The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  McCabe paused as if considering the merits of going public. The confrontation was something that had been bubbling beneath the surface for a while. It felt good letting it out. ‘Y’know, Tom, I’ve never held a press conference of my own, but I think the public has a right to know. Don’t you? I can see the headlines now. “Ex-New York Cop Quits Job in Maine. Accuses Boss of Shielding Suspect, Hampering Investigation.” Interesting headline, but probably no big deal unless you happen to be running for governor. Of course, you’re not thinking about running for governor, are you, Tom?’

  ‘Alright, McCabe, you made your point.’ He tossed McCabe’s badge back to him. ‘Now get out.’

  McCabe turned toward the door. For the moment he had Shockley in a corner. Once the case was resolved, all bets were off.

  ‘Good-bye, Tom,’ he said softly as he left. ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Shockley.

  19

  Monday. 8:30 A.M.

  Maggie was waiting for him at his desk. ‘Let’s hit the road, partner.’ She took his arm and steered him toward the elevator. They took a PPD Crown Vic and pulled out into Portland’s excuse for rush hour traffic.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘Well, last night I went to Katie Dubois’s wake, y’know, to pay my respects to Frank and Joanne. I figured one of us ought to be there. I also wanted to find out if Katie ever said anything to either of them about our friend in cowboy boots. There were about a million people there. Neighbors. Relatives. At least a hundred kids from the high school. A bunch of teachers.’

  ‘Open casket?’

  ‘No, thank God. Seeing her all decked out by some funeral director would have been more than I could bear. Anyway, I couldn’t really talk, what with everybody churning around, but I did manage to ask Joanne if Katie ever said anything about being scouted by a soccer coach from Florida.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she kind of looked at me funny and said yeah, Katie had said something about Florida. Joanne didn’t want to talk about it at the wake, what with all the people around. Said we should stop by the house this morning.’

  ‘Which is where we’re going now?’

  ‘Excellent deductive reasoning, McCabe. You’ll make a fine detective someday. By the way, the funeral’s this afternoon. Two o’clock. We should go.’

  ‘I plan to. Speaking of Mr. Cowboy Boots, any progress finding out if any of Katie’s teammates got a look at him?’

  ‘So far no one remembers seeing anyone like the guy Kenney described. I still have a couple of kids to check.’

  ‘Anything about the car?’

  ‘Just what Kenney told us. That it was probably dark green.’

  McCabe nodded. Then he opened his cell and called the PPD Communications Center, which had almost instant access to all motor vehicle information. He asked the woman who answered to check what color Harriet Spencer’s SUV was. He hung on while she looked it up.

  ‘It’s listed as green.’

  ‘Dark or light?’

  ‘Just says green.’

  McCabe thanked her.

  Frank and Joanne Ceglia’s house on Dexter Street was a small yellow Cape Cod. It appeared neat and well maintained, though the grass was a week or two overdue for mowing. Maggie parked the Crown Vic in front and walked to the door. It swung open before they could ring the bell. Joanne Ceglia, already dressed for the funeral in a black linen dress and short black jacket, stood with a man wearing a clerical collar. Her eyes looked red. ‘Oh, Maggie. You’re here.’

  She produced a thin smile. ‘Maggie, this is Father Wozniak. He’ll be assisting at the mass for Katie today. He’s just leaving. Father, this is Detective Savage.’

  The two cops, the priest, and the woman stood for a moment in uncertain formation on the front step, not sure whether to move in or out, forward or back. Finally McCabe extended his hand. ‘Mrs. Ceglia, I’m Michael McCabe. Maggie’s partner.’

  ‘Her partner in crime?’ asked the priest, a practiced smile on his lips.

  Everyone laughed uncertainly, and the priest moved off. ‘I’ll see you at the cathedral, Joanne.’

  She raised her hand in a half wave and invited McCabe and Maggie in. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you last night. There were so many people there. Can I get you some coffee or a Coke or anything?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ They looked around. The room was filled with plates of food, all covered with Saran Wrap. ‘For afterward,’ Joanne said. ‘A lot of the people will be coming back. It seems freaky. Throwing a party because your kid’s dead. Food, drink, people. Still, it’s what everyone expects.’

  Maggie started the questioning. This was her witness. ‘Joanne, you told me Katie said something about a soccer scout from Florida? He’s supposed to have talked to her the week she disappeared.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. She was so excited. Talking about a free ride, a full athletic scholarship, getting out of Maine, going to school in the sunshine. All that stuff. Yesterday, when I was going through her things, I found this.’ She handed Maggie a business card. Holding it by its edges, Maggie looked at it, turned it over, and handed it to McCabe.

  UNIVERSITY OF WEST FLORIDA, the card read. HARRY LIME, ASSISTANT ATHLETIC DIRECTOR It featured a logo with a guy in a Trojan helmet. McCabe took out his cell and punched in the numbers. ‘You have reached an unassigned number at Florida Power and Light. For assistance press zero.’ He pressed zero.

  ‘Florida Power and Light. How may I direct your call?’

  ‘Harry Lime, please. L–I-M-E.’

  A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not showing anyone with that name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hit 411 and got a number for the University of West Florida’s Athletic Department. Same result.

  ‘Look at the back of the card,’ said Maggie.

  McCabe, holding the card by its edges, turned it over. The words were written in pencil, stacked in a vertical column: Lime Katie Lime Katherine Dubois Lime Kate Lime

  The writing was round and girlish. Little flowers intertwined the words.

  ‘Was there anything else? A phone number? E-mails? Anything.’

  ‘Your people took her computer first thing Saturday morning, so I don’t know,’ said Joanne. ‘Phone numbers she kept in her cell. She had the phone with her when she disappeared, so I can’t check.’

  ‘What was her number?’ he asked Joanne.

  ‘It’s 207-555-6754.’

  McCabe punched it in. He heard ringing, then ‘Hi, you’ve reached Katie. Leave a message.’ He hung up.

  ‘Do you think this scout is the person who killed Katie?’ Joanne Ceglia asked.

  ‘We don’t know. We think he might be, Joanne,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Will you catch him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said McCabe, ‘we will catch him.’

  ‘Do you mind if we search her room?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘You’re welcome to, but your people already took it apart a couple of times and didn’t find anything. I don’t know why they didn’t find that card. Maybe it just didn’t mean anything to them.’

  Sloppy police work, thought McCabe. The evidence techs should’ve picked up on the card.

  The two detectives headed up to her room and searched it again. Thirty minutes later they were willing to admit there was nothing else to find at Dexter Street and headed back to 109.

  ‘Tell me about her cell phone,’ McCabe said to Maggie.

  ‘Tasco checked with Sprint. Ran down all the calls to and from the cell starting two weeks before she disappeared right up till Friday.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing meaningful. Prior calls mostly to friends. A couple to local businesses. Saved messages were mostly from her girlfriends. A couple from Ronnie Sobel. One was pretty sexual. No completed calls at all after she disappeared. Some new messages from Frank and Joanne and some from her friends.’

  They drove through Deering Oaks Park with its massive two-h
undred-year-old trees and headed south on State Street toward Spring. McCabe told her about last evening’s visit to chez Spencer.

  ‘Spencer’s head of cardiac surgery at Cumberland?’

  ‘Yeah, and a buddy of Shockley’s. He called the GO this morning to complain about my going to the house, questioning his wife. Shockley told me to lay off. That’s what his come-see-me-ASAP note was all about.’

  Maggie glanced over at him. ‘I hope you didn’t lose it with him.’

  ‘Basically, I told him to go fuck himself.’

  ‘Gee, just when I was beginning to like you.’

  ‘The good news is Crimes Against People just might get its first female sergeant. Although nothing’ll happen until this case is resolved. If Spencer’s the bad guy, I’ll be a hero. If he’s not the bad guy, but I get whoever is, I’ll still be a hero. Either way, unfireable. On the other hand, if we don’t get him, or somebody else gets him, I get fired. Maybe I’ll deserve it.’

  ‘Think you’ve got enough for a warrant?’

  ‘Doubtful. Unless we can find ourselves a nice flexible judge somewhere. One who doesn’t belong to the Pemaquid Club. I’ll check in with Burt Lund. Maybe he can help.’

  20

  Monday. 11:00 A.M.

  ‘Ever hear of Dr. Philip Spencer?’ McCabe asked as he watched Burt Lund ease his large round bottom onto one of JavaHut’s small round bentwood chairs. A prosecutor in the attorney general’s office, Lund had a reputation as a bulldog. A chubby bulldog. Once he got his teeth into you, they said, he hung on no matter what.

  ‘The heart surgeon? Sure, I’ve heard of him. Never met him, though.’ Lund looked around. They had the coffee-house pretty much to themselves. ‘Kind of a big cheese, isn’t he?’

  ‘Seems to be. He’s buddies with Shockley. Hangs out at the Pemaquid Club. There’s a picture of him with Bush senior and Olympia Snowe on his office wall.’

  ‘He’s your suspect?’

  ‘Maybe a long shot, but yeah.’

  ‘What makes you think Spencer’s cutting up little girls?’

  McCabe told Lund about the Lexus turning up in the surveillance video, again at Katie Dubois’s soccer practice, and finally in Spencer’s garage.

  ‘That’s it? His wife owns a Lexus? Even assuming the accuracy of your video manipulation and the coach’s recollection, I hope you have more than that.’

  ‘I do. Terri’s autopsy indicated Dubois’s heart was most likely cut out by a cardiac surgeon. Spencer’s one of the best. He has no alibi for the critical hours, and he matches the description we got from Kenney — ’

  ‘From the rear — and from a distance.’

  ‘He’s also the same height as the guy in the video.’

  ‘It’s pretty thin, McCabe. There must be a million doctors who own Lexus SUVs.’

  ‘Four hundred and ninety. We’re checking them out.’

  ‘Spencer have any history of sexual kinkiness?’

  ‘None that I know of, but the guy gives off strange vibes. Not exactly sexual, not exactly not. When I was in his office, he described to me how it felt to hold a human heart in your hand. It was strange, like he was getting off on it. Also, I have a feeling he may swing both ways.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Each of them sipped at his cardboard cup of coffee. Finally McCabe spoke. ‘I want a warrant.’

  ‘What are you searching for? Even if Spencer’s your guy, what do you think he’s holding on to?’

  ‘Souvenirs. Serial killers often keep them. An earring was missing from Dubois’s left ear. Assuming there were previous victims, and a chat I had with a cop in Florida convinces me there are, Spencer might just be hiding a little collection.’

  Lund said nothing. Just nodded thoughtfully.

  McCabe continued, ‘I want to go over the Lexus for any trace of the victim. Fingerprints or anything that can give us DNA. Hair, blood, anything else in the back cargo area.’

  ‘He’d have cleaned it out.’

  ‘Tough to hide blood traces from Luminol. No matter how hard you clean.’

  ‘Fair enough. Of course, you might not need a warrant to search the car.’

  ‘I will if it’s locked in Spencer’s garage.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You think I’ve got enough for probable cause?’

  ‘The connection to Spencer’s pretty thin. I wish you had more. Although that’s not all that’s bothering me.’

  ‘What else, then?’

  ‘Letting Spencer know he’s a person of interest. If the guy was Joe Schmoe, no problem, but he’s not. You know as well as I do the minute you show up at Spencer’s house with a warrant, he’s gonna howl bloody murder. Start calling all of his influential pals. Get himself lawyered up, and it won’t be with some court-appointed nobody. You go after somebody with Spencer’s resources, you’d better have hard evidence tied down six ways to Sunday or the guy walks.’

  ‘Like OJ?’

  ‘For example, and compared to the evidence they had against him, you don’t have beans. Why not wait till you have a little more?’

  ‘We can’t afford to wait.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’

  ‘Lucinda Cassidy.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I told you I talked to a cop in Florida? A woman named Elyse Andersen was murdered in Orlando in 2002. Whoever killed Andersen used the same alias, Harry Lime, and the same MO as the guy who cut up Katie Dubois.’

  ‘Could be a copycat.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The Orlando cops never released the alias.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘In both cases the killer kept the victim alive for roughly one week before taking out his scalpel and saw. Lucinda Cassidy disappeared early Friday morning. If it is the same guy and if he follows the same pattern — ’

  ‘She’s scheduled for surgery in four days.’

  ‘Give or take.’

  Lund looked thoughtful. ‘Unfortunately, not a whole lot of what you’ve got connects to Spencer.’

  ‘At the moment he’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Okay. Write it up. We’ll take it to Judge Washburn. Paula doesn’t hang out at the Pemaquid Club, and she’s not one to be impressed by Spencer’s social standing. I think she’ll sign it.’

  Washburn was an older district court judge, nearing retirement. McCabe had never met her, but her reputation was ‘tough but fair’ and ‘doesn’t suffer fools lightly.’ He hoped she was the right choice.

  Back at Middle Street, Starbucks already had Katie’s hard drive wired into his computer. ‘I’m making some progress,’ he announced. Maggie and McCabe peered over his shoulder at the screen. ‘No problem getting in. She always used the same password, SOCCERGIRL07. I checked all her e-mails. Received, sent, and saved at Gmail and RoadRunner. Nothing stood out, but you may want to review them.’ He handed McCabe a CD.

  ‘In her address books,’ asked Maggie, ‘did you find the name Harry Lime?’

  ‘Lime? L–I-M-E?’ He reviewed the list. ‘No. Nothing like that. However, there were a couple of bookmarked Web sites you may want to know about.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘First, she had a personal profile page on a social networking site called OurPlace. She used it to communicate with her electronic network of friends. A lot of the kids do.’

  McCabe was vaguely familiar with the site. He wondered if Casey was signed up. Accessing Katie’s contacts on the site could widen the circle of possible suspects. Or maybe narrow it.

  ‘Is the site open to predators?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so,’ said Starbucks. ‘They claim that they offer a lot of privacy protection, but it’s not all that tight. We’re getting the list of her contacts from the company. She was also registered with a dating service called Heartthrob. com. Do you know it? Anybody looking for pretty young girls could find pictures, a profile, and easy ways to make contact. I know many people who’ve used it. Including my
self. I’ve met several very nice young ladies.’

  McCabe imagined the young Somali trolling for dates on the Internet. Odd. He’d never thought of Starbucks as having any social life at all. ‘How would the wrong person gain access?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Maggie. ‘Just register using a phony name and e-mail address and you can contact any target who looks appealing. Exchange e-mails and photos, make dates. Whatever.’

  ‘Does anyone keep a record of contacts made?’

  ‘The site is supposed to,’ said Starbucks. ‘Again we’re trying to get a list, but they, too, have privacy issues, so we’ll probably have to wait until that’s sorted out.’

  McCabe went back to his desk hoping to come up with enough probable cause to justify a warrant to search Harriet Spencer’s Lexus and the house at 24 Trinity Street. Lund called just as he was finishing up. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘Judge Washburn’s out of town until late tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Shit. That shoots twenty-four hours. How about trying somebody else?’

  ‘I thought about that, but I think Washburn gives us the best shot of actually getting the warrant. I say we wait.’

  McCabe wasn’t happy with the idea of waiting, but he reluctantly agreed.

  ‘In the meantime, do you have an affidavit you’re prepared to swear to?’ asked Lund.

  ‘Ready to go.’

  ‘Stop by my office and let me eyeball it, see if it needs any changes.’

  Before going to Lund’s, McCabe called Aaron Cahill.

  ‘How you doin’, McCabe?’ The deep voice of the Orlando cop boomed out of the phone. It was almost comforting. ‘Solved your heart case yet?’

  ‘Looks like we’re chasing the same whacko, Aaron. Harry Lime’s business card turned up in our victim’s dresser drawer.’

  ‘Well, do tell. Does the card say what Harry does for a living? Aside from cutting up pretty girls, I mean?’

  ‘Assistant athletic director, University of West Florida.’

  ‘I assume the card’s a phony?’

  ‘Yeah. Nobody named Lime works at the university. The number printed on the card is an unassigned extension at Florida Power and Light.’