Finding Amy (14 page)

For the exhausted detectives, it was a eureka moment. Although Gorman's alibi of being back at Brighton Avenue twenty minutes after he had left to drop off Amy St. Laurent at the Pavilion had been seriously undermined by subsequent statements from Cook and Sharma that they couldn't say when he'd returned, and statements from other residents of the apartment who had returned around 3:00 a.m. and not found him home, police now had an official source—another police officer and official police records
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—confirming that Gorman had lied.

“My God, Danny … are you sure? My God!” Danny hangs in my doorway with his ever present notebook attached to his hand.

“Lieutenant, I feel bad I didn't check this earlier … we already ran plates and everything else but I …”

“Danny.” I hold up my hand. “I don't know how much information a human being can handle, but you've taken on eight times the load.”

I was stunned. Thrilled. I had the receiver in my right hand and I could hear a voice in the distance squeaking. I think I hung up on the person, I was so enthralled with this information. Danny's NCIC search showed Gorman was stopped in Westbrook at 3:14 on the morning of the murder.

This was huge. I slammed my fist into the desk. “My God, Danny. That blows him out of the water and confirms so much for us.”

I was already framing up a map of Gorman's actions and the area he might have traveled according to this new timeline. Maybe he went around his mom's house. Or was he coming from Campbell's or the Game Room area? And Amy wasn't in the car, unless she was in the trunk, and that was unlikely, based on Stearny's search. He must have disposed of her in a quadrant of about four or five miles. But where?

Then I considered what Danny had just said, and the hairs on my arms bristled. That cop stopped a murderer! Gorman had just killed a girl and dumped her. Officers get shot, stabbed, beaten, and killed more frequently during traffic stops than any other type of police contact.
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The “routine” becomes tragic within moments. You never know who, or what, is behind the wheel.

In our training, we observe dozens of videos of officers being killed during routine traffic stops, unaware of the monster lurking behind the wheel. Who knows what was going through Gorman's mind at the time. Was he armed? Did he have blood on his clothes? Evidence of Amy?

Gardiner had been incredibly lucky. I look at Danny's face and see he's thinking the same thing. He's elated, but it's just so goddamned chilling to think what a close call that was.

“Get to him, Dan, and find out what he remembers of the stop.”

Danny leaves and I sit pensive for a few moments. It is such fantastic news. We were at the end of our rope and now we've got this. This and the wardens and the shovel. It's really coming together. And I wonder. Is Amy helping us?

The discovery of the traffic stop in Westbrook was vitally important because it confirmed a major lie. It also significantly narrowed the window of time during which the crime could have been committed, enabling the detectives and the wardens to focus on a much smaller search area in and near Portland.

Everyone settled in for the major effort of organizing a search involving more than a hundred people: search and rescue personnel, state and Portland police, game wardens, and dog handlers with trained cadaver dogs. Logistics included locating a command center where the wardens' Overhead Team could set up their mapping and communications center with space for the team commander, mapping and logistics, communications, operations, and a briefing/debriefing officer.

The command center also needed a space where search teams could be assembled and briefed, their vehicles could be parked, and searchers could be fed. Since the search teams would roll out early on Saturday morning, overnight accommodations needed to be arranged for those who had to travel. Arrangements had to be made to feed everyone. And all the arrangements had to be made with maximum attention to managing the media, which would be briefed at a press conference on the morning of the search. No one wanted to try to conduct the searches in the shadow of media vans. The press had to be informed, yet kept away from the actual search areas.

On Friday, the wardens returned to sit down with detectives and do the work of identifying final target sites, assigning teams to search those sites, defining the makeup of the teams, and doing the detailed writing of the search parameters for each site. This time the meeting was held at Crosby Farm, the highway maintenance depot and state police facility that would serve as the command post for the following day's operation.

The setup of the search had to be defined, with maps and written assignments, including waypoints and instructions to the search teams about ground to be covered, what they were looking for, and details such as the spacing of their grid searches. Because different conditions affect a dog's ability to detect odors, such as clay soil or bodies of water or extremely wet conditions, the wardens wanted to use multiple resources for each site. Therefore the plans called for each search site to be covered by both a dog and handler team and a search team.

As darkness fell on Friday afternoon and the lights came on, the wardens went back out onto the roads, checking and rechecking the loop from Brighton Avenue to Gorman's mother's house to the location of the traffic stop. They were on the road for five hours, checking out the lighting, visibility from the street, and the general appearance of the search sites at night, noting places that had appeared to be likely dumping spots during the day but were too brightly lit at night.

At nine that evening they finally checked in at their hotel. It was eleven before they had dinner. The National Weather Service was predicting snow for Saturday.

“Well, Tom, where are the hillbillies now?”

“They're all over, Joe. Some are in the gym, some are driving the route, and some are at the Sonesta.”

“The gym? Shit … just don't let them start any fires in there. Ya know, Tommy, I really like that Dorian guy. He's got clean, straight eyes and good humor, too. Guay, I like him, too. They are really sincere guys. This could work, ya know? How's Scott and Danny?”

“They're holding up. Running around like crazy getting ready.”

“I still can't believe that freakin' car stop. Thank God!”

I see Sergeant Coffin in the bay. He looks whipped but, as usual, keeps his humor and tells us a joke. “Hey, mister …” His favorite phrase. “… there's these two guys in heaven …”

I go back to my office and call Diane one last time about the plans for tomorrow. I'm planning a press conference involving her in another public appeal for help on Saturday morning before we start this massive operation.

It's Friday night. 1915. Another long day. Tommy comes in and shows me the ops plan. It's huge.

Some of our detectives are pissed because we're dragging them in at 0700 on a Saturday. I've heard the mutterings. “Fuckin' Danny. This is crazy,” one detective blurts out as he passes my office.

I'm not in the mood for it. “Just shut up and be there, crybaby!”

“It's like looking for a needle in a haystack,” he continues.

“Just be there, Clownie. We've found needles in haystacks by the way … way before you were a frigging big detective.”

Sergeant Coffin comes by the office. He's been pushing it hard and is red-eyed. “Hey, Bruce,” I say, “I checked ops and you're not on it. What's up?”

“I'm beat. I need a day away from this. I made plans with my wife.” I tell him it's no problem.

Tommy's excited and tells Bruce we're going to find her. Bruce says, “Yeah, like the needle in the haystack.” Tommy and I go over the finals. I order a pizza for everyone and then head home, whipped. Danny and the others are still out there.

In bed at midnight, I stare at the ceiling. Please, God. Please, Amy, let us find you. Show us … I finally fall asleep with the light still on. At 0230 the phone rings. I jump up, my heart pounding, and mutter a garbled “Hello?”

“Ho, ho, ho, it's Bob O.” Lieutenant Bob Ridge, the John Wayne incarnate of the Portland PD.

“What's going on?”

“Listen, you up with me?” Words I hear all the time in the dark. “Joe, we had another stabbing. Asian male victim up at the hospital, bad guy is another Asian. We got him upstairs and he's 46 [arrested]. The wounds are deep but not life threatening. He's gonna make it. Look, we got drunks and shitheads all over to interview and the crime scene locked up good although it's on Wharf Street outside. We need CID …”

I mutter the usual expletives. “We've got that search tomorrow, Bob. I'm down on people. Alright. I'll get some guys rolling.” As if we had a choice and could say, “String up some crime scene tape and we'll come do it on Monday.”

I call Tommy, like always. His wife, Alison, moans, “Oh, no.” I tell him we got a stabbing. “Christ,” he says, “you gotta be shittin' me.”

After the calls I'm awake, staring at the clock, watching the numbers tumble and click. Tumble and click. Eventually, I sleep awhile. At 0530, coffee going, I jump in the shower, pushing the sand from my eyes. Dressing for a press conference. Dressing for outdoors. It's another weekend with no weekend. This better work today. We've started catching breaks now and this is the big break everyone needs. Please, let us bring Amy home.

O
n Saturday, December 8, over a hundred people, including the wardens' Overhead Team, state and Portland police detectives, wardens, and about forty-five MASAR volunteers from units throughout the state, some of whom had slept Friday night in the gym at the Portland police station, assembled at a state Department of Transportation depot and state police headquarters off the Maine Turnpike just south of Portland known as Crosby Farm.

It's 0630. Crosby Farm is swarming with police cars and other vehicles. It's a brisk morning. Nice sky but cloudy. Snow's predicted for later. A big smile from Lieutenant Dorian lifts my spirits. We've got a lot riding on this, but so does he. This is his baby. I go up to the command post and situation room on the second floor. These guys are organized and it's an elaborate operation. The computer search program is set up and one of the wardens is explaining how it will coordinate the areas and maps.

Through the window, I see people gathering. News teams are starting to show up. Tom, Matt, Scott, Danny, Dorian, Guay, and others cram into the room to go over the plan. Everyone is focused, hopeful, as Dorian goes over the procedures. Matt looks weary and, as always, serious.

“Hey, Sarge.” I slap his back. “We're gonna do it today. Let's get ready for the news.” Diane and her good friend Lucille are climbing out of cars. Lucille has been such a supportive friend. Diane looks tired and painfully sad. It's so hard for her to keep going through this, but she's incredible, the way she holds up. We bring them inside and offer coffee and bagels. And yeah, there are donuts, too.

The news crews are waiting. Sergeant Stewart, Lieutenant Dorian, Diane, and I stand before the cameras in a final appeal to the public to help us find Amy. It's cold, and I start off nervous, so much to remember. Always a tightrope to walk with the media. Trying to ensure I include everyone and not compromise the operation.

“Today we are conducting a massive ground search with PPD, MSP, warden service, and MASAR in the hopes of finding Amy St. Laurent. There is an air wing up along with a helicopter thanks to Mr. Sam Hamill of TCI Aircraft.” We've scripted this, I know it, but it sounds stilted. I continue, trying to stave off the incoming inquiry. “Based on our studies, we believe Amy could be in an area we have triangulated with the help of the warden service. We are not discussing any criteria concerning the selection of the sites and one should not conclude that these are the only sites.”

Each time I pause, I see their mouths get ready to jump. “In addition, we have up to ten K9 dogs helping in this intensive effort to find Amy.”

I turn it over to Diane. She pleads for any help or information. Her voice strong but cracking at times from emotion. She has such grace. Such dignity. We all want, more than anything, to ease some of her pain by finding her daughter. Amy has been gone for seven weeks.

Sergeant Stewart's speech is clear and succinct. Finally, Lieutenant Dorian steps up to explain the wardens' perspective. I close with a final appeal for help and information about Amy. The questions flood us.

“Are you looking for a body?”

“Is this guy who said he dropped her off connected to the search?”

“Should the public be looking for a car or some item?”

We field the questions carefully. Finally, the reporters, cameras, and crew break away and pan the search groups as they move into a giant maintenance shed for briefing and assignments.

Thorpe and Dumas catch my eye and roll theirs like this is crazy. I close my eyes a moment and pray.

Cops, wardens, and SAR teams were packed into a big DOT garage as the wardens' Overhead Team told them what they should be looking for. Searchers were given the information about Gorman's borrowing a shovel and alerted to the possibility that Amy might be buried. They were given copies of the flyer with Amy's picture, her description, and a description of what she was wearing the night she disappeared.

Searchers were instructed to keep their eyes open, look for clues, and ask questions. The wardens reminded them that anything could be valuable information. Bent twigs. Scraped tree trunks. A thread. A scrap of paper. Disturbed dirt or vegetation. Dirt mounded up or dirt caved in. Shovel marks. Piled brush that didn't look natural.

As they went through the briefing, Sergeant Joyce remembered thinking, “Everyone else is home with their families today and we're going to be out in the cold tromping through the woods.”

Getting things set up and ready to roll, the situation was best described as “controlled chaos,” something all the players—detectives, wardens, and SAR teams—were familiar and comfortable with. It's amazing how emergency workers come together quickly when they need to. It was a massive operation, about which Sergeant Stewart noted, “Normally, you have to pull hairs to get resources, but not this time. It really came together.”

Each team included state or Portland police and a warden, as well as the MASAR volunteers. Each team got a map, a detailed set of instructions for its search area, and a GPS device so that the teams could start and end the searches at established points and the Overhead Team could maintain a computer record of the areas searched. Things settled down as the teams rolled out the door to start their first round of searches.

Overhead, “Airwolf”—Sam Hamill—was up in his helicopter. With him were Portland detectives Mark Teceno and Don Krier, who would be conducting their own search from above.

Despite his optimism—and he had mentally assigned a 40 percent or better chance that they'd find Amy that day—Kevin Adam recognized that the information about Gorman's borrowing the shovel would make things harder. The grousing Portland detectives were right—it would not be like finding a needle in a haystack, but like finding a needle in a buried haystack. On his personal timeline, he thought that if they didn't find her by eleven, he'd start to worry.

To prevent information from leaking out to media monitoring the airwaves, the police and the wardens had chosen to use the phrase, “Code Blue” if a body was located.

Scott Harakles began every day with a prayer. He never asked God for help, because he believed God helps those who help themselves. But on this day, he got down on his knees and asked God for help in finding Amy. When he and Danny Young met up, Scott told Danny, “We're going to find her today.” Danny Young responded, “Yes, I know,” and even gave Scott a time. He told Scott he felt really good about the prospects. Very optimistic. They had so much help with the search, and all the areas they were searching were associated with Gorman.

Young and Harakles didn't join a search team but traveled together in a car, staying mobile and on call in case a body or associated evidence was found. Since they had the time, they asked each other, Okay, so where have you always wanted to look? Unable to stay still, they were independently searching the woods between the Westbrook arterial highway and the Bill Dodge auto dealership, which Gorman was familiar with because of his employment at Bill Dodge.

Since getting the case, the two primaries had been working steadily, days, nights, and even weekends. But it was the holiday season. Young had made plans with his wife for the next day, Sunday, and was looking forward to finally having a day off.

Throughout the morning, as the search teams worked through the sites on their maps, the dogs repeatedly hit on things. Each time, the search would halt to determine if the discovery was significant. The airwaves sang with reports that turned out to be false alarms. Dead animals. Bad smells. A floating tarp. Bones. Deer parts. All had to be taken seriously. Like an erratic EKG, the mood was episodic excitement followed by depression or downright hopelessness.

In the midst of the morning searches, the wardens discovered there had been a glitch in the morning's dog search of the area surrounding some small ponds on a narrow tote road off Route 22 not far from Gorman's mother's house. The wardens determined to send both a search group and some dogs back into that area as soon as a team became available.

After the teams went out, Diane and Lucille visited the wardens in their command center. Diane was asking questions about the techniques of the search and the mapping technology the wardens were using to track the search results. Pinned up on the wall was a large map of the search area, with significant sites such as Gorman's mother's house and the site of the 3:14 a.m. traffic stop prominently marked.

Lucille studied the map and asked about the significance of the Westbrook traffic-stop site. Knowing that the police were keeping this information secret, the wardens invented an explanation. Unsatisfied and still suspicious, she asked Lieutenant Loughlin about the mark on the map as well. But no one was ready to reveal this valuable piece of information. It was a card the police wanted to hold close to their chests.

It was well past the 11:00 a.m. deadline Kevin Adam had mentally assigned. They had had a series of false alarms. It was cold, and it was hard to keep the teams' spirits up as they finished the lunch the Salvation Army food truck had provided and set out for their afternoon's assignments. It was also hard to balance the necessity of executing each search in a slow and methodical way with the sense of urgency imposed by the threat of approaching snow.

At approximately 1:00 p.m., a search team led by Warden Justin Fowlie and including Portland detective Gary Thorpe and members of the Mahoosic Mountain SAR team arrived to begin their search of an old, grown-up road extending approximately two hundred yards off Route 22. The road had been used to obtain the gravel needed to build I-295. Its surface was crumbling tar, and the road and surrounding woods were choked with trash, brush, and debris people had dumped there.

The road was bordered with scrub trees, thin birches, and small pines. At the end of the road, trails led off into the brush and circled around four small black ponds. It was an area popular with local hunters and fishermen. At its end, facing the road and peering through the trees like a lurking monster, was the carcass of a large abandoned truck. Scattered around it were the large white wooden forms contractors used for pouring foundations.

The Mahoosic team had come into the operation in a skeptical frame of mind, feeling that searching for a body wasn't part of their work. It wasn't what they were trained to do—the Mahoosic Mountain SAR always looked for live people. But inspired by Lieutenant Pat Dorian's enthusiasm and certainty that it would be a good thing to use their expertise to assist state and Portland police, they had joined the effort. They knew that everybody was looking for signs of a crime scene or a dumped, decomposing body, possibly hidden by brush or leaves. In the morning, they had also been instructed that there might be a grave.

Their team had already been out in the December cold for several hours. Now they gathered again to get their instructions for this site. Mindful of their instructions, their breath forming clouds in piercingly damp air that increasingly held the promise of snow, the searchers spread out in a line from the edge of Route 22 at approximately seven-foot intervals and began their slow, deliberate march along the left side of the old tote road through the tangle of underbrush and young trees. They were all aware that this afternoon's search would probably be the last chance to look for Amy St. Laurent until spring.

The team reached the end of the road, moved farther left, and made their way back out to Route 22. They then switched to the right side of the road. Slowly and deliberately, paying close attention to the woods around them and the ground beneath their feet, they paced their way from Route 22 back toward the ponds. At 1:30, just about twenty-five yards from the end of the road, they entered an area that alternated between open ground and pasture pines, pine trees with low branches that had spread widely at the bottom.

As he bent to go under a large branch, Landon Fake, an administrator with the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School, noticed that the soil just in front of him looked slightly depressed. Pine needles were scattered over ground that appeared to have been disturbed. He stopped, announced that he had found something, and knelt to examine the ground. When he looked more closely, he could see that one of the live branches of the pine tree was buried in the ground. It immediately made him stop and think, “Someone has been digging here recently.”

Fake's announcement immediately stopped the line. Everyone came over, looked, and agreed that he had found something. Closer examination revealed shovel marks and an area of disturbed ground approximately six to seven feet in diameter. The disturbed ground was topped by sod that had been cut into pieces at one time. Brown pine needles had been sprinkled over the dirt to mask the signs of digging.

Portland detective Gary Thorpe, who was with the search team, acknowledged that he wasn't an expert on outdoor crime scenes. “Put me in any building, any room at a crime scene,” he'd say, “and I know what's going on. Out here, I don't know a lot. But when I looked at what Fake was pointing out, even I knew that was wrong.” Thorpe looked at live green pine needles buried in the earth and thought, “Oh, yeah, you're gonna hear a Code Blue on this one!”

Thorpe called on his radio for dogs to search the area. A call was also made to Detectives Young and Harakles, summoning them to the site. When he got the call, Young told himself, “This is it!”

The Mahoosic Mountain SAR team was immediately moved out and sent to another site. As Landon Fake said, “They couldn't get us out of there fast enough … in two minutes, we were gone.” Out at the road, waiting to leave, they saw cars of senior police personnel arrive, along with the dog truck.

Warden Burnell and two volunteers brought in their dogs. The first dog didn't react well. The second dog reacted hard and began to dig. Warden Jacobs was called to bring in his dog. His dog also reacted and began to dig. At around 2:30, the wardens called warden Sergeant Roger Guay and his dog, Reba, to the site. Reba first focused on an area under some pine trees and then on the area of disturbed earth Fake had discovered.