Chapter 8
Scott was born during one of his father’s earliest stints in prison, this one in the Northern State Correctional Facility in Newport, Vermont.
All of Ward Vose’s prison time was served in the Northeast, and he could have produced a comprehensive guide to the regional penal system had he put his mind to it.
Because Vose eschewed violence, and Maine and New Hampshire didn’t have three-strike laws, he’d managed to avoid punitive sentences, but had fallen foul of Maine’s habitual offender driving law having, at various points over a five-year period, eluded an officer, passed a roadblock, driven to endanger, and operated after revocation.
That he was arrested for the last of these while attempting to reach his son, who had broken out of Spero for the second time in as many weeks and contacted his father for help, cut no ice with the judge, which was why Vose was languishing in MSP.
Rakestraw married Hailee Theriault when Scott was nine years old, shortly before Rakestraw was first elected to the state senate.
Hailee had since given birth to three children with Rakestraw, all much younger than their half sibling.
In those early years, Rakestraw made a big play of his family and was rarely pictured without them.
But slowly, Scott began to vanish from photographs, and by the time he reached his teens he wasn’t to be found in any.
I noted the absence but didn’t rush to condemn.
When I was a teenager, I had no desire to take my place in family photos either, which caused my mother and grandfather no small amount of frustration.
Having a stepfather whose political career depended on demonstrating a commitment to family values would have placed a strain on any adolescent, never mind one as purportedly rebellious as Scott Theriault.
Perhaps Rakestraw and his wife decided it was better to excuse him than have him spoil publicity opportunities.
But even in those earlier photographs, Scott stood out from his half siblings for a reason other than his age and height: Ward Vose was the child of a Black woman and a white man, and his son’s mixed-race heritage was apparent.
I called Alcock and asked him to advise the OCME that I was acting on behalf of a client, namely Scott Theriault’s father, and any assistance they might be able to provide would be appreciated.
I had always found a succession of state medical examiners to be cooperative, but it never hurt to have a lawyer smooth the way.
Alcock said he’d make the call immediately, but I gave him twenty minutes before following it up.
I was put through to an assistant to the deputy chief medical examiner, who located a copy of the same report I had in front of me.
After a little to-and-fro, he put me through to the new DCME herself.
Her name was Asmara Saputri, and she was, as far as I knew, the first woman of Indonesian heritage to hold significant public office in the state of Maine.
I’d only met her once, in passing. Even then, she’d looked at me in a nervous manner, for which she could hardly be blamed.
I liked to think I’d earned my reputation.
“Mr Parker,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but a call from you must immediately raise a red flag, or so my colleagues have warned me.”
“I have nothing but respect for the OCME,” I said. “Should anything terminal befall me, I can think of no better people to perform my autopsy.”
“That’s reassuring, and I promise we’ll do our very best for you. This is about Scott Theriault? If so, I should begin by saying that I did not perform the autopsy. That was my late predecessor, Dr Tutin.”
Humberto Tutin had died suddenly a few weeks earlier, from a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine.
Actually, it was his second heart attack, as the autopsy revealed.
The first was asymptomatic, so Tutin had gone to play his usual weekly match at the Augusta Country Club and collapsed on the court.
He was dead before the ambulance could reach him.
Tales of asymptomatic heart attacks in someone’s late fifties were not destined to make me sleep any more soundly at night.
I told Dr Saputri that I understood, and my question related to the break in Scott Theriault’s right leg.
“What about it?”
“It was very clean,” I said.
“Yes, a severely broken tibia. A person might not notice a hairline fracture of the tibia for a while, but Scott Theriault would have struggled to walk unsupported with that kind of injury.”
“If I’m interpreting the autopsy report correctly, Dr Tutin suggested the force was vertical and down.”
“I see that.”
“Could a fall really have caused it?” I asked.
“It depends on the fall: if the leg became trapped, for instance, and the momentum carried the victim forward. But off the top of my head, that type of fracture is more common following an impact or a collision. I’ve seen it on the football field following a bad tackle.”
“You mean a boot landing on a shin?”
“Yes, just that,” said Saputri. “But in this case, Dr Tutin identified irregular abrasions. His opinion was that the blow came from a rock or stone, a large one. Scott Theriault might have slipped, dislodging debris, some of which impacted on his lower right leg.”
“Unlucky for him.”
“Very.”
“Could it have been done deliberately?”
The pause that followed went on so long that I wondered if the line had gone dead.
“It’s possible,” said Saputri, “but I would be unwilling to go further.”
“As was Tutin.”
“I believe he was even more cautious about such matters than I am. I see no reason to contest the conclusion of accidental death. Do you have any cause to believe the injury might have been inflicted purposely?”
“None,” I said.
“Then why do you ask?”
“It’s what I do. If I didn’t, I’d be forced to find a proper job.”
“That would be a bad thing, right?”
“It would be terrible. I’d have to set an alarm for the mornings.”
“It’s been interesting talking to you, Mr Parker.”
“And to you, Dr Saputri. Good luck in your new role.”
“And good luck with avoiding the autopsy table,” she said.
Which was kind of her.
The situation with Scott Theriault was complicated by the fact that his death wasn’t the only recent incident in the Kennebec Valley to occupy police time and the public imagination.
A nineteen-year-old Bingham girl named Mallory Norton had gone missing shortly before the discovery of Scott’s body, and had yet to be found.
It was in the nature of crime in the internet age that social media commentators, podcasters, and all manner of prurient observers now waded into criminal investigations, muddying the waters.
Police appeals for information, always crucial to inquiries, drew more attention than before, not all of it helpful.
I doubted harried detectives would welcome me sticking my nose in their case, but that wasn’t any reason not to do it.
While I was at my desk, I reached out to both the Maine State Police and the Somerset County Sheriff’s Office.
Neither had anything more to add to the file on Scott Theriault, and when I brought up Mallory Norton’s name, I was told to mind my own business.
But because I’m nothing if not obdurate, I called in a favor, which I might as well have left untouched.
I learned only that Mallory’s phone had not been located, and ceased sending out a signal somewhere between The Forks and West Forks on the night she went missing.
The records were subsequently accessed with a warrant, including all calls and texts.
The MSP found nothing in them to indicate that Scott Theriault’s death and Mallory Norton’s disappearance were connected, but were “keeping an open mind,” which was police-speak for a dead end, even if it hadn’t stopped some of the internet sleuths from yoking one case to the other.
It made for a better story, and story was all.
Either way, nobody expected Mallory Norton to be found alive.