The Brahmin Girl

By John Picciano

THE BRAHMIN GIRL

This is a fictional story of the brutal murders of two women, spanning a forty-five-year period: Libby Browne, a 17-year-old savant, murdered in the remote forests of Maine in 1965 and Darcy Farrell, an FBI agent, shot to death in the tidewater reaches of the Chesapeake Bay in 2010. It is told in the first-person narrative voices of three individual characters: Carrabassett Police Chief Tom Bradley; then graduate Northeastern criminology student Darcy Farrell; and retired FBI agent Lyle Beckwith.

While engaged in a summer intern program in Carrabassett, Maine, in 1985, Farrell breaks open and solves the twenty-year-old cold case murder of Libby Browne. Twenty-five years later, Beckwith becomes consumed with finding and avenging the 2010 murder of his then wife Darcy, focusing on a shortlist of prime suspects, all of whom are his former crime subjects, identified by the FBI's psychological profile team.

Grieving and emotionally distraught, he identifies and pursues the killer on his own rogue, clandestine initiative, rejecting help from the FBI.

This compelling and suspense-driven novel was honored as a finalist in the 2022 Page Turner Book Awards in London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889604648

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Brahmin Girl

John Picciano

Copyright © 2023 John Picciano

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-459-4 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-464-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Easton Maryland

Forty-Eight Hours Earlier

A Table by the Water, Please

The Intern

Carrabasset, Maine. November 1965

An Auspicious Beginning

Keep Moving

What's in a Name?

Prince of Hearts

What's Up, Doc?

Here Comes the Judge

A Failure to Communicate

A Second Postmortem

Sequalae of an Unsolved Murder

Easton, Maryland 2010

Carrabasset, Maine May 1985

Just a Few Ground Rules

Let the Games Begin

The First Shot Fired

Just a Few Poignant Questions

Set My Soul Free

The Break

Archives

Better Late than Never

The Heart of the Matter

The Final Act of Atonement

Reckoning Day

The Dust Finally Settles

Easton Maryland May 2010

University of Maryland Hospital

The Funeral

Back to Work

Just Like the Old Days

Baiting the Trap

The Best-Laid Plans of Mice and Men

What the Hell Was That?

The Last Sail

Now What?

About the Author

Easton Maryland

May 2010

I eased back on the throttle, gently snuggled my nimble Chesapeake Bay dead rise up to the long wooden dock, and turned off the inboard engine. In the still and sacred seconds of silence that followed, I stood at the wheel…motionless. I closed my eyes and expanded my lungs, filling them with the sweet primordial scents of the marsh. A wide smile crept over my flushed face.

It had been a scorching-hot, breathless day out on the water. I was bone-tired, dehydrated. I climbed up onto the dock, tied off the stern line, and turned on the garden hose to wash away the massive amounts of blood that had been spilled over the aft deck, transom, and gunwale. As I methodically waved the water nozzle from side to side, I paused, crimped the hose, leaned over, and drank deeply of the cold spring water. I straightened up and looked out toward the western horizon…now aglow with the luminous pastel paints of an early dusk sky. The sun was just beginning its slow ceremonial plunge into the glassy shimmering surface of the Chesapeake Bay. And despite the horrific events of the last few hours, I was filled with an abiding sense of calm and peace. It was one of those rare cosmic moments when all creation suddenly slips comfortably into its proper and preordained place in time…and the way it was all meant to be.

In an instant, the spell was shattered by the irritating presence of someone who seemed out of place…an unwelcome interloper into my safe nirvana. I glanced over my left shoulder and saw him. Agent John Prichard stood, solemn faced, at the far end of the dock…frowning…eyes fixed on my every movement…waiting for me to tie up. He walked toward me slowly…hands behind his back. I stepped back down aboard the boat, casually tossed him my bowline, and watched him loop it around the dock cleat.

Finally, he smiled. He pointed to the blood on the boat transom. Quite a bloody mess you got there, partner. Out fishing again? What'd you catch, a shark?

I quickly jumped back up onto the dock and fumbled with the tangled hose. Nope. Nothing today…struck out.

John laughed. That's not like you, brother. I've never known you to get skunked out there on the bay.

My mind imagined a T-shirt John had given me years ago. It had read, At the sound of my name, fish tremble.

I smiled inwardly at the thought and said, Nope. Not a single strike. Guess I'm slipping in my old age.

Really? No fish? He pointed to the deck and asked, Then whose blood might that be… Yours?

I felt a rush of adrenaline surge up to my head and sputtered out the first inane thought that came into my brain. Oh…that? That's just your typical leftover mess from ladling out ground-up bunker bait from a chum pot. You've seen that before, John. Pretty common for bass fishing…this time of year.

John smiled. Yes, indeed I have. Although for striped bass…I usually chum the water with clam bellies, not fish guts.

Keep your wits about you, Lyle. He's good. Real good.

I furthered the charade. Yeah, I ran out of clam bait. Luckily, I ran into a school of bunker and snagged a few, I answered, with no hint of conviction. Didn't do me much good, though. A waste of time. It all turned out to be useless as tits on a bull.

John remained quiet as he continued to stare blankly down at the blood spread out across the aft deck. I hadn't realized how far it had splattered. It had even covered the seat cushions on the lazarette.

After an awkward silence, he finally looked up at me and said, Lyle, let me get right to the point of yet another surprise visit.

I managed a nervous laugh, relieved at the welcomed change of direction. Great idea. I was wondering why you drove all the way out here from DC…again. You were here just two short days ago. What's so urgent? I do still have a phone, you know.

He stared at me in silence, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I returned the smile. What's so funny? And exactly why are you out here so soon after your marathon interview session with me the other day? I don't get many visitors out here in the boonies, John. The neighbors will begin to talk.

Yeah, well…you might say I'm just following up.

Following up what? I gave you everything I have to give.

I have something to give you this time. I figured it required a personal face-to-face visit.

His smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared…fading into a dark visage. I asked, Why the ominous frown? What's going on?

Well, to quote the great Zen philosopher Forrest Gump…life really is like a box of chocolates, ain't it? Wouldn't you agree with that mystical appraisal of life, Agent Beckwith?

I studied his face for a long moment…trying to pick up the twisted trajectory of his words. Yeah, except with you I never know what kind of nut I'm going to get. So, move it along, and get to that point you just promised me, John, will ya?

Well…as they say in the movies…I have some good news…and I have some bad news.

Do I have first pick?

Sure… What's your pleasure?

Forty-Eight Hours Earlier

I had spent my customary quiet day alone out on the bay, fishing…but mostly ruminating on the mounting turmoil in my life. As I stepped off the boat, I looked to my left, drawn toward the sound of a distant diesel car engine. I noticed the glint of the sun's dying rays reflecting off the roof of an SUV. It was about a quarter mile away…moving quickly toward the shoreline and kicking up a long trail of red dust in its wake. When I first heard the perforated muffler coughing in the distance, I knew that my brief end-of-the-day interlude of peace had come crashing to another clanging abrupt finale.

Seconds later, as I started up the grassy slope toward my family's hundred-year-old white clapboard farmhouse, I saw a silver early-model Humvee parked about fifty yards from the end of the driveway. It was set back in the shade of a stand of ancient loblolly pines, about 150 yards from the dock. Two strangers in dark suits and sunglasses were standing at the driver's and front-passenger's doors, staring out toward the water and the marsh…and me.

The taller of the two was shielding his eyes from the sun with his right hand. As he started to walk briskly down the slope toward me, he called out, Hey, brother, is that you?

The gruff, twangy voice sounded vaguely familiar for a brief moment. But I reacted instinctively…loudly…with surprised annoyance. Stand where you are, mister! I shouted. Identify yourself now, please. Don't you take another step till I know who you are and what the hell you're doing here.

The man didn't respond. He just kept striding quickly toward me.

I shouted even louder, That's a half-mile private driveway you just trespassed, mister! Just who in the hell are you?

I reflexively went to my hip for my semiautomatic and remembered that I had spent almost the entire day out on the bay and had left it in the drawer next to the marine radio, down in the boat's cabin.

In that one brief moment, I felt both stupid and foolishly paranoid. A rush of adrenaline, trepidation, and anger climbed up through my body as my mind thrust forward the image of my wife lying facedown and spread-eagled in a running pool of blood…pouring out of the back of her head…spilling into the drive's parched bed of crushed oyster shell.

It had been five weeks to the day since my wife, Darcy, had been fatally shot by an intruder in that same dusty spot in the driveway, on this same kind of hot, humid day.

The tall man raised both his hands, slowed…but came even closer. Whoa there, Lyle. It's only me, buddy…John Pritchard. I'm sorry to drop in on you unexpectedly like this. Why the edgy greeting?

I recognized him as soon as he took off his sunglasses. John, what the hell are you doing out here?

Pritchard laughed. It's nice to see you too, Lyle.

Sorry, John…I didn't expect…

He stepped forward quickly and corralled me in a warm embrace. I'm so sorry, Lyle. I was out of the country when I got the news about Darcy. I would have been here for you at the funeral, but I found out too late. I was with our legat in London for a week of meetings. I had just gotten back home to Alexandria. I called you a couple of times and left messages.

I said, I know. That's all right, John. It's been a confusing and stressful couple of weeks around here. I feel like the world…and my life…have gone off their axes. Most of the guys came out from WFO. You know, to shore me up as best they could. I had no idea at the time…just how much I needed that first human wave of support.

Pritchard turned to the younger man with him, the second blue suit, and said, Lyle Beckwith, say hello to Agent Brian Petrocelli from the Annapolis office.

I smiled and extended my hand. Agent Petrocelli, you couldn't be sitting at the foot of a better, wiser teacher than this man. Observe, listen, and learn.

Thank you, sir. I agree. I've heard a lot of great things about you too, sir.

I frowned and shot a look at Pritchard. Dare I ask? Exactly what have you been telling him about me?

Pritchard answered, As much as I can. This one has all the markings of a great agent, Lyle. He even kinda reminds me of you a little, at your age. Great intuitive skills.

I turned and stared at John for a few long seconds. So, what's it been? Three years or so?

Yep. That's about right. At the retired agents' reunion in St. Augustine. How are you holding up, brother?

John and I had first met as rookie FBI agents in my second field-office assignment and his first, in the Washington field office. We had worked together again some years later in Baltimore and had remained trusted, although somewhat remote, friends for nearly thirty-five years. Yet at this particular moment, I didn't want to see him…or anyone else, for that matter. Not now.

What brings you out here to paradise? I asked, already knowing his answer.

Yeah, well, in case you've already forgotten, I'm the guy the boss put in charge of the investigation of the cold-blooded murder of a talented FBI agent…an agent who just happened to be your wife. He wants to know why you haven't cooperated fully with our team, or even the local police.

I spoke with the local police, I protested.

True, but you gave them the bare minimum. Why have you avoided an in-depth interview with any of the agents on our team? How the hell can we follow up on any leads or ideas you may develop…if you don't talk to us about them?

I have nothing helpful to say, John. Really. I'm stumped…just like you guys.

Not good enough, Lyle. Not from someone as astute as you. We can't begin to confidently identify this guy if you won't dive in with both feet and get directly engaged in the investigation. You've done this plenty of times before. You know better than anyone how this drill works. I don't have to remind you that the longer we wait…the colder the trail gets.

I was getting weary of the pointless chatter and asked, What do you really want to know, John? Why are you really here?

John grinned, then stared at me hard. You haven't changed a bit. You're a tough ornery old bird, Lyle. He paused and said, Okay, I'll tell you why I came out here to see you in person. I'm betting you know perfectly well who it is.

Who? The killer?

Don't screw with me. I'm not fooling around.

No, I don't know. And if I did know…don't you think I'd tell you?

Yeah, well…maybe I'm not so sure.

What the hell does that mean?

John froze and stared at me. He reached out and took a briefcase from Petrocelli and removed a stack of manila folders. Let me get right to it. Our analysts have culled out about a dozen of your high-profile-fugitive squad cases from the hundreds you handled over the years. Subjects you personally arrested and helped put away for long prison sentences. Guys with lots of personal reasons and the right predisposition to come after you… You know…to settle scores. Our psych profilers have narrowed these down to a preferred list of four names.

And you expect me to do what with these files?

I…we…want you to review them, read the 302s, study the photos, and give us your best gut instinctive guess as to whether Darcy's killer is among them. Focus on these top four.

My brain kicked into high gear. And who might these elite four be?

Let's go inside, sit down, and spend some time going over each one, shall we?

Jesus. Just give me their names, John, I said impatiently.

John paused. All right, Lyle. Well, for starters…Milton Nieport…the infamous American Express serial killer. Billy Reid…the paid spy assassin. Napoleon Williams, the Black Liberation Army bomber. And the Brahmin Girl killer…Jacques Dupree. Do you want to know what each one of these guys has in common?

Tell me. I smiled inwardly… As if I don't know.

All four have been recently released from prison. Each has violated parole and has disappeared into thin air. We have no idea…yet…where they are. There's been no parole-officer contacts with any of them. Weird, huh?

There could be a dozen legitimate reasons for that. And there's no such thing as weird when it comes to human behavior. Not in our line of work, John.

Yeah, well, if we could at least locate them, we could clear up this nasty coincidence and rule out one or more of them.

The sound of these four names and the images they induced were like fingernails running down a blackboard. For a moment, the hair on the back of my neck sat up. I looked down at the dock decking, shuffled my feet…and thought for a long minute. Finally, I asked, First of all, why Nieport?

Because he was an unusually cold, serial-style killer. Plus, we got a big break from an informant who told us that Nieport actually bragged to a fellow inmate that the first thing he would do when he got out was to find you and, quote, ‘blow off the back of your fucking head.' The parole board never learned of that threat. We just found out. Do you remember his MO? He lined up his victims on their knees before neatly placing a nine-millimeter round into the backs of their skulls.

When I didn't respond, John asked, Do you recall that the local police found two small shallow depressions in your driveway…and matching crushed oyster shell fragments…embedded on the surface of Darcy's knees? That son of a bitch forced her to kneel.

I cringed and closed my eyes. Yes, I noticed that too.

John added, That dick performed an execution…not just a murder.

In an instant, I reenvisioned that hectic scene at the Miami International Airport that hot, humid night many years ago. I had approached the stewardess as she opened the cabin door to begin her disembark protocol. I had shown her my FBI credentials in one hand and a photo of Nieport with the other.

Keep your voice down, please. Is this man on board your flight?

Her eyes widened. Yes, sir, in seat 20… On the aisle…I think.

Is he alone? I had whispered.

She nodded in the affirmative.

I had said, Please go about your business as usual. When he walks past you onto the gangway, just casually raise your right hand. Understood?

Yes, sir. Is there going to be trouble? Is he dangerous?'

Not if you do as I say. As he passes the cabin door. I want you to hold up the flow of passengers behind him with your arm. Give me about a forty-foot cushion of space, and I'll take it from there.

When he stepped off the plane and onto the ramp, I recognized Nieport immediately. Swarthy, tall, overweight, sallow complexion…just like his photo. I swung up behind him and pressed my Smith and Wesson semiautomatic up to the back of his head. I violated at least a dozen rules of arrest protocol in doing so. But I had already decided to make a point and to make it poignantly.

FBI…asshole. Stretch your arms out from your side.

He complied meekly.

So how does that cool gun barrel feel, Milton? Any hint of déjà vu yet?

What I remember most about that incident was that after I had grounded and cuffed the killer, with the help of a Dade County deputy sheriff, this big, burly macho man shrieked, whined, and sobbed like a hysterical infant clamoring for his mother.

I was slapped back into the moment by the sound of John's voice. Do you want to know why we feel that he's our man?

Sure. What've you got?

Well, in addition to everything else…Darcy's surgeon removed the bent slug of a nine-millimeter round which had travelled around the inside of her skull and lodged in her upper jaw. All of that suggests he executed her in the same exact way, and with the same kind of weapon he used on his victims during his Amex robberies.

Okay…some of that makes a bit of sense…at least on paper. But what about Reid?

John sighed and rolled his eyes. We got ahold of a book manuscript Reid had written on consignment with a major publishing house…about his long profitable love affair with the KGB. In an earlier draft, he wrote that his final Soviet assignment would not be considered completed till he ‘eliminated Agent Beckwith.' Those were his exact words.

And Williams? I asked.

John answered, You sent Napoleon Williams to prison for conspiracy to bomb the Capitol and the Pentagon…not to mention his involvement in the armored-truck robberies where he personally shot and killed two Jersey police officers. This guy thought he was invincible until you and your team took him down. Taking revenge on you and your family would make perfect sense to him. He would never have gotten out on parole except for the recommendation of that gutless US attorney who was more interested in building his own reputation by trading Williams's testimony for indictments of the rest of those insurrectionist thugs.

My thoughts drifted to the cold, gray late afternoon in Washington, DC, sitting in the back seat of a Bureau car, my partner at the wheel. I had my .38 MP special in my raincoat pocket aimed at the back of the front seat…occupied by this scowling, angry, three-hundred-pound hulk of a man. I remember thinking at the time… A .38-caliber slug won't even make a dent if he decides to pull out an Uzi and become a martyr for his Marxist nutjob friends.

It was at that exact moment that I decided that it was time to jettison Hoover's silly loyalty to tradition and trade the peashooter in my right hand for the equally traditional yet more pragmatic .45 semiautomatic.

Again, John broke the reverie. I notice you kept Dupree for last. I actually put him in the top four myself. Just an intuitive hunch.

A hunch? Based on what facts? I asked.

John said, "Am I correct in stating that out of all your fugitive cases over the years, Dupree was the only suspect whom Darcy had actually met and interacted with before he was arrested and went to prison? Didn't she break open the Brahmin Girl case up in Maine and help the local police nail him in 1985, twenty years after the girl's murder?"

That's right, I said. But why is he even on your list of likely suspects? I stared at Pritchard and thought… As if I didn't already know.

John sighed and answered. Actually, he was my prime number one candidate…that is, until three days ago. He's no longer at the top of our list. Probably shouldn't be on the list at all.

Why not?

I did a little more research and recontacted the SAC in the Providence office. I found out Dupree was ticketed for running a stop sign there exactly five weeks ago…in the late afternoon of April 7, this year…

The same date and time Darcy was murdered, I interjected.

John said, Bingo. It appears he has since moved out of his apartment and no one knows where he's gone.

Have you ruled him out then?

Let's just say I would think it highly unlikely he was personally involved in Darcy's shooting.

But…?

But…I would like to locate him to be one hundred percent sure. Ironically, tomorrow is the return date for his traffic summons. We'll have an agent there in court just in case he shows up.

I quickly pondered this troubling news and said, So, are you guys going to just stand here in this heat in your suits, or are you coming inside for a cold drink?

John answered, We have a lot to talk about, Lyle. First impression. Do you have any instinctive ideas about whether Darcy's killer in on this list?

Again, I dodged the question. First, there are some things we need to clear up before we discuss your final candidates. I presume you guys are coming inside now to conduct your so-called official interview of me?

Yes, we are, he said as he smiled and stood quietly on the dock, admiring and pointing his thumb at a fifteen-pound bass lying across the transom. Nice fish, by the way.

Thanks.

He turned back to me. Lyle, to be blunt…the director is really worried about you. He doesn't think you're taking this situation seriously enough.

Worried? Why? Because I'm not returning your phone calls? Look, I'm fine…really, I argued…again without much conviction.

Knock it off. You're not fine. It's like you've climbed into a conch shell and dropped off the face of the earth. The director says he's personally left two lengthy messages for you too. Both unanswered. Not good, Lyle.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, but I'm not in any kind of shape at the moment to talk about it. As far as I'm concerned, it's all over. The whole ugly, sordid mess. There's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. There's nothing you or