough.”

0703. My TV LED blinks as the smell of coffee mixed with newspaper moves through my nose. Newsprint smears on my fingers, making them feel thick. Today is the day of the memorial service. The worst will be watching and absorbing everyone's pain and sadness.

“She attended Portland schools … was employed for the past five years as a secretary/technician at Pratt & Whitney. She was fond of her cat, Alex.”

Oh, yeah. The cat. I recall the small cat at the grave site. So strange. So poignant. “She is survived by …” The list is long, “… and many friends that will miss her dearly.”

My pager bleeps, jarring me from quiet thought. For a moment I think, Jeez, can't we ever have a little peace and quiet? But the truth is, with this job, we can't. It's Tom, explaining that there's a lot going on. Danny and Scott are in Alabama and soon they'll be sitting down with Gorman. There is an early morning staff meeting and a detectives' meeting in the case.

We still have a tremendous amount of work, documentation, and follow-up to do and, at this stage, we're proceeding with meticulous caution. We do not want to lose this guy to some loophole.

It's Friday, December 14, 2001. Another weekend approaching with no weekend for the guys. “Tom,” I say, “I don't care. I
am
going to the service today. Did Matt call in yet? Hold off that meeting 'til 1300, and get Bruce to take over the evidence technicians.”

The Conroy-Tully chapel is in South Portland. A funeral home, not a church like I'd anticipated, given my Catholic upbringing. It looks stark and cold from the outside. Matt and I park our cars across the street. Many times, police officers attend such services to survey the crowd and look for suspects and information, but our suspect is in jail. Our presence here is personal. Matt is once again perfectly dressed in a gray suit, freshly pressed shirt. Immaculate. The GQ detective. I adjust my suit and tie, polishing my shoes on the back of my pant legs. Matt looks at me funny.

“Listen,” I say, “it works. I do it all the time.”

Matt is polishing his glasses and we look at each other. This is going to be tough, but there is strength in numbers. I dread seeing Diane and Julie, recalling my own parents' pain when my brother Anthony was laid out in his coffin. That's the worst part of this job, the worst— observing people in such pain. We see so much pain. Sometimes you can just see it build up until the anguish is so great people are visibly searching for a way to escape, longing to leave their own bodies or just completely throw themselves into grief like screaming infants. It's primal and horribly disturbing.

The crowd is shuffling and snaking around to get in line, all those bodies giving off aftershave and perfume. Suits and nice dresses, ties and polished shoes mingle with dirty shoes and outfits hastily pulled together. The long line slowly moves into the funeral home and then into the chapel. People bumping into each other, distracted and numb. Inside, the funeral home is warm and inviting, but the air is heavy with sorrow.

I see Lucille first. She gives me a sad smile and we embrace. I ask where Diane is, preparing myself for my first sight of her since the morning of the day we found Amy. I throw my arm around the ever stoic Matt as we move into the chapel. I see the familiar framed picture of Amy on the table, surrounded by white candles, greens, and lovely pink roses.

My neck is tight and my palms are sweaty. I spot Diane ahead, moving through the shuffling, halting line until I reach her. She is so composed and graceful, so elegantly put together, but her long, immaculate hair frames a face in which the eyes are tragically sad. She gives me a gracious smile, so glad and pleased to see that Matt and I have come.

I wrap my arms around her, embracing her with a heartfelt hug. We've been through seven awful weeks together. This is not merely a professional courtesy. This is for Amy. This is for her family. In my arms, Diane gives a slight heave, her body shaking, her head bent to hide her face.

We're supposed to box it up. Lock it out and get on with the job. I've stored up twenty-plus years of stifling my emotions while witnessing the howl of human agony. Now I worry it will come spilling out. I'm so close to this one.

“Thank you so much for bringing Amy home,” she says.

“It was Danny, Diane. Danny and Scott and a lot of other people.”

We move on to Amy's sister, Julie. The little sister. So close to Amy. Still struggling to comprehend all this. I know about losing a sibling, about the space it leaves in a family, in your mind. Poor Julie, eyes downcast, her blond hair falling forward, eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones. Her sorrow is weighty and tangible. She wipes a tear away with poise and precision. She has her mother's grace.

“Julie,” I say. We hug and I feel her body shaking with tears. “Your sister is okay, Julie, she's okay and safe with God. I believe that. You believe that.” It's true.

Then on to Amy's father, Dennis, and Kathy Tuttle, and to her stepfather, Don. All of them so terribly sad. We embrace. Shake hands. Dennis thanks me again in a sad, gravelly voice. “You guys did a good job.” I know Dennis's life has not been easy and that his lovely daughter was a source of great pride and joy. Now, his suffering is mute and terrible.

As we take our seats and the ceremony begins, a whiff of pine flashes me back to the night of the dig. To the needles sprinkled on her grave, the pine needles buried with her. We are here to celebrate a life, but my head is full of death.

Diane is composed and eloquent as she speaks, telling us Amy would want us to celebrate her life rather than dwell on her death. She recites the Prayer of Saint Francis, which is something I try to repeat every day. Another strange connection in this case. Is it Amy speaking to me? Speaking to us?

Reverend Kelley tells us, “We are free beings in a world that is both wonderful and dangerous at the same time … We've had to recognize the reality of evil that can and does destroy so much of what we love, and it is something that must be confronted.”

I know evil exists. All cops do.

I think of confrontation and of how I'd like to confront Gorman. I imagine … That's as far as it gets. As a caring human being, I'd like to confront Gorman. As a trained and experienced police officer, I've learned to handle those feelings and suppress the emotions. Always that split between the personal and the professional. It takes a toll, though. I'm sure Matt feels the same.

I quickly turn to prayer to stop the intrusion. I listen to the talk about Amy, imagining her as an angel now. Rest in peace, Amy, I think, and help us all in this crazy world. Move among us in grace.

Outside in the cold, Matt and I are approached by the news and each of us make statements.

Matt says, “All the investigators involved from both agencies have made a tremendous personal and professional commitment to the case … As a group we are extremely optimistic and resolved to see it to its successful conclusion.”

Well done, Matt, I think. I am proud of him. And us.

I say a few words about how difficult the investigation has been … both with the situation and working with multiple agencies. That Amy kept us together … another positive influence of Amy in the midst of this horrible tragedy.

I reflect to myself that “tremendous” is a good word. In my entire career, I have never observed such an effective working relationship between agencies to get a job completed. Rarely have we had a case go on so long with such intensity. It was a monumental challenge—putting egos, rank, agency protocol aside and keeping everyone together.

In my leadership challenges, I felt it was a personal triumph, keeping everyone locked in. Thank you, Amy, I think. Dan and Scott the final glue that brought you home.

I leave feeling sad, but at least they can finally have a funeral. I think of all the cases where that doesn't happen. Where families wait years or decades or forever, and never get an answer, the missing person's room maintained, untouched. I've seen the toll it takes.

One young couple who had been recipients of Amy's generosity left a letter at the service. Their story was that, several years before, they had been financially strapped, their rent was due, and they were facing a bleak Christmas for their child. Amy, aware of their situation, had taken money out of her savings account, filled an envelope, and given it to them. Their letter read:

Dear Amy,

You're the truest most sincere friend we have ever had. You're a constant ray of light in our life, never judged or spoke unkindly towards anyone. You were there for us at our lowest points and we always swore if you ever needed us, we would be there for you. We were wrong and will be eternally sorry and heart struck that we couldn't help you when you needed someone the most.

We know you're in heaven. We think of heaven as a place reserved for the best of human kind, which does not even begin to describe you. The person or persons who did this to you must not have known you because anyone who knew you would have laid down their life for you. We can take comfort from knowing that you're looking down on us all and we pray we will see you again some day.

All our love, Amy.

Amy St. Laurent was the girl who used her own money to fly her best friend, Kate, home from Alaska as a surprise for Kate's grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. She was the girl who took a leave of absence from work to sit in the hospital by the bedside of a friend who was in a coma, talking for hours about things they'd done together. She was the merry girl who played Mrs. Claus at the Pratt & Whitney Christmas party and hid Easter eggs for children.

Amy St. Laurent was celebrated as a person who was generous and loving, who was always thinking of others and giving them whatever she had, whether it was her time, her attention, or the contents of her savings account. And in the midst of their tears, as they recounted their special stories about Amy, those who loved her could not avoid the bitterness of knowing that a person who had done so much to enhance life had been taken from them in a brutal and horrific way by a young man who had never done anything with his life except indulge himself and prey on other people.