Dead Down East (22 page)

“Wait a minute, Jesse. Let’s go to Misty’s shop
first. I told her about the bloody shirt. She wants it for the
reading.”

“Roger that, honey. What was I thinking?”

“And when we go to Brunswick, let’s have Misty join
us,” Angele said. “She’s a psychic hound dog.”

“I hope I can convince my clients that her services
are worth the money.”

“Just tell them you have your own methods.”

“Let’s go talk with Cynthia,” I said.

Cynthia was still at the kitchen table, gazing out
the window, sipping the last of her coffee.

“Cynthia, Angele and I will be going to the murder
scene today. I’d like you to join us if possible. Are you up for
it?” I asked.

“Definitely. I’m feeling more angry than sad now. I
want to help with the investigation. Besides, I’m going stir crazy
sitting here day after day.”

“I have a few errands to run this morning. We’ll go
to Brunswick later in the day.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

“Angele, I need to talk to Travis’ lawyer first.
We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.”

I wanted legal advice from Randall, but it might
prove to be a little tricky. I didn’t mind Randall knowing about
Cynthia, but I still didn’t want Travis to know. He could be a
leaky boat when it comes to information, and I wasn’t sure if
Randall would mention her name to Travis or not. He might lay all
the cards on the table for his client. I decided it was best to
keep Cynthia’s name under wraps for the time being.

What I wanted to find out from Randall was my own
status as I uncover evidence leading to other suspects. If that
information compromises attorney-client privilege, what is the
right course of action? Can I talk freely with the police and the
FBI, or do I have to remain silent?

I called his number. When he picked up, I asked him
my question.

He asked, “What do you have so far?”

“I have some photographs of Justin Cook,” I replied.
“The problem is that I couldn’t have gotten those photographs
without Travis’ help.”

“It’s an interesting legal question, but I think that
the highest priority is to find the real killers. So we need to
help the authorities in whatever way we can. One way to skirt the
issue is to provide the photographs and supporting information
anonymously. You could also crop the images to exclude Travis. If
you could do that in a way that doesn’t identify the precise
location of the photographs, you’d protect your own identity. If
the FBI could determine where the picture was taken, they might
easily work their way back to you.

“On the other hand, if you only show Mr. Cook’s face,
your photographs might not be taken very seriously. They receive
hundreds, if not thousands, of anonymous leads on notable cases.
Without a convincing argument to support your theory about the man
in the picture, they might never move on your tip. They have lots
of other ground to cover.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll give it some careful thought.
Thanks for your help.”

“I’m going to see Travis again this morning at ten,”
he said. “It would be good if you could join us. I’m sure he’d like
to see the photographs himself. We could ask him directly if he
wants us to give them to the FBI.”

“I’ll see you there,” I said, and we hung up.

I printed out the best of the pictures and said,
“Let’s roll, Angele, I need to be at the Kennebec County Jail by
ten o’clock.”

We drove straight to Misty’s shop.

There was a stand-up sign on the sidewalk in front
that read, “Psychic Fair Cancelled due to unforeseen
circumstances.” That can’t be good for business, I thought, as we
walked through the front door.

Misty was expecting us.

Misty Starbird is in her late twenties or early
thirties. She’s rather plain looking except for her piercing eyes.
Her glare might stop you in your tracks, were it not for her
unkempt hair, thick glasses and tie-dyed clothing. The whole
package makes quite an ensemble. She smiled when she recognized my
better half, and called out, “Angele, honey, where have you been
lately?”

“In Portland. I assume you know my significant
other.”

“Jesse? Sure, we’ve met a few times. Investigating
the Lavoilette murder, eh? I can’t figure why the Maine State
Police hasn’t called me on this one. I’ve done work for them in the
past.”

“It’s a high profile case,” I offered. “Maybe they
think it will make them look helpless if they bring you in too
quickly.”

“Psychic leads grow cold, just like physical leads.
They should have called me on Saturday night,” she said
disdainfully. “We don’t need them anyway. Come on into my Inner
Sanctum.”

We followed her to another room, and she closed the
door behind us.

“Have a seat,” she said.

There was a table in the middle of the room. Angele
and I sat on one side, and Misty sat on the other. She lit a candle
and put it on the table.

“Before we start, Misty, I was wondering about that
sign out front that says your psychic fair is cancelled. What’s up
with that?” I asked.

She laughed, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s my
job to know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the sign is
bad for my business.”

“Bingo,” I said.

“It’s not. I put that sign out quite frequently. It
draws attention. And I need attention. Bad advertising? There’s no
such thing. Advertising is advertising. I need people to remember
who I am and where I am, otherwise they won’t come around. Often
when that sign tickles a funny bone, all the bones in that skeletal
package walk through my door. Once the carcass is inside, I work my
magic.”

Both our carcasses were inside now, I thought. Let
the show begin.

She turned off the lights. The candle dimly lit the
room.

“The envelope, please,” she said. She sounded like
Whoopi Goldberg at the Oscars.

I pulled out the envelope, set it on the table and
then said, “It’s best if you don’t actually touch the blood sample.
I don’t want to compromise the DNA.”

“I don’t need to touch it. I can already feel it,”
she said. Then she closed her eyes, and the room went silent. I,
for one, held my breath.

After two minutes had passed, I was running out of
air, so I decided to breathe normally for the time being. Two more
minutes passed. Then Misty said, “This is the short guy. Find the
tall one.” Then she added, “Wait.”

Two more minutes passed until she said, “There are
two dead men.”

“
Two
?” Angele blurted out.

“One is gone and the other is going,” Misty replied.
“The second one is either recently dead or soon to be. The signs
are too fresh to see the exact timing. The governor is either
number one or number two. I just can’t tell which.”

She blew out the candle and cautioned, “Hold on, I’m
going to listen.”

We all listened for a long time. All I could hear was
the faint traffic outside on Western Avenue.

“Nothing,” she said, after a long spell. “I can’t
hear a thing. No clairaudience today.”

She got up, turned on the lights and walked us back
into the main room.

“How much do I owe you, Misty?”

“Normally I charge $75 a reading. But here’s the
deal. Don’t pay me anything now. When you nab the murderer, and the
press asks you to tell your story, mention my name. If you do that,
there is no charge. If you don’t mention my name, the charge will
be $200. If you don’t get the guy at all, you can pay me $50
instead of $75. I doubt that will happen, because my readings are
usually very good. But if you can’t find the guy, I figure I owe
you a discount.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Misty, can you come with us to the scene of the
crime this afternoon?” Angele asked.

“Are you kidding? I’ll close up shop and be right
with you. Wednesday is always slow around here anyway.”

She grabbed a coat, led us out the front door and
locked up.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“You tell us,” I replied with a wink. There were four
cars parked in the lot.

“Good one,” she said.

She stood perfectly still and closed her eyes for
about fifteen seconds. Then she opened them and led us to my
Forester. She put her hands on the hood and said, “This is it.”

Angele gave me that “I told you so” look, and we
climbed in.

Randall Bradford, J.D. was waiting for me when I
pulled into the Kennebec County Jail fifteen minutes after ten.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” I said. “The séance lasted
longer than I expected.”

“Séance?” he said, furrowing his brow.

“One of my methods,” I replied.

“Do you have the photographs?”

“Right here,” I said, pulling them out of my jacket
pocket.

“Good. Let’s go. Travis is waiting for us in the same
room as before.”

I signed in and said hello to Brock at the front
desk.

“Any word on Friday night, Jesse?” he asked.

“Not yet. But I won’t forget to call you,” I
said.

Brock escorted us down the hall and into the room.
Travis was handcuffed to the table. We sat down, and Randall
dismissed the guards.

Travis spoke first, “What’s happening?”

“We have some pictures of you and Justin Cook on your
fishing trip,” Randall replied. “Show him, Jesse.”

I pulled out the pictures and spread them on the
table for Travis to see. Right away he got very excited. After he
studied the pictures a little he said, “See there? He’s got a
bandage on his right hand. That picture was taken late in the day,
after that shark raked him.”

“I noticed that, Travis,” I said. “I’m happy we have
some photographic corroboration of your story.”

“Catch him, and we’ll have the real murderer,” he
said. “Or one of them.”

“Here’s the rub,” I replied. “All we really have are
some photos of a guy who went fishing with you on Saturday…that,
and your story.”

Travis sat back in his chair deflated.

Randall spoke, “Travis, I have a question to ask you.
What should we do with these photos for now? We can either use them
in our own private investigation or turn them over to the FBI.

“If we give them to the FBI, it would place you
within a few miles of the scene of the crime. The photos were taken
Saturday afternoon. The governor was shot at 10:30 PM that night.
It would establish
opportunity
, if they decide to prosecute
you for murder. That, along with your gun’s ballistic fingerprints,
would be two damning pieces of evidence. What do you want us to
do?”

Travis thought for a bit and said, “Keep the
photographs for now. Where do we go from here?”

“Travis,” I said, “there is one way we could steer
them to Justin without implicating you. I could crop the pictures
to show only him. Then I could send his picture to the FBI with an
anonymous note. How about that?”

“Yeah. That’s good,” he said.

“I could also say he stole your gun. Would that
work?” I asked.

“Sure, just so long as I’m not placed near Brunswick
on Saturday.”

“OK,” I said. “Now this is very important… Don’t talk
to the FBI or the Maine Police. If you do, you might blow my cover
on the anonymous tip. They might come looking for me anyway, but
I’ll hide behind attorney client privilege. Is that clear,
Travis?”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he said.

“I have a few other leads I want to check out,” I
added. “First, I need to interview the women who had affairs with
the governor.”

“You know about them?” he asked.

“Richard Merrill told me everything he knows.”

“Did he mention Cynthia?”

“Yes he did,” I replied.

Travis’ shoulders slumped. Obviously he was concerned
that this could become common knowledge. The prosecution would
argue that her affair with the governor was motive enough for
murder.

“OK, Jesse,” Randall said, “interview the women on
your list, and see if you can get samples of their DNA.”

“Really?” I said, surprised by this suggestion.
“Why?”

“I made some inquiries. Apparently there are a couple
of different hair samples taken from the governor’s summer home.
Forensic experts are analyzing them. The two samples are long
strands. They are probably from women, and they don’t match
Rebecca’s hair. Depending on how this case unfolds, it may be
important to determine who spent time with the governor in his
summer home. There’s no official record of any woman being there
recently, except for Rebecca.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Do you have any suggestions
for capturing DNA?”

“Saliva or hair samples are your best bet. If the
woman smokes, try to get a cigarette butt. Snip a locket of hair
when her back is to you. Whatever you need to do,” he said. “But
saliva is much better than hair. Saliva contains nuclear DNA, while
snipped hair does not. You’ll need the hair’s root to get a full
DNA profile.”