Dead Down East (20 page)

“Travis, I’m sorry to hear that,” Randall said, “You
are entitled to say as little as you wish. But whatever you say
should be the truth. For example, you can tell them that someone
stole your gun between Saturday morning and Sunday noon, when you
discovered it missing.”

“OK. I’ll tell them that, but the rest of the stuff
is strictly confidential.”

“Well, that about wraps it up for now,” Randall said.
“Anything else, Jesse?”

“No. I’ve got plenty to work on from my end. Travis,
why don’t you call your sister and tell her that Angele will pick
up the letter. I’ll get her number from information, and you can
use my phone right now.”

“OK,” Travis said.

I got the number, and Travis made the call. After he
explained his situation to his sister, he put me on the phone. She
had received the letter in the mail at noon. I explained that
Angele could come by to pick it up. I’d have Angele call her to
arrange it. She said that would be fine, and we hung up.

“We’ll talk again soon, Travis,” Randall said. “In
the meantime, reconsider your position about remaining silent.”

“I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath,”
Travis said.

“OK. Let’s tell the guards we are done here,” Randall
said.

We found both guards stationed outside the door. One
of them took Travis away, and the other escorted us back to the
entry room. I stopped briefly to say goodbye to Brock and told him
I’d call him if the band were playing Friday in Gardiner.

Randall and I chatted as we walked across the parking
lot to our cars. “There’s a DNA testing clinic in Augusta,” I said.
“We should get the blood sample tested as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Randall replied. “I’m familiar with the
place. They can usually get results in about three days. I’ve
represented a number of men in paternity suits.”

“I’ll contact Cynthia Dumais and interview her,” I
said. “I’ll also track any leads I get from the list of women that
Richard gave me.”

“Here’s my card, Jesse. Keep me informed of anything
significant.”

“Will do,” I said.

We shook hands and went our separate ways.

“Jigs and Things, Kenneth Harper speaking.”

“Hello, Mr. Harper. My name is Jesse Thorpe. I am a
private investigator hired in connection with the murder of
Governor William Lavoilette. Could I have a few minutes of your
time?”

“OK,” he said tentatively. “How is Jigs and Things
connected to the governor’s death?”

“Mr. Travis Perkins was arrested this morning as a
material witness in the case. He has informed me that he and
another gentleman, a man named ‘Justin Cook,’ chartered a fishing
trip last Saturday afternoon. Can you confirm that?”

“Yes. I remember the two of them very well. They
booked a charter for Saturday afternoon and a second one for Sunday
morning. They never showed up on Sunday. They didn’t cancel. We
never heard from them again.”

“We are trying to get in touch with Mr. Cook. Do you
have any information about him, his address, phone number,
email?”

“It seems we don’t have any reliable contact
information on him. I know this because when he didn’t show on
Sunday morning, I tried to reach him myself. I rang his phone
number, and got no answer. I tried to locate him through his Maine
driver’s license information; the address on his license is not
valid. My guess would be that the license is fake. We have no email
address for him either.”

“Did you call Mr. Perkins?” I asked.

“I didn’t have a phone number for Mr. Perkins. I
tried to get his number from information, but it’s unlisted.

“Normally we book over the phone, and the customer
pays by credit card. In Mr. Cook’s case, he came here earlier in
the week—Wednesday morning I believe—and paid cash in full for the
two charters. He said he was staying in the area and wanted to drop
by to see our boats before booking. We still accept cash…with
proper ID of course,” he said, chuckling to himself.

I’d heard that joke years before, but I thought it
had gone the way of cassette tapes and Milli Vanilli.

“Do you still have the information from Mr. Cook’s
license?” I asked.

“Sure. Before we can take anyone out to sea, we’re
required by state law to see a valid ID, and to write down the name
and home address. We keep the information on file for future
bookings. Here it is.”

Kenneth read it off to me, and I wrote it down.

“Do you have any photographs of the two of them?” I
asked.

“We let the customers take the pictures. If they want
us to do it, we will of course, but we leave it up to them. In the
case of this charter, we didn’t have any requests.”

While I was considering what more I might need from
him, Kenneth continued, “But it’s possible that some of the other
guests on the boat might have some photographs.”

“Oh,” I said, rather excitedly, “they weren’t
alone?”

“No, no. We can handle up to seven fishermen on that
particular charter. It was a Saturday afternoon in early June. It
was fully booked. In fact, Cook and Perkins took the last two
seats. The other five had booked weeks in advance. They were all
from one party…from Boston I believe. They came in for the
weekend.”

“Can you provide me with their names and phone
numbers? I’d like to see if they happen to have any pictures of
Cook and Perkins.”

“Who did you say you are?” he asked, now growing a
little more cautious.

“My name is Jesse Thorpe. I’m a private investigator.
If you would like to see my website to verify that I am legitimate,
I’ll be happy to give you that address.”

“We don’t usually give out personal information, but
this appears to be a special case. Let me think a moment.”

He thought for several moments. Finally, he said,
“Let me do
this
. I’ll contact the other party and discuss
the situation with them. If they don’t mind talking with you, I’ll
hook you up.”

“Thanks so much, Mr. Harper.”

“Call me, Ken.”

“Ken.”

“I have your number on caller ID. I’ll phone the
other party and call you right back,” he said. “Investigating the
murder of the governor, eh? I want to help if I can.”

We hung up. I sat by the phone and waited for it to
ring.

There’s a corollary to the theory, “A watched pot
never boils.” It’s “A watched phone never rings.” Of course, if you
watch most phones long enough, you will disprove that supposition.
On the other hand, some phones never ring…like the AT&T,
two-line speakerphone I purchased years ago at WalMart. After a
year and three days, it stopped working altogether. The warranty
was good for exactly one year. I hoped that some day I might find a
use for it, so I put it on a shelf in the shed—right next to my
framing hammer.

The only way that phone is going to ring now is if
you bang it against a clapper attached to a bell. You should be
able to hear a ring in that case. But if you just watch it, it’s
not going to ring again…ever. One night a while back, Angele left
my home in a huff. Having nothing better to do, I went into the
shed, took that framing hammer and with one carefully placed swing,
I pounded the shit out of that two-line phone. That was the precise
moment it rang for the last time.

• • •

As I waited for a callback, I looked in on the
surveillance videos at Cynthia’s place. All was quiet on the home
front.

Instead of sitting indefinitely by the phone, I took
a stroll into the kitchen. It was nearly six o’clock. I decided to
fix a drink. Cynthia was sitting in the living room watching the
news. I asked her if she would like a margarita or a glass of wine.
That’s pretty much all that I keep around the house.

“Sure. I’ll have a margarita,” Cynthia said.

“Two margaritas coming right up,” I replied.

I put the mix, the ice and the tequila in a blender
and was about to turn it on when I thought, “I’ll never hear the
phone with the blender going.” So I called to Cynthia and asked her
to monitor my phone while I blended. Then I cranked it up. In less
than a minute the margaritas were ready, and the phone rang.
Cynthia poured the drinks; I took the call.

“Hello, this is Jesse Thorpe,” I said.

“Mr. Thorpe, this is Ken Harper again. I have some
good news. John Westcott booked that Saturday afternoon charter. I
reached him at his home in Boston and explained the situation. Not
only does he remember Mr. Cook and Mr. Perkins, he has some
photographs of both of them, and he’s willing to share them with
you.”

“Great! Thank you so much for your trouble.”

Ken gave me John’s phone number. I thanked him again,
and we hung up.

I called Mr. Westcott right away.

“Hello,” came a voice.

“Hello, is this John Westcott?”

“Sure is. Is this Mr. Thorpe?”

“Sure is. Thank you so much for offering to help. I
assume Mr. Harper explained to you that I am investigating the
murder of our governor.”

“Yes he did. Wow! Are these two guys suspects?”

“Well, one of them has been arrested as a material
witness in the case, and the other is wanted for questioning.”

“I’m happy to help out in any way I can,” he said. “I
have some pictures of our fishing trip. I’ve posted the best ones
on Facebook, if you care to look at them.”

“I’m at my computer right now,” I said. “I’ll see if
I can view your Facebook page. Do you have any privacy settings in
place?”

“No. Not really. I don’t think that’s necessary,” he
replied. “If you need help finding my homepage, let me know. I’ll
just wait for you to pull it up.”

I put in a search and found dozens and dozens of John
Wescotts on Facebook.

“Which one are you?” I asked.

“Look for ‘John S Westcott,’ hopefully there’s only
one.”

“Got it,” I said a few seconds later. “Your profile
picture shows a man in a boat. Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“OK,” I said, “give me a minute or two to go through
the album.”

There were about twenty-five photos of their fishing
trip. Several of them had Travis in the background along with
another man who was probably Justin Cook.

“There’s a guy in a denim jacket in the very first
picture,” I said. “Was he with your party, or is he one of the guys
I’m looking for?”

“He’s one of the guys you’re looking for,” he
replied.

“I wonder if you could do me a big favor?” I
asked.

“Name it.”

“Could you email me the highest possible resolution
images you have showing the two ‘other guys’ on the boat?”

“No problem. I’m happy to do it. Give me your email
address.”

I gave him my address, and he promised to send the
pictures that evening.

“I’ll be glad to pay you for your trouble, Mr.
Wescott,” I said.

“No need. I’m happy to oblige.”

I thanked him again, and we hung up.

I walked into the kitchen and announced to Cynthia,
“Where is that margarita? It’s time to celebrate. I think we have a
real break in the case. I’ll be getting some photographs of the man
who apparently stole Travis’ gun on Saturday morning…the same gun
used to kill the governor on Saturday night.”

I brought her up to date on my meeting with Richard
and Travis. I told her that if Travis’ story is true, then “Justin
Cook”—if that’s his real name—is almost surely involved in the
murder.

She wanted to have a quick look at the pictures of
Justin and Travis on the Facebook page, so we went in and looked
through the photo album. She seemed fairly certain that “Justin”
was not the guy who shot William.

“The murderer was taller and broader in the
shoulders,” she said.

“My best guess is that Justin is one of at least two
people involved in the murder,” I said.

I told Cynthia my theory of how the murder may have
taken place, just as I had earlier that day with Randall and
Travis. Cynthia thought I might be right, and this frightened
her.

“If it happened like you imagine it did, then one of
them probably saw me get in or out of the car in the theater
parking lot,” she said.

“That’s very likely,” I replied. “William got out of
the car and walked to the theater alone. Assuming someone followed
William’s car there, he might well have trailed him to the theater
to see where he was going. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have
seen you get out of the car.
But
…my guess is that he staked
out William’s car, waited for him to come back, and you got there
first
.”

That thought worried both of us.

“Cynthia, we have to determine the safest place for
you to stay. If I cross paths with one of the people actually
involved in the murder, my home could become a point of high
interest. If he, or she, knows you are an eyewitness to the murder,
your life could be in danger.