Big Trees Will Fall

By Robert Conlin

Lenny Quirk claims his brother was murdered over 25 years ago to bury a story that threatened Maine's power elite. Now he's naming names for the whole world to hear, and a disillusioned reporter battling his own demons can't resist digging deeper.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Conlin
• Release date: Sep 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393737117

Book preview

I’d probably never be on this bus as it lumbered down a Massachusetts highway in the dark of night if Eli hadn’t shown up out of the blue at my house one snowy afternoon in January with his homegrown weed and a bottle of coffee brandy.

His visit was tailor made for me to forget about the half-written articles scattered over my desk and the piles of bills jammed into the dented oatmeal can. Or the way the wind lifted the shades in the living room and the snow piled up against the loose single pane windows, leaving mini drifts on the inside sill.

After Eli stumbled back out into the darkness and fishtailed his truck down the road through the snow, I don’t remember much, but I do remember wrapping myself in a blanket, flicking on the TV and scrolling through the YouTube channel. I’m guessing I went right by the clips of the latest President Trump fiasco, the 10 celebrity mugshots you can’t miss, and the python swallowing a deer whole. A menu of modern day images neatly arrayed in little square frames for mindless consumption.

For some reason, my addled brain and blurry eyes locked on to one particular frame. In it was a middle-aged guy with a gray goatee and glasses, his mouth frozen open in mid sentence. He looked like a schoolteacher, with his button down dress shirt and sweater vest. I inexplicably clicked on it. There are hundreds of millions of videos on YouTube at any given time. Why his? I really don’t know.

Through the booze and pot haze I heard his voice. There was something in the cadence and the tone that made me prop myself up on the couch and squint to focus on the screen. It was so earnest, that’s really what grabbed me. I remember hearing some desperation in his voice too. He was clearly a man with something on his mind. 

He was sitting in front of his computer on Skype, answering questions from a woman with a tinny, faraway voice. He leaned in when she asked a question, creating a fisheye effect, his eyes comically bulging behind the glasses, which he kept reflexively pushing up his nose. I remember thinking he needed his glasses adjusted.

I eventually keyed in to what he was saying. And I felt the dormant newspaper reporter in me reacting.

He was saying, ‘I have nothing to lose. I want answers. I want to know what happened to my brother and I’ll turn over every rock to find out. I’ll say just what my brother was told by the FBI before he disappeared - big trees will fall.’

Not verbatim, but that’s the gist. Except for  ‘big trees will fall.’ He said that word for word. And he mentioned the ‘deep state’ a lot. And how Balfour, Maine was a controlled military corridor. He used that exact phrase too, ‘a controlled military corridor.’

Then he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up on his nose again and said, ‘Randall discovered too much. They needed to keep him quiet. Senator Chandler especially. Randall was going to deliver a video tape of him abusing children to the Maine Attorney General the day he disappeared. They couldn’t have that come out. Chandler was Maine’s golden boy.’

I recall bolting upright. Then I hit the back button and played it again. He’s alleging that Senator Chandler is a child molester? Years after he left public office, Senator Chandler is still Maine’s pride and joy. That much was indisputable. But a pedophile?

Had he been on ‘60 Minutes’, the interviewer would have stopped him right there and asked for some supporting facts. But he wasn’t, and the Internet podcast host let him ramble on without interruption about money laundering, the CIA, offshore bank accounts, compromised law enforcement and much more.

I grabbed a sheet of paper and took notes out of habit. My house was plastered with sticky notes and color-coded notebooks and scraps of paper with labored handwriting. Poems, songs, comedy sketches - frenzied bursts of creativity that trailed off to nothing in barely decipherable scribble. 

The next day, struggling to climb out of another hangover, I saw the notes and recalled the video with surprising clarity. Later that evening I watched it again. After I shut the TV off, I sat in the dark and played it over in my mind.

Right then and there, I decided I needed to know how the story would turn out. It was a decision that was more conclusive than any I had made in a long time. In retrospect, I was self-medicating by prescribing shock therapy. At the time, it felt like a higher calling.

That’s why I’m sitting on this bus in the dark on my way to South Carolina to meet Lenny Quirk and hear in person what he thinks happened to his brother Randall. In retrospect, we were destined to meet. He has a story he’s desperate to tell, and I need a story to cling to like a life raft.

The snow is melted now and the basement has thawed. But the bills have multiplied and the oatmeal can is stuffed full. And the half-written articles are stacked behind the computer on my desk, their edges starting to curl. Did I mention the computer freezes up and needs to be rebooted every half hour or so?

I am the captain of a vessel sailing in a relentless shit storm and I’m headed south, quite possibly into another one. 

{*}

Martin LaBrecque sat at the kitchen table sipping his coffee and watching dawn break over the picket line of trees that edged the field out back. The sky was rose-colored and the first rays of sun lit up the drops of dew on the long grass in the field.

He watched the chickadees and finches darting to the bird feeder at the base of the porch stairs. He could - and had in the past -  watch this for hours. Not today though. He had a pile of reports to look through and an early morning meeting with the chief.

By the time he made the 35-minute drive into Balfour, the sun had climbed higher and the sky had turned a cobalt blue. It looked to be a perfect late spring day. After the long winter and damp, raw spring that had let the tar-colored snow banks linger far too long, it felt like paradise.

He drove down Commonwealth Street past the stately Victorian homes and their gothic gargoyles, turrets, and black wrought iron fences.

Seated on the wide Penobscot River on the southern reach of a forest that stretched hundreds of miles north and west to the Canadian border, Balfour had been the hub of a booming lumber industry well into the 20th century. The lumber barons had built these mansions on the hills that overlooked the river and the growing city below.

The neighborhood was still coveted, with houses freshly painted and upgraded, owned now by a new generation of barons - the financial and healthcare executives and the lawyers. Especially the lawyers. For a city of 30,000, Balfour had more lawyers per capita than any place in the United States.

As a ranking officer in the Balfour Police Department, LaBrecque had frequent encounters with them. Balfour was, after all, a small city. You couldn’t throw a rock in any direction and not hit a lawyer. He had considered putting that theory to the test more than once and the thought made him smile.

He pulled his Chevy Silverado into the police station lot and was sipping his coffee and listening to a wrap up of the Red Sox loss to the Indians the night before when his phone buzzed with a text message.

Call Don Clemons, it said. ASAP.

LaBrecque glanced through his passenger window at the looming white facade of the Josiah R. Baxter Federal Building across the street. Locals referred to it as the white elephant. Aptly named. A small city with a huge federal building.

He craned his head and looked up at the fourth floor. He wouldn’t be surprised if Clemons was watching him out the window.

He seemed like a guy who would. A tightly coiled control freak. Probably been peering through windows since he was a toddler, watching to catch his parents doing something subversive. And then his neighbors and fellow students. Doing that all his life until he had an important job with a fourth floor office and windows that looked down over a small city full of wrongdoers.

He was considering whether he would wait to call Clemons from his office. He would rather talk to him from his office with his feet up on his gun metal gray desk than in the front seat of his truck. His phone rang. Too late.

Lt. LaBrecque. AUSA Clemons here.

Yes, Mr. Clemons. He wasn’t big on acronyms, unlike most of the feds he knew.

ASAP means now, in case you’re wondering, Clemons said in his federal prosecutor tone. He continued before LaBrecque could think of a response.

Are you aware that there is some current spillover involving the accountant that needs to be tracked?

LaBrecque was looking in the mirror then and could see himself flinch. No, I hadn’t heard anything.

Good. Because you’re only supposed to hear it from me. Why don’t you step out of that blue Silverado of yours and come on up for a chat.

The SOB was looking out the window. He hung up and stepped out of the truck. His beautiful spring day was over almost before it started.

{*}

It used to be that Lenny Quirk barely heard the freight trains running the track that spliced through Beauchamp about a mile west of his property. After living here for eight years, their sound became part of the landscape, as ubiquitous as barking dogs and the droning of cicadas.

But lately the trains woke him up at night and interrupted his thoughts like a carnival barker during the day. Even when he was talking, he would stop mid-sentence when he heard the steel clacking on the rails in the distance. He tried to figure out why and mentioned it to his wife Jane. She looked at him quizzically and asked if he wanted to talk to a therapist.

That would be money wasted and money was tight. He was a Mainer, the son of a potato farmer from Aroostook County. In his family, therapists were held in the same regard as government crop inspectors and radical feminists. Jane used to feel the same way, but her opinion on a lot of things had changed since they moved south.

He believed the trains had something to do with Randall’s long absence. Something symbolic. It felt as if Randall was stirring in his grave, pleading for him to deliver justice.

It was all he could think about now. Ever since the new president was elected in November. That divinely ordained event had broken the dam that kept Randall’s memory stored away in a deep reservoir of pain and anger and profound loss. Finally, a president who would defy the deep state and answer his brother’s silent plea.

So here he stood in the driveway of his little ranch, trying without

success to block out the noise of the train as he spoke on the phone to Jimmy Keefe.

Sorry, Mr. Keefe. The train’s going by. Just give me a second. He lowered the phone to his side and kicked at a stone embedded in the dirt. The train whistle called out again. It must be crossing the intersection at Bundy and Rt. 116. Finally, the sound receded.

Sorry again. The train is really loud here..

He nodded his head as the other man spoke at length.

Sure, I’ll call you Jimmy. OK. I’ll be at the bus station in Charleston at 6:00 tomorrow morning to get you. It’s not a problem. I’m an early riser.

When he went back in the house Jane was clearing the plates off the kitchen table. She wiped her hands on a towel and turned and looked at him as he came into the room.

Who was that, hon?

Lenny reached for his coffee cup on the counter.

That was Jimmy Keefe from Maine. The guy I told you about. He’s coming tomorrow morning.

She looked at him a split second longer than usual before she spoke. At least he thought she did. She had the towel clenched in her hands and she was twisting it slowly into a braid.

You’re not going to beat me with that are you? he asked.

She looked down and absently released the towel. When she looked back up, he could see the concern etched on her face. Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed. He felt a pang of guilt. He knew this was hard for her.

I’m worried. You know that, her voice rising in emphasis. What do you know about this Jimmy. Keefe? He’s not even a native Mainer. He doesn’t work for any real newspaper or anything. How do you know he’s not an FBI agent?

Good question, he thought. I don’t really know one hundred percent for sure.

I just know, honey. I talked to John Skinner and he did a background check for me. The guy is not law enforcement. He’s worked for newspapers and the like for a long time. Not recently, but I guess he suffered some personal setbacks. If I had any doubts I wouldn’t have agreed to see him.

She approached him and tenderly ran her hand through his hair. Just be careful. You know I’m worried. I have every right to be you know.

Lenny blinked back tears he felt welling in his eyes. After 35 years of marriage and job losses and financial struggles and always, always with the shadow of his brother’s disappearance at the edge of their existence, she stood by him.

He reached up, clasped her hand on the top of his head and locked his fingers in hers. I know you do. I know this is hard, I do. But I have to try. You know that.

She looked up at him. Her blue eyes searched his face. When she drew away, he saw her consciously blink back her concern, like pulling a chain to switch off a lamp. She had that ability. He had always marvelled that she could do that. He wished he could. He dwelled on things. His lamp always stayed on. It might dim, but it stayed on.

``

{*}

Ihadn’t seen Frank Judge in a few years, but when I stepped off the bus there he was, hardly changed. He was leaning against the wall of the station with his phone to his ear. He gave me a nod and a small smile as I approached. As I got closer, I saw the years. He was older version of himself. He had added a goatee. Who hadn’t besides me? He was a little wider. Who wasn’t? Still wore a scally cap. It looked like the same one he was wearing when I last saw him. That was years ago in a hotel meeting room in Jacksonville Beach, Florida for the reunion of the USS Talbot.

He lowered his phone.

Well, look who’s here. How the fuck are ya, Jimmy?

I had three hours until my bus left for Charleston. Frank suggested we go to a diner down the road. We were soon wedged in bumper to bumper Rt. 1 traffic. It took us  15 minutes to travel that mile. Sitting at the table looking out the grimy window, I found myself counting my blessings that I lived in Maine. 

Is the traffic like this every day?

He nodded. Yup, pretty much all day too.

The Garden State. What do they grow here?

Outside, the drivers were exchanging pleasantries with their horns. Frank scratched himself under the chin and chuckled. Attitude. By the bushel.

While we crawled down the road, we had swapped niceties and caught up on current events. We concluded that we had both soured markedly on our view of fellow humans. Not surprisingly, we both had recently endured bitter divorces.  We agreed that mine was the more bitter of the two. I told him I needed to beat him at something.

Now it was time to get down to brass tacks. 

First of all Jimmy, this is a fucking mystery wrapped in a puzzle. No wonder it got your attention. The question is, are you prepared for what may come if - and that’s still a big if - the brother’s allegations are on the mark? Cause you gotta know there will be a lot of static for anyone digging around in this.

I was devouring my scrambled eggs and sausage with hash browns and took a few seconds to swallow.

Do you think the allegations are on the mark? What’s your gut instinct?

He looked out the window. Through his thin goatee I saw a raised diagonal scar on his chin that ran to the edge of his bottom lip. I never noticed that before.

For one thing, for all this talk about an incriminating tape, no one can claim that they saw or heard one.

True. What about the rest? Quirk’s disappearance. The bogus indictment, smear campaign. Does it look like a law enforcement cover up to you?

He looked away from the window and back at me.

Put it this way, if it’s not that, Quirk is the stupidest self-made millionaire on earth.

Pretend you’re making a bet. What are the odds, I asked.

Frank’s eyes narrowed a little.

I’m not a gambler Jimmy. I like to keep what I earn. He adjusted his cap. A better question is whether you are prepared to look into this and maybe end up like Randall Quirk.

Normally I would bat a question like that away with a flippant answer. Just reflex, I guess. Great way not to have to think too hard about important things - like living or dying, for example. But old dogs can learn new tricks.

Well no, Frank, I’m not. That’s the main reason why I called you.

He looked at me long and hard. This was the Frank I saw a few times on the ship many years ago. This was the Frank who our shipmates agreed was best to sometimes tiptoe around. This was the Frank who had a career in national security. No one knew which branch. None of us could remember how we learned that exactly. We just did. He never talked about it and deflected any questions related to it. So we stopped asking.

He was loyal to his friends in a pinch. Came from Greece to attend their friend Joe’s kid’s funeral many years ago. Lent money when asked and never mentioned it again. Great guy, quick wit, loved to joke and drink beer.

Then he wasn’t. No telling what caused the change, but his eyes would get stone cold and very still. It was like looking at a mineral that had been fused and compressed by the earth’s core. That’s what I saw as I looked across the table at him. 

Then I wavered and looked down at the piece of rye toast slathered with a puddle of congealed margarine. It’s no mystery why I’m here, I thought. I need Frank. Unlike me, he’s equipped to deal with this. 

He took a napkin from the dispenser on the beat up linoleum table and reached for a pen in his shirt pocket. Then he drew a series of circles inside of each other.

For once I don’t think you’re joking, he said, allowing himself a small smile. If this pans out to be even half of what the brother says it is, then this is you, he said, jabbing his pen into the bullseye. This is no fucking joke. This is not a good place to be, right in the middle of this circle. Because if you get that hornet’s nest stirred up, you are the target. Right now, you’re a very easy target. You’re a clay pigeon at a shooting range.

He paused, looking up from his drawing, and fixed his eyes on me.

You better be sure this is what you want, because your quiet life up in the sticks in Maine will be over. No more playing reporter, drinking and smoking pot and singing Kumbaya around the fire, Jimmy. This shit is real. And the hornets will not care that you have a bunch of kids who love their dad and vice versa.

There it was. Frank had boiled this down in just minutes to the true essence of the conflict that had plagued me since I started looking into Quirk’s disappearance.  Simply put, I wanted to know what happened to Randall Quirk, but I didn’t want to leave my kids without a father. I pushed my eggs around and realized I was on my way to Charleston to talk to his brother, but I still hadn’t fully committed.

Frank kept looking at me. He was forcing me to make a decision. Right now, right here in this scab of a diner off this grimy, godforsaken highway in a state whose official flag emblem should be an extended middle finger.

I glanced at the waitress wiping the counter. Her name tag said Melanie. She was a good looking redhead in her mid 40’s probably. A lock of her hair slipped out of her ponytail and brushed against her face. She blew it aside out of the corner of her mouth and kept vigorously swiping the counter.

I wanted to tell Frank to stop pressuring me. This felt like a hasty referendum on the life I was living.

But I knew he was right.  You can’t keep putting off hard decisions in life. You can’t smoke and drink your way through round after round of manic plans scribbled out on post-it notes, followed by total inertia and deep depression. Then rinse and repeat. That’s a slow death. It’s now or never.

Melanie turned and headed towards the kitchen. I looked back at Frank and said, Teach me what I need to know Frank. I’m ready.

Frank spent the rest of the time giving me instructions on how to arrange meeting Lenny Quirk and what to watch for when we did meet. He gave me a burner phone and a number to contact him for more instructions.

Remember this Jimmy,’ he said as he dropped me back at the station. This ain’t Hollywood and you’re not Bruce Willis. If you want to live to see sixty you need to pay attention at all times. No exceptions. We’re shipmates, but I will walk away if I think you’re not taking this seriously. No booze, no pot. You’re in AA."

I nodded. Then I got on the bus to Charleston, via Baltimore.

{*}

After I had settled back into my seat, grateful that the one next to me was empty for now, I cracked a bottle of water. Complementary, along with the coffee, pretzels and granola bars. It occured to me that you got more free food and beverages with a $119 round-trip bus ticket than you did with a $700 one-way plane ticket.

I liked bus rides. And train rides. I liked knowing you had long stretches of time ahead to read, sleep, look out the window. I even liked some of the conversations you could strike up with complete strangers. Truth be told, it’s been many years since I did that. 

Frank was right, of course. I needed to be vigilant at all times.  He was hypervigilant because he was trained to be. I’ve spent the last few years mired in my own thoughts, oblivious to the world around me. It would take lots of practice to develop that frame of mind.

I opened my travel bag and took out the file on Quirk’s disappearance. I had started a crude flow chart to track the developments over the years and planned on putting it into a spreadsheet on my laptop. I’m as proficient with a computer as a goat is playing a banjo, so it was slow going.

When the bus pulled into Baltimore I was asleep. This is what I had typed into the laptop:

●  December, 1988 -  Balfour accountant Randall Quirk is hired by the Orono Indian Nation to conduct a forensic audit of its accounts to determine where a significant chunk of the $50 million it was awarded in the 1982 Native Maine Land Settlement Act with the federal government had gone.

●  September 16, 1992 - Randall scheduled to meet with Maine Attorney General Dick Plummer in the late afternoon in Augusta. He is bringing boxes of evidence to support his conclusion that some prominent people in Maine are engaged in illegal activities involving the missing Orono money.

●  AG Plummer has arranged with Maine State Police Lt. Brian McCarthy to meet Quirk and escort him to Augusta. McCarthy claims that Quirk didn’t show up at the meeting site. In a later probate court hearing, McCarthy refuses to answer questions about that meeting and his knowledge of Quirk’s whereabouts, citing his 5th Amendment rights.

●  Randall Quirk spends the night of September 15 at his motel in Balfour. His brother Lenny shares a room with him. He says that Randall slept with a loaded .357 Magnum revolver and a shotgun. By this time, Randall is saying to anyone who will listen that his house has been broken into and his phones tapped. He has sent his wife and kids to live with relatives in Ohio because he fears for their safety.

The bus swung into the gleaming new station in downtown Baltimore. I had two hours to kill until the next bus left for Charleston. It had been a long time since I