The Cutting

by James Hayman

  ‘I spoke to the prosecutor about getting you immunity in return for your testimony. He said he’d do what he can, but I can’t promise you that. All I can promise you is that if you don’t help us stop him here and now, he will follow you to France, or wherever else you may go – and when he finds you he’ll surely kill you.’

  Sophie sat in her bed staring straight ahead. McCabe saw that she was quietly crying, and it made him feel like a shit. What he told her was the truth of the matter, though, and there was no changing that.

  Finally she turned to him. ‘Alright, what do you want to know?’

  He turned on his recorder and spoke into it. ‘This is an interview between Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department, and Sophie Gauthier, a French citizen, recorded at Cumberland Medical Center, Portland, Maine, at 1:30 P.M. on Wednesday, September 21, 2005. Ms. Gauthier, you are participating in this interview freely and of your own volition, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  With only a little prompting, Sophie repeated into the recorder everything she had told McCabe the night before on the quiet road in Gray.

  When she finished, he handed her half a dozen photographs, including a picture of Philip Spencer he’d printed off Casey’s computer. ‘I am showing Ms. Gauthier six photographs of men who fit the description of the man who contacted her in France. Ms. Gauthier, have you ever seen any of these men before?’

  She took the photos and looked at each of them for a minute or two. She finally shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘None of these photos are of the man who called himself Philip Spencer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Imagine each of them with beards.’

  ‘This one looks like him a little.’ She picked up the picture of Philip Spencer. ‘More when I imagine him, as you say, with a beard, but really not so much when you look closely.’

  He showed her another photo of Spencer, shot from a slightly different angle. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I told you. This is not the man I spoke to.’

  Okay, so Spencer wasn’t the recruiter. He could still be the cutter. The killer. McCabe slid another series of pictures in front of her. ‘Have you seen any of these men before?’

  She pointed at a postmortem photo of the shooter. ‘Yes. This one was the driver who came for me at the hotels and brought me to the operations. Is he the man who tried to kill me?’

  McCabe nodded. ‘Did he come for you each time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he in the operating room during the heart transplants?’

  ‘No.’

  Tom Tasco and Eddie Fraser were waiting for McCabe as he left Sophie’s room. Fraser jumped right in. ‘We ID’d the shooter, Mike. Jacobi found a couple of usable prints in the SUV, and the bureau came up with a match.’

  McCabe interrupted him. ‘Let’s go and get some coffee,’ he said. ‘Too crowded to talk up here.’

  They rode the elevator down to the big cafeteria on the ground floor. At two thirty, it was still pretty crowded with a late lunch crowd. They got three cups of coffee and went for privacy to an outdoor area where there were some chairs and tables. McCabe noticed, for the first time, it was a beautiful day. They sat where they could speak without being overheard.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘Name’s Darryl Pollock,’ said Tasco. ‘Ex-marine. Served as a sniper in the first Gulf War. Won a Bronze Star. Stayed in the marines after the war. Joined Force Recon. That’s Marine Corps Special Ops. Apparently he only quit because some of the homophobes in the Corps found out he was gay and made life uncomfortable for him.’

  ‘What did he do after the military?’

  ‘Record gets a little sketchy.’ Tasco was reading from some computer printouts. ‘Worked as a bouncer in some gay clubs in New York. Couple of assault arrests for getting too rough with some drunks. No convictions. Turns up next in Florida. South Beach.’

  Tasco sorted through his notes. ‘In Florida, Pollock does a little time for beating the shit out of a couple of college jocks in a bar fight. He got pissed at them for gay-bashing some aging queen Pollock didn’t even know. He told them to lay off. Instead they start in on him. Football players,’ Tasco said with a snort. ‘Guess they thought they were tough. Pollock almost killed one of them. That was in ’96. He gets out in ’98 and disappears. End of story.’

  Darryl Pollock. Duane Pollard. Initials DP. South Beach. Lucas Kane’s lover? McCabe was willing to bet on it. In 1998 Pollock changes his name and hooks up with Kane. He wondered what, if anything, Detective Sessions would know about that. Or be willing to tell him.

  ‘Mike, are you with me?’ Tasco was looking at him. ‘Hello? Is there something I’m missing here?’

  McCabe shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Tom. Any record of Pollock ever using an alias? Either before he was sent up or maybe after he got out of prison?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of.’

  ‘Do me a favor. Dig a little deeper. See if you can find out if Pollock ever used the alias Duane Pollard.’

  ‘So who’s Pollard?’

  ‘A local enforcer in Miami. My information places him in South Beach in March 2001. At the time, he was the live-in lover of a high-class pimp and pusher named Lucas Kane, who just happened to be an old dear friend of one Dr. Philip Spencer.’

  ‘Well, well, well. Didn’t know Spencer had such nice friends,’ said Fraser. ‘Where’s Kane now?’

  ‘Dead. He was murdered back in 2001.’

  ‘Really? Was Pollock/Pollard a suspect?’

  ‘No. According to Miami Beach PD he had an airtight alibi.’

  ‘Anything to show Spencer knew Pollard?’ asked Tasco.

  ‘They could have met at Kane’s funeral,’ said McCabe. Noticing a man nearby eyeing them, McCabe lowered his voice to just above a whisper and shifted his chair so the man couldn’t see his lips. Tasco and Fraser followed suit. The line between precaution and paranoia, as always, seemed thin.

  ‘Maybe at the funeral, Spencer asks Pollock to come to Maine to bash any necessary heads in his heart transplant scam,’ said Fraser. ‘After all, Kane doesn’t need him anymore, what with him being dead and all.’

  ‘Possible,’ said McCabe, considering it. ‘Pollock/Pollard loses his meal ticket in Florida about the same time Spencer’s hatching his transplant scheme in Maine. I mean, why else would a thug like that end up in Portland? Could you find anything about Spencer visiting France?’

  ‘Not much, even though the gendarmes were helpful,’ said Tasco. ‘There’s no record of anybody checking into the Hôtel du Midi in Montpellier under the name Philip Spencer at any time during November of last year.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. I checked with the hospital. According to their records, Dr. Spencer performed three heart transplants here in Maine that month.’

  ‘So he couldn’t have been in France?’

  ‘Technically, he could have, but he would have to have been traveling within a hell of a tight time frame.’

  ‘Do me another favor, Tom. Ask your contact in France if anyone checked in using the name Harry Lime.’

  ‘Okay, and if he did?’

  ‘Get the passport number and find out where and when it was issued. If it was mailed, find out where it was sent.’

  ‘So the guy in France wasn’t Philip Spencer?’

  ‘At least not our Philip Spencer. Sophie Gauthier just looked at his photo. She’s certain Spencer’s not the guy who recruited her.’

  ‘Basically you’re telling me we have nothing?’ said Tasco.

  ‘That pretty much sums it up.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell you Mike, it’s getting pretty old running up and down these blind alleys.’

  ‘Just hang in, Tom. It’ll pay off,’ said McCabe.

  ‘I hope so.
What’s next?’

  ‘Next? Next we take a look inside Mrs. Spencer’s pretty green Lexus.’

  39

  Wednesday. 4:00 P.M.

  McCabe hated surveillance, especially from the front seat of a rental car. This one was a Dodge Stratus. About as devoid of personality and creature comforts as a vehicle could get. It wasn’t even inconspicuous. In this neighborhood nobody but cops or Jehovah’s Witnesses would drive anything so dull – but it was all Fortier would pay for. He didn’t know how long the Bird was going to be impounded, but it could be a while. Even afterward, getting the windshield fixed, and maybe some other stuff, too, would take additional time. At least the Stratus had a CD player and a passable, though not great, sound system.

  McCabe was parked in front of 24 Trinity Street. He’d already been there two hours waiting for the green Lexus to return. He’d invited Burt Lund to sit with him, and Lund was getting antsy. Tasco and Fraser waited across the street in a PPD Crown Vic. Mostly McCabe passed the time leaning back listening to Marcus Roberts play some very familiar Gershwin on the piano. He alternated the Roberts CD with one by Oscar Peterson, who created similar magic with Cole Porter.

  ‘Any word on what’s planned for Kevin Comisky’s funeral?’ asked Lund.

  ‘Yeah. Memo came down from Shockley’s office this afternoon. Service is scheduled for Monday at the cathedral. Color guard. Bagpipes. Twenty-one-gun salute at the gravesite. The whole nine yards. Cops will be coming in from all over New England to attend. Shockley plans to deliver a eulogy.’

  ‘That’ll be nice for the widow.’

  McCabe glanced over at Lund. ‘Nice doesn’t bring her husband back.’

  ‘No.’

  They lapsed into silence. The warrant to search the Lexus waited in McCabe’s pocket. Both McCabe and Lund agreed they wouldn’t serve it unless and until the Lexus was right there in front of them. Go banging on the Spencers’ front door while Phil Spencer was driving around loose and you’d invite some asshole lawyer to hold them up for days while he challenged probable cause.

  An ATL for the Lexus had been issued to all patrol units. If the SUV was spotted, officers were to report the sighting and follow the vehicle but not intercept it. McCabe’s phone rang. It was Jacobi. ‘How you doing, Bill?’

  ‘I’m good. What fun and games do you have planned for us today?’

  ‘We’re over on Trinity Street waiting on a Lexus SUV. It’s the one I think was used to haul Katie Dubois’s body over to the scrap yard. I want you to go over it and find what we need to put this asshole away.’

  ‘The asshole being Dr. Spencer?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Being an asshole is not necessarily a punishable offense.’

  ‘Don’t start, Bill. I’ve got good reason to think this guy might have been involved in the murder.’

  Jacobi sighed. ‘So you’re looking for what? Prints, hair, fibers?’

  ‘Yeah, all that, but mostly blood. I don’t see how he could have hauled Katie’s body around cut up the way it was without getting some blood on the vehicle. Most likely on the cargo space in back. I don’t care how hard he scrubbed it –’

  Jacobi finished the sentence. ‘Luminol will show it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, call me when your pigeon arrives and we’ll send over a flatbed. We’ll have to bring the Lexus down here to the garage to really go over it. I’ll also want to remove the seats and open up the spare tire well.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Another hour passed before Harriet Spencer drove the green SUV through the gates of the Spencers’ inner sanctum. McCabe pulled the Stratus into the driveway behind her, effectively blocking retreat. He called Jacobi to send over the flatbed and then walked up to the Lexus’s driver’s side window. ‘Please exit the vehicle, Mrs. Spencer.’

  ‘What are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave my property and not come back.’

  ‘I’m serving you with a warrant, Mrs. Spencer, signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn, authorizing us to conduct a thorough search of this vehicle in the police garage. A tow truck’s on its way now. We have reason to believe your car may have been used in the murder of Katie Dubois.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind. How dare you accuse us like this?’

  ‘We’re not making any accusations, Mrs. Spencer. We’re simply searching the car for evidence. If we don’t find anything, it will be returned to you with our apologies. This is Assistant Attorney General Bert Lund.’

  Lund smiled. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Spencer?’

  ‘Mr. Lund will verify the validity of this warrant. You may also show it to your own attorney. Now please exit the vehicle.’

  Hattie Spencer briefly examined the paper McCabe offered, then looked up at him. ‘May I take my groceries inside, or do you want to search those as well?’

  ‘Yes, but please don’t take anything else. I’ll have one of my men help you.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Detective.’ She gathered up half a dozen plastic bags from Hannaford’s and carried them to the kitchen door McCabe had used to leave the house three days before.

  From the kitchen, Hattie Spencer called Philip’s cell. ‘The police are here. That detective McCabe and some others. They want to search my car. The Lexus.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Did they show you a warrant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alright. Don’t say anything to them. Nothing at all. I’ll call George Renquist. Then I’ll come back.’

  Philip hung up. Hattie stood holding the dead phone for a minute. He sounded so calm. Philip always sounded calm. Finally she, too, hung up. She walked through the house and stood by the big front window watching the scene on the driveway.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Her world, the one she had so carefully constructed, so carefully cared for, for twenty years, seemed to be closing in on her. The men outside with their cars and vans and official pieces of paper were storming the barricades, and there was nothing she could do about it. Across the street she could see that nosy little suck-up Ellen Markham staring from the front step of her house. She was going to love telling her money-grubbing lawyer husband all about it tonight at dinner. As well as her friends, whoever they might be.

  ‘Imagine!’ Hattie could hear them saying. ‘The police were at the Spencers’ half the day. I hear it has to do with the murder of that girl. Katie Dubois? What do you suppose they were looking for?’

  Yes, by tonight it would be all over Portland. Hattie went to the burled walnut drinks cupboard and filled a cut crystal water goblet about halfway up with gin. She could take their snide innuendos. She was tougher than that. She walked back to the window with the drink and resumed her vigil as she sipped. She wondered what they were looking for, what they might find. What exactly did happen last week while she was up in Blue Hill? She had a feeling she might know.

  Philip’s car, the black BMW, turned into the driveway. It stopped behind the car that blocked the Lexus. A uniformed cop directed Philip to park on the street. He did, but when he emerged his face showed that strange, quiet rage she knew so well. He walked over to McCabe and the pudgy lawyer McCabe had with him. Bert Lump. Philip said something. McCabe handed Philip the warrant. He looked at it and said something else. She guessed he was quietly threatening them. That was Philip’s way. Letting them know how many important people he knew. Then their attorney, George Renquist, arrived. George looked at the warrant and said something to Philip. Philip and George turned away from the police. George said something. Philip disagreed. He walked toward the house. The front door opened and closed. He walked past the drawing room and climbed the stairs. She called to him. ‘Philip?’ He looked down at her but said nothing. He walked to the bedroom and closed the door. Hattie returned to her post by the window, sipped her gin, and watched a tow truck pull the Lexus up and onto its bed. Then they drove it away.
r />   40

  Wednesday 6:00 P.M.

  McCabe followed the Lexus back to the police garage, then went upstairs to the detectives’ bullpen to wait while Jacobi’s team did their thing. He spotted Jack Batchelder at his desk. Jack was holding a half-eaten meatball sandwich in two hands, a paper napkin tucked in his collar to protect his shirt. He looked up, midbite. ‘What d’ya need, Mike?’ he asked.

  ‘Those open missing persons cases I asked you to check? How’re you doing with that?’

  Batchelder sighed. McCabe guessed he wasn’t happy having his dinner interrupted. Jack carefully wrapped the remains of his sandwich in the waxed paper it’d come in, wiped his hands on the napkin, then reached for a file on his desk.

  ‘Your upper lip,’ said McCabe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your upper lip. Tomato sauce.’ McCabe pointed to the same spot on his own lip.

  Batchelder reddened, then swiped at his mouth with the napkin. ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfect. Now, what did you find?’

  ‘At first, not a whole lot. I went through all our open missing persons cases for the last three years.’

  ‘No young blond female athletes?’

  ‘Nothing even close. So I e-mailed every other department in the state.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found one. Couple of hours ago MSP sent over the file. Young snowboarder named Wendy Branca turned up missing last December at Sunday River. She was never found. I haven’t had a chance to review the whole file yet.’

  ‘Blond?’

  ‘Yeah. Blond and beautiful.’

  McCabe took the file from Batchelder. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. Good job.’ He went to his own desk, opened the file, and began reading. Wendy Branca was a twenty-four-year-old sales rep for WMND, a Portland country music station. She was indeed blond and beautiful – and an athlete. An expert and avid snowboarder, she was good enough to have been an instructor at Breckinridge, in Colorado, a couple of seasons after college.