Dead Down East (18 page)

“Deal,” he said.

“And Richard, I’m sure you are an honorable man, so I
assume I don’t have to mention that there will be no prepping Jean
Pierre in the interim.”

“You are right. There is no need to mention it.”

“I’m glad that I didn’t.”

Richard smiled as we shook hands.

I find it interesting that the Augusta Spiritualist
Church is located directly behind the Kennebec County Jail, and
both have a bird’s eye view of the Kennebec County Superior Court,
situated across the street. I could imagine a symbiotic
relationship between the church and the jail. From the church’s
point of view, there are a lot of potential customers hanging
around with time on their hands—a captive audience, so to
speak—seeking redemption. On the flip side, the Sheriff might
figure that if a prisoner can find religion on his way to the
courthouse, he’d be less likely to commit perjury when he gets
there.

For the moment, Angele provides me with all the
religion I can handle, so I went straight to the jail without
stopping at the church. Besides, I wanted to arrive a little early
for my meeting with Randall Bradford, Attorney at Law. My friend,
Sergeant Brock Powell, works in the Sheriff’s department. He’s
often stationed at the jail to receive prisoners. When I arrived,
there were TV news trucks lining the street, and inside, the place
was swarming with officers and plainclothesmen. I managed to spot
Brock at the main desk.

“Brock,” I said. “Long time no see.”

“Jesse, what are you doing here? You know we always
have a bed waiting for you when you need a place to stay.”

“I’ve been keeping my nose clean, Brock. But it’s
good to know I have a friend here, if I’m ever hauled into the
neighborhood.”

“Playing any gigs in town these days?” he asked.

“We are playing in Bangor on Saturday. I got a call
from Billy last week. He said there was a possibility that we’ll be
playing at the Raincloud in Gardiner on Friday, but that’s not firm
yet.”

“Let me know about Friday. I might be able to make
it. So…what brings you here?”

“I have a client who is staying in your hotel.”

“Really? A VIP arrived just this morning.”

“I figure he’s the one. Travis Perkins. He is either
a current or former member of the Maine State Police.”

“Jesse, we never rush to judgment. He’s on temporary
leave.”

Brock scratched his head for a second and screwed up
his face, “I seem to recall that once, a couple of years ago, you
confronted Travis outside his ex wife’s house.”

“He’s my ‘friend’ now, I guess. Well, I should say,
‘He’s paying to be my friend.’”

“He sure was hot when they brought him in.”

“Can you give me any inside scoop on the evidence
they have against him?” I asked.

“I’m not at liberty, Jesse. You know that, don’t
you?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to try. I could get you
some free tickets for Friday night, if you’ll loosen your tongue
just a bit.”

“I thought you said the gig wasn’t a sure thing yet,
Jesse.”

“For you I could arrange it,” I replied, showing a
little more swagger and pull than I really have.

“How about free beers?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“We’ll talk later.”

I think he actually might have meant that, which
would be nice. But maybe he was joking. Brock is friendly enough,
but after all, he is a cop.

“I’m just waiting for Travis’ lawyer to arrive. The
three of us have a meeting at 3:30. I’ll leave you to your
deskwork. Nice seeing you again. I’ll give you a call if the Friday
gig materializes.”

I took a seat near the front entrance and waited.
Randall Bradford arrived precisely at 3:30. Randall was a short,
somewhat rounded man, probably in his late 50’s. What little hair
he had was located on the sides of his head and was graying at the
temples. He wore a three-piece suit, thick glasses and carried a
briefcase. He took a quick look around the place. He spotted me
right away, came over and introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Randall
Bradford. You must be Jesse Thorpe.”

“That’s what my mother keeps telling me.”

Randall eyed me suspiciously, as if I might not be
the right guy for the job. On the other hand, I wanted to see if he
was the right guy for me to be working with as well. Sure, this was
serious business, but all work and no play has never been my
modus operandi
.

As we shook hands, I said, “Sorry, Mr. Bradford.
That’s something I learned to say when I was a teenager. It just
slips out now and then.”

“No problem. I checked your website. You seem
qualified for this kind of work. This is, however, a very high
profile case. We need our wits about us.”

“Absolutely.”

I liked his choice of the word, “wits.” I had been
“witty,” and now he was suggesting we needed our “wits.” But I let
that slide without comment. One injudicious remark every fifteen
minutes was more than enough for a capital murder
investigation.

“I’ll check in at the front desk,” he said. “We
should be able to go right in.”

“Sergeant Brock Powell is there. He’s a friend of
mine.”

We walked over and spoke to Brock. He looked at his
log and saw that Mr. Bradford had an appointment to visit with
Travis Perkins, along with one other person. I was that guy.

Brock escorted us through the bowels of the jail to a
private room with no windows, a table and a few chairs. He told us
to wait there until the prisoner arrived. We sat on the same side
of the table, anticipating that Travis would sit on the opposite
side.

We had a few minutes to ourselves. Randall wanted to
hear about my involvement in the case. I told him that Richard
Merrill had hired me to investigate the murder, and that he had
provided me with a list of six women who had affairs with the
governor. I didn’t produce the list, which actually had seven
names. Cynthia’s name was on it, and she still wanted to remain
anonymous. I also mentioned that I had called Travis Perkins on
Monday to ask him some questions, but that he had hung up on me.
Then, after he was arrested, he did an about-face and hired me
early this morning.

At that point, two uniformed officers led Travis into
the room. He was wearing the standard orange jumpsuit, handcuffs
and leg irons. They set him down in a chair opposite us, and one of
the officers asked Randall if we wanted an officer to stay in the
room. Randall indicated it would just be the three of us. So they
left.

Randall initiated the conversation.

“Mr. Perkins, you are a Maine State Trooper, so I
assume you have some legal understanding about the relationship of
a lawyer and his client. I am talking about ‘Attorney-Client
Privilege.’ Let me briefly explain this to you so there is no
misunderstanding. You are free to tell me whatever you wish about
your involvement in this case. Whatever you communicate to me is
entirely confidential. I am not at liberty to disclose this to
anyone, except to those who are working with me on your behalf. In
that event, you are also protected by what is known as ‘Joint
Defense Privilege.’ Typically this includes secretaries who might
take dictation from the lawyer about a case. It also includes Mr.
Thorpe, who will be working with me. Nothing you say here can be
used against you in a court of law, and the state and federal
authorities have no right to listen in on our conversation. Is that
entirely clear to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Travis replied.

“Good. Perhaps the best way to proceed is for you to
tell us both everything that you know about this case, and your
involvement in it. As we go along, if Mr. Thorpe or I need
clarification, we’ll let you know.”

“OK.”

Travis took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly
and corralled a determined look on his face before he
proceeded.

“I am being held as a material witness in the murder
of Governor Lavoilette. As far as I know, the only reason I am here
is because they believe that my gun was used to murder him. My gun
was stolen from my house on Saturday morning, but I didn’t discover
that it was missing until Sunday noon.

“I know the bloody guy who stole it from me. His name
is Justin Cook, or at least that’s what he called himself, the
bastard
.”

Both Randall and I wrote that down in our notes.

“I first met Justin on May 15
^th
. He called
me while I was on duty one afternoon and said he was from
Police
Magazine
. It’s a monthly magazine, and I happen to subscribe to
it, so I knew it was legitimate. He said that he would be in Maine
for several weeks doing a human-interest story about Maine State
Troopers. He asked me for an interview. He said I would receive a
small amount of money for my trouble, but if the story actually got
printed, I would be paid a handsome bonus. I told him I’d be happy
to help out.

“Justin said the story was going to emphasize the
home life of troopers, what we do after hours, things like that. So
I gave him my home address and phone number. He asked me about my
schedule, and I told him I would be off on the following weekend.
We arranged to meet at my house.

“On Saturday, he came over at ten in the morning. I
believe that would have been May 18
^th
. I’d have to check
a calendar, but I’m pretty sure it was the 18
^th
. He took
a bunch of pictures, and we chatted. He asked me what I liked to do
when I wasn’t working, and I told him I like to fish. He thought it
would be a great idea for us to go fishing together. He said he’d
try to arrange a fishing trip with the publishers of the magazine.
‘Free of charge,’ he said. Sounded good to me.

“Justin asked me what kind of weapon I used on the
force, and I told him I had a Glock 21 Gen4. That’s a .45 caliber
pistol, standard issue. He asked me if I had it at home, and I said
that when I’m off duty, I keep it in my dresser. He wanted a
picture of me with it in full uniform if he could, so I went to my
bedroom, alone, put on my uniform and came out with my gun. We went
outside to get some natural poses with me holding the Glock. Then
we went back inside, I put the gun away and changed back into
civilian clothes.

“Later in the week, he met me after work, and we went
to a bar to shoot pool and watch the Sox play. He was from
California. That’s where they publish the magazine. He said he was
a Dodgers fan, but he especially liked the Red Sox, because he
hated the Yankees. We seemed to hit it off. We shot some nine-ball,
watched the game and had some drinks.

“Last Tuesday, Justin called me and asked if I was
free for the weekend. I told him I was. He said he had been in
Portland for a week, but would be back in Augusta on Friday. He
said he got the OK from his publisher for us to take a fishing
charter on the weekend. I told him I’d be happy to go. He said he
would make reservations for both Saturday and Sunday, and he’d call
me once the reservations were confirmed.

“He called back on Wednesday to say that he had made
reservations for tuna and shark fishing at Jigs and Things on Orr’s
Island. That’s about ten miles south of Brunswick.”

“Very close to where the governor was killed,”
Randall noted.

“Yes,” Travis replied sharply. “Justin arranged for
us to spend Saturday evening at a bed and breakfast nearby. Fishing
on Saturday would start at noon. We figured it would take a little
more than an hour to get there, but to be on the safe side, we
would leave Augusta at ten in the morning. He asked me if it would
be possible to have breakfast at my place, because he was getting
tired of restaurant food. I said that was fine. Justin came over at
nine o’clock. I fixed some eggs and toast.

“After we ate, we went outside and got in his car. I
locked the house on my way out. He started the car then turned to
me and said he needed to use my bathroom. He said the coffee
moved
him; he had to go right then.

“I handed him my keys and asked him to lock up after
himself. He came out about five minutes later, locked the front
door and got in the car. I’m sure he had my gun on him then.
Actually, before he got back in the driver’s seat, he took off his
jacket, rolled it up and put it in the trunk. In retrospect, I’m
certain the gun was in his jacket.”

At that point Randall stopped the monologue and
asked, “What kind of car was he driving?”

“It was a late model, blue Ford Taurus. I figured it
was a rental. I remember it had Maine plates, but it never occurred
to me to get the number.”

“OK, go on, Travis,” Randall said.

“We drove to Harpswell. On our way through Brunswick,
we picked up some sandwiches and drinks for the afternoon. I
brought two styrofoam coolers, one for drinks and a larger one for
any fish we’d catch.