Finding Amy (12 page)

Gorman and his attorney, Clifford Strike, listen as he is sentenced for the murder of Amy St. Laurent.

Portland Press Herald

Dennis St. Laurent, Julie St. Laurent, and Diane Jenkins speak with the press after Jeffrey “Russ” Gorman is sentenced to sixty years in prison.

Portland Press Herald

The memorial bench in Ft. Williams Park in Cape Elizabeth

Courtesy of Chief Deputy Joseph K. Loughlin

B
ecause criminals are devious, the police are constantly creating their own equally resourceful—and legal— strategies for tripping criminals up. Sergeant Joyce put it this way: a good investigator needs to know where the line is, legally, and then walk right up to that line.

The detectives working on the St. Laurent case would think of many ways to get Gorman to lead them to Amy's body. At one point, in mid-November, they sat down in their “war room” to put together a complicated joint surveillance operation. Their plan was to attach a tracking device, a “birddog,” to Gorman's car, then let him know that a body had been discovered, hoping that he would be spooked into checking his hiding place and lead them to the body. Attaching such a device would be legal so long as the car was parked in a public place.

Like any well-planned operation, their plan had several alternatives, depending on Gorman's whereabouts. As part of the operation, they had recruited two attractive female state troopers, Detective Angela Blodgett and Trooper Cory Pike. Dressed in plain clothes, the two women were going to stop at Pizza Time while Gorman was at work, order a pizza, and, while they waited, discuss the news that a body had been found so they could observe Gorman's reaction.

Scott Harakles's job was to guard the rear door in case Gorman came out while Lance McCleish was putting the birddog on Gorman's car, which was usually parked behind the building. If Gorman got through the door, they joked, he might just have to get mugged. “I was really looking forward to that,” Harakles joked. After all their planning, on the day of the operation, with all the vehicles in place to follow him, Gorman didn't show up for work. He had quit his job.

By that time, the police had many cars rolling, including a unit by Gorman's mother's house and one by the Game Room. Eventually, word came in that Gorman's car was parked at the Game Room, and plan B began. Blodgett and Pike went into the Game Room and hung around, hoping to meet up with Gorman, while other detectives rolled into the lot to put the device on Gorman's car.

Sergeant Bruce Coffin described the event: “It was a crazy night. We were doing everything we could think of to find Amy. Our challenge was to find Gorman's car in a public place and then attach the device securely in a place that wouldn't interfere with the signal. We waited until his car was parked at a pool hall in Westbrook, the Game Room. I was in one car with Sergeant Matt Stewart and there were two other troopers, Scott Harakles and Lance McCleish, in a second car.

“We all pulled into the lot, putting our cars between Gorman's car and the group of guys standing outside the pool hall smoking so they couldn't see what we were doing. Then we all got out and stood around, making like a bunch of good ole boys who'd been drinking, lots of noise and handshaking, backslapping, while McCleish crept out of the car, crawled under Gorman's car, and installed the device.”

It was a very tense scene. Once the device was in place, they all got back into their cars and drove away, waiting at designated places for word that Gorman had returned to his car and was rolling. Nothing seemed to go as planned. Although his car was in the lot, Gorman never did go to the Game Room that night, so they were unable to drop the rumor about the body. Eventually, he returned to his car and drove to his mother's house.

With as many as six cars parked at strategic places up and down his street, the detectives revised the plan to get word to him by having a friend call Gorman at home and tell him that a body had been found. Later that evening, as they did surveillance on Gorman's house, Matt Despins called Gorman to say he'd heard that a body had been found. Sergeant Coffin was outside in the cold, walking up and down the road, keeping an eye on the place, waiting for Gorman's car to leave. Everyone had expected movement, but Gorman didn't budge. Finally, late into the night, they called the operation off.

Police also worked closely with several of Gorman's friends, hoping that, in an unguarded or intoxicated moment, Gorman would confide something incriminating. On his side, Gorman, who was an experienced criminal, was engaging in “disinformation” to test his supposed friends. He would tell them stories that weren't true to see if those stories got back to the police. At one point, for example, he told a friend, “If I had killed that girl, I would have dropped her off the B & M trestle and let the crabs get her.” Police had to assume that this might be the truth, and so they searched the area.

Early in the investigation, the Maine State Police had done some aerial searches. Now Lieutenant Loughlin and MSP detective Lance McCleish conducted another set of aerial searches arranged by Diane Jenkins's employer, DeWolfe Realty, with a helicopter and pilot donated by Sam Hamill of TCI Aircraft. They were hoping that with the leaves off the trees they might have a better chance of spotting something.

11/21/01. The rotors are still thwapping and the fast air washes across my face. Out pops this small man with dark hair and bright eyes. After introductions, he starts blurting out questions and orders. Did you guys do this? And that? How come you haven't arrested him?

Whoa, Airwolf, I say to myself but entertain his questions because this man is willing to help. All the while I want to scream. What? Are you frigging kidding me? Do I tell you how to fly the chopper? We are all so exhausted and frustrated at this point.

I've just been introduced to Mr. Sam Hamill, aka “Airwolf.” I'm so backed up at work I don't have time for this, plus we've already done aerial searches, but these people want to do something to help. I tell myself, okay, let's just try to enjoy the ride and who knows? It's another chance to find Amy.

We're in a beautiful sleek black Bell helicopter. It's Lance McCleish from the state police, David Gulick from DeWolfe Realty, who's a friend of Diane's, me, the pilot, whose name is John, and Sam. Over the intercom, Sam barks orders to John and we lift off. What a great view of Portland! Only we're not up here for the view.

We travel south over the interstate, chugging and chattering, about two hundred feet up, studying the woods/road border. I keep hoping we'll see something. Anything. All the way down to Berwick, nothing. We head back northbound over the pine trees. Amazing the amount of ground you can see. We stare 'til our eyes hurt, but there's nothing.

Over the noise of the flight, the headset clicks as Sam continues his line of questioning about what we did or

didn't do. I'm exhausted. I've walked through the woods, over bridges, down tracks, along the water almost every weekend and some nights after work. When I jogged Riverside Industrial Parkway, near my home, I would check behind the buildings for Amy. If this is how I am, how does Danny function?

I ask Amy, show us, please show us! I have a list of areas we want to check and I relay that to Sam and the pilot. I still think—from things that Gorman's said—that she's in the water and we head toward the Fore River. The vibrations chugging with a downdraft every now and then help keep me alert.

We fly over a wooded area called the hobo jungle, across to the Merrill Transport. Looking. Searching. It's low tide and the water is clear. It's amazing how far down we can see. Every now and then something looks odd but turns out to be nothing or debris. Airwolf's chatter breaks my concentration.

“Yes, sir, we have investigated that point.”

“Yeah, we have a suspect but no Amy.”

“Why don't you bring this guy in and beat the shit out of him? Ya can't? Let me talk to him.”

“Well, Sam,” I respond, “we have a Constitution, you know, that protects people from that. It's not like on TV, you know.”

“Well, can't you guys tell me who he is?”

I chuckle, but I'm exasperated and tired. There are so many goddamned quarterbacks I can't go five fucking feet without running into one. I know Sam cares and means well, but he hasn't been doing this every day for a month! I bring my mind back into the search. Amy, where are you? We bank left and the centrifugal force pulls on my belt. A Coast Guard boat below in Casco Bay is also searching for Amy.

“Go over to the B & M factory and fly over the tracks.”

Of course, Airwolf's first question is an excited, “Why? What's going on over there?”

“Well, Sam, it's something in the investigation I can't discuss right now and I just want to see it by air.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Look,” I say, frustrated, “can we just look?” He talks to the pilot, a staccato “Whiskey Bravo Tom 179er, changing vector to …” and we change course.

The noise fades into the background. I'm thinking about what Gorman said to a friend about how, if he'd killed her, he would have dumped Amy off the B & M trestle, and my anger burns.

Imagine. Imagine. Now, I know this guy killed her and did something with Amy but where? And I imagine killing someone and then making a statement like that! I think of all of the victims I've seen over twenty-two years and the shitheads who do despicable things and walk away. The arrogance! The GP [general public] has absolutely no idea of the horrors that occur each day. That occur right here in Portland.

At one point we're near Gorman's mother's house and she comes out and stares up at us. She doesn't wave. As we move off, Sam shouts, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! People always wave. I've never seen that.”

Chugging slow with a thwap over the terminal and factory. I can see down into the water. Last weekend I spent hours walking over the trestle and peering down into the cold azure water. Hoping to see something. Begging Amy to show me. She was on my mind all the time. But God … what was it like for Danny?

I know he's at another interview while I'm flying. Danny has his own daughter Amy, yet when we say “Amy” he thinks about Amy St. Laurent. My mind drifts as we thwap along. Danny walked by my office last night around 1900 and no doubt he was ill. Pasty, pale, sweaty, and

heading toward the bathroom. “Danny. Go home. You're not going to be any good sick.”

He looks at me directly and says, “I can't, Lieutenant. I can't.” I know he's right but I say, “Try to get some rest, Dan. Try.” We hear him in the bathroom, throwing up. Running a fever and sick as a dog. He looks like hell but he won't go home.

“Whiskey, Bravo, Tom 179er, changing course to …” I'm back to Airwolf and we're winding down. We fly Back Bay, which is crystal clear—it's almost tropical in the warmth of the chopper—and head back to the terminal. All the while, the Wolf chatters. What about this? How about that? How come? Lance and I catch a glance and we know.

Out of the wash on the helipad we shake hands with the Wolf. I am grateful for the man's generosity. He's a good man, if quirky. I get into my car, dreading what awaits me when I return to the office. My message bank will be maxed, my e-mails maxed. People will be waiting.

On the way in I'm stopped by Penny Diaz, my assistant, who must work diligently through all the chaos and personalities and who does a great job. But right now, Penny's not feeling patient. “Call this person now,”she says, “and I am really sick of Tommy. You have to do something.”

“Penny. Not now! Who called?” I am handed a stack of pink messages and I see Tommy is waiting for me about some news. “Give me a minute, Tommy. Just a minute!”

I see Detective Rick Swift, wide eyed, trying to catch my eye through the sea of detectives. The Swift One, as we call him, is not aggressive but I know he wants to talk to me now.

“Lieutenant, you wouldn't believe what happened on the Coast Guard boat today.” I sweep him into my office and let him talk.

What happened was that they spotted a girl, fully dressed and in a heavy coat, a hundred yards out in the cold November ocean, trying to commit suicide in the forty-eight-degree water. As the boat approached, she turned and headed back toward shore, where officers and Medcu personnel they had called were waiting and took her to the Maine Medical Center. If they hadn't been out looking for Amy, they never would have seen her and she wouldn't have been saved. Many believed that Amy had led them to this girl.

To increase the pressure on Gorman, police decided to go public with a detail that had previously been kept under wraps—the fact that their investigation showed that Gorman never dropped Amy off at the Pavilion. Gorman had told police that there were people milling around in front of the Pavilion when he dropped her off around 1:45 a.m., yet it was well known that at that hour there were not many people around. The few people on the street would have noticed Amy St. Laurent. The investigation that disproved Gorman's lie had been vast. Everyone the detectives had spoken with, from every walk of life—bums, bouncers, bystanders, bartenders, customers returning to the Pavilion on other nights, and police professionals in the area—confirmed that neither Gorman nor Amy, nor Gorman's car, had been seen at the time he claimed to have dropped her off.

“Yeah, I agree, Tom. Dan. It's time to turn up the burners on this.” I explain the plan to Chief Chitwood and he agrees with our strategy.

Tuesday, November 27, 2001, we decide to go public with the fact that Amy was never dropped off at the Pavilion nightclub. We won't mention Gorman, but he and his friends will know what we mean.

I contact David Hench of the
Portland Press Herald
. Of all the media personnel I work with, I have established the most trust with him.

The next day it's front-page news, with Amy's lovely photo smiling at us again. I'm quoted as saying, “We've substantiated Amy was last seen leaving a Brighton Avenue address with a male. There is no evidence to suggest she was dropped off. After extensive interviews and research we have not been able to isolate that as a fact.” The article reports that we have shifted our focus somewhat. I never identify Russ Gorman as the male … but it's out.