by James Hayman
“Just give me a buzz when you’re done talking and I’ll run you over there.”
McCabe told Wally Eckridge he would, hung up and called Maggie. “Where are you?” he asked. “Still in Connecticut?”
“No. Just got home. I’ll dump my stuff and come on over.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll pick you up in ten. Professor Fischer’s not answering his phone. We’re going down to New Hampshire to pay him a visit.”
“Can you pick up some coffee and doughnuts on the way? Haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“You got it.”
On his way out, McCabe stopped by Brian Cleary’s desk. “How’re you guys making out with the Trident bunch?”
“Well, we made them all nervous as hell with news of Thorne’s death. When I told them about the castration they all began covering their balls. Like they were worried about losing them.”
“Can’t say I blame them. They receive any specific threats or warnings?”
“Nothing I’d put much credence in. There’ve been a bunch of nasty notes and e-mails about the condo development. But these have been coming in for a while since the whole fight with the city went public. One anonymous handwritten note threatened to blow the thing to kingdom come if it ever gets built. We’re trying to find the author through prints and DNA but it’s probably a stretch. Beyond that nobody’s been threatened with murder. Joe Bonner’s hiring some bodyguards to cover his top execs. Waste of money if you ask me. I think this case is more about rape than it is about real estate.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re right. Leave Trident to Tom for the moment. I want you to bring Rachel Thorne in and find out what she was doing between four P.M. or so when she left here yesterday until I told her about Thorne’s death last night near midnight.”
“Didn’t you go over that last night?”
“Never got around to it. She was too upset about the murder.” McCabe figured Rachel would be smart enough not to mention the dropped robe episode. If not he’d just have to endure Cleary’s smart-ass comments for a few days. At least he hadn’t given in to foolish temptation.
“So I get to talk to the babe?” Cleary sounded pleased by the prospect.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Brian. You may think she’s a babe. She thinks you look like a pug.”
“Pug? As in pugilist?”
“No, I mean more the canine variety.”
“Geez. She really said that?” Cleary looked genuinely hurt.
McCabe gave the little tough guy a smile. “Nah, I’m just pulling your chain. Anyway, here’s how I want you to go about the conversation. Here’s what I want you to ask her.”
Chapter 32
WALLY ECKRIDGE’S INSTRUCTIONS included the fact that the two-mile dirt road leading to the cabin was narrow, rocky, steep in places and filled with potholes and hard-packed ice and snow. They took Maggie’s red Chevy TrailBlazer since the four-wheel-drive, off-road vehicle seemed a smarter choice than one of the department’s unmarked sedans. McCabe drove. The weather had cleared and the main roads were dry and lightly trafficked. McCabe took 295 to the turnpike, then headed south toward the Piscataqua River Bridge that separates Maine from coastal New Hampshire. On the way, Maggie plugged in a pair of earbuds and listened without comment to Rachel Thorne’s recording of the conversation on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. When it was over she listened to the whole thing again. A little more than an hour after leaving Portland, they found the turn off Lee’s Hook Road right where Eckridge said it would be. They drove through deep woods on a bumpy and seldom used dirt road that made them thankful for the TrailBlazer’s heavy-duty springs. The road ended a little over a mile in. A rusty Jeep Wrangler and a black Dodge pickup were parked side by side at the end. McCabe pulled the TrailBlazer in behind the Jeep. To their right was a narrower and even rougher dirt path. A sturdy chain was strung between two trees blocking access. A sign hanging from the chain read Private Property. Keep Out. McCabe and Maggie ducked under the chain and started toward Fischer’s cabin.
The path was uneven and heavily wooded on both sides. Mostly big pine and spruce with a scattering of birch and hardwoods. A dark brown log cabin was visible in a small cleared area about a hundred yards in. Wood smoke was drifting from a stone chimney and the scent of it filled the cold air. As they drew nearer, McCabe could see a man’s face peering out of the window to the left of the door. Then the face disappeared and seconds later the door opened. A smallish, painfully thin man wearing jeans, work boots and a heavy wool shirt emerged cradling a deer rifle in his arms.
“Stop right where you are, whoever you are. If you could read you’d know this is private property.”
“Please drop the weapon, sir. We’re police officers, detectives, from Portland, Maine,” said Maggie, holding up her gold shield and simultaneously walking a little closer to Fischer. “We need to talk to you about the deaths of Joshua Thorne and Charles Loughlin.”
“Both of them dead?” Fischer looked at them with what might be real or possibly feigned surprise. “Well, holy shit and hallelujah. Maybe there’s some justice in the world after all.”
“Are you telling us you didn’t know they were dead?” asked McCabe.
“That’s what I’m telling you. But I’m certainly glad to hear the news. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving pair. How’d it happen?”
“They were both murdered. Loughlin a week ago. Thorne early yesterday morning. Now would you please put your weapon down. We’re not looking for any trouble here. We just want to talk to you.”
“Won’t be any trouble at all if the two of you just turn around and get your rear ends out of here the same way you came in.”
Fischer held the gun steady. As if by silent signal, Maggie and McCabe began to widen the distance between them.
Fischer’s eyes went nervously from one to the other, the rifle still raised and aimed generally above and between the two of them. Neither Maggie nor McCabe had any sense he intended to fire.
“Look, all we want to do is to talk to you, Professor,” said McCabe. “We believe you can help us find the killer or killers of these two men.”
“So you can arrest them? Put them in prison?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me one good reason why I would want to help you do that? Hell, I hope whoever did it gets away scot-free. In my view killing those bastards was nothing more than just retribution for what they did to my wife. I just hope whoever did it made them suffer like they made Hannah suffer. Couldn’t have happened to a scummier pair of individuals.”
“Was it you, Evan?” asked Maggie. “Was it you who was seeking just retribution?”
Fischer didn’t answer. Just stood looking at her, the rifle still in his hands.
“Did you?” Maggie continued. “Kill them, I mean?”
“If I had, I seriously doubt I’d be telling you about it.”
“Can you can tell me where you were Tuesday night?”
“Where I’ve been most days and nights since Hannah’s death and cremation. Right here in my cabin.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone. My wife’s ashes are my only company.”
“Did you see or talk to anyone?” asked McCabe.
“Only Hannah. I sometimes talk to her. A private conversation with her ashes. Sadly, a one-sided conversation, though I often imagine her talking back. But I’m not so far gone that I actually hear voices.”
“Did you see or talk to anyone who can confirm that you were here on Tuesday night and early Wednesday morning?”
“No. Only Hannah.”
“What have you been doing?” asked Maggie. “Between your chats with Hannah?”
“What have I been doing?” Fischer regarded the Portland cop with the same level of disdain he probably reserved for particularly dim students in one of his classes at the university. “Well, I’ve been drinking a whole lot more than I normally do. Probably gone through more bottles of whiskey in the last two months than
I have in the last five years. Sadly not eating a whole lot either. Clothes don’t fit too well these days. Have to get some new ones once they start falling off. But mostly I’ve been thinking about Hannah. The good times we had together. And the difficult ones. Mourning her loss. Reading a lot as well.”
“What were you reading?” asked Maggie, hoping the innocuousness of the question might help drain some of the tension out of Fischer. Draw him into a conversational rather than confrontational mode.
“Mostly lightweight novels. Also some things she had written. She was a writer. I don’t know if you knew that. Reading her words help me feel closer to her. They’re her side of the conversation as it were.”
As Fischer spoke, Maggie and McCabe kept walking almost but not quite imperceptibly toward him.
“Okay. I see what you’re trying to do. Sneak up on me while I’m blathering on about my dead wife. That’s far enough. I don’t want to talk to you or anyone else. I just want the two of you to turn around and leave me alone with my wife. But before you do maybe you can tell me what a couple of cops from Portland, Maine, have to do with either Thorne’s or Loughlin’s deaths?”
“Joshua Thorne was murdered in Portland,” said McCabe. “We’re in charge of the investigation and we drove a long way to talk to you. We have reason to believe you may know more about these killings than you’re letting on. Now, we can have this chat nice and friendly right in your cozy warm cabin or we can have you arrested for threatening police officers with what I have to assume is a loaded weapon. In which case we can have our chat at police headquarters up in Portland. Your choice.”
Fischer looked from one to the other as if trying to decide what to do. “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I know enough about what’s legal and what’s not. One of the things I know is two cops from Portland, Maine, don’t have any authority to arrest me or anyone else here in New Hampshire.”
“That’s not totally accurate,” said McCabe. “But in any case we’re working with Sergeant Wally Eckridge of the New Hampshire State Police. I believe you’ve met Sergeant Eckridge. And if you’d rather have him arrest you than us, we can have him here in ten minutes. And if you don’t put that weapon down now, I’ll make damned sure he arrives with a fully armed SWAT team.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes, Professor, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now please put down your gun.”
“If you’re accusing me of killing Thorne and Loughlin, well, I didn’t. I have to admit I thought a lot about that after Hannah’s death. Even planned how I’d do it. Wish I was capable of actually doing something like that. Make me feel a lot better if it was me who killed them. But it wasn’t.”
“Professor Fischer,” said Maggie, “we’re not accusing you of killing anyone. At least not yet. But we do have to talk to you about Joshua Thorne and what he and Loughlin did twelve years ago at Holden College. There are strong signs retribution for rape was the motive for murder.”
“I happen to be in mourning for my wife and at the moment I don’t feel like talking to anyone about her death much less a pair of cops I don’t know from Adam. But the real truth of the matter is that it was Thorne and Loughlin who killed her. Not directly. But what they and some others did to her ended up killing her in a much crueler way than merely shooting or stabbing her. Or throwing her off a bridge into a river.” Fischer lowered the barrel of the rifle till it was pointing toward the ground. “Now, I’m not a violent man and I don’t want to hurt anybody but I will if I have to. Like the sign says this is private property. I’m assuming cops can read. So I’m asking you, please just turn around, get off my land and leave me to mourn in peace.”
Maggie and McCabe glanced at each other. McCabe nodded almost imperceptibly and the two of them started moving—McCabe to the left, Maggie to the right.
Which is when Fischer fired.
The bullet passed more or less equally between the two of them and way high. At least eight or ten feet over their heads. Either the guy had terrible aim or he just wanted to scare them with a warning shot. Either way they drew their weapons and crouched down for cover behind trees to either side of the path.
“Hold your fire,” McCabe whispered to Maggie. Then, in a louder voice, he called out, “Professor Fischer, Evan, please put the gun down and put it down now.”
“If you two are so sure I killed Loughlin and Thorne, why don’t you just kill me now? Put me out of my misery and that’ll be the end of that.”
“We’re not accusing you of killing anyone. We’re not arresting you. But we do have to talk to you.”
Fischer fired again. The second shot was just as off target as the first. It was obvious he had no desire to hit them. It occurred to McCabe that what Fischer might be trying was to goad them into shooting and killing him. Suicide by cop. A common enough phenomenon that seemed to be gaining in popularity. He didn’t plan on offering the professor that particular way out.
“Cover me but don’t fire unless you absolutely have to,” McCabe said to Maggie in a loud whisper. “I’m going to try taking the gun away from him.”
McCabe holstered his weapon, stood up, held his hands in the air and moved from behind the tree. He started walking toward Fischer.
“For Christ’s sake, McCabe, don’t be stupid,” Maggie called out.
McCabe didn’t respond. “Go ahead and shoot me if that’s what you’re planning to do, Professor,” said McCabe in a quiet voice. “Otherwise, please put down your gun. We mean you no harm. But we do need to talk.”
Fischer aimed the rifle directly at McCabe. “Stay right where you are,” he shouted.
McCabe kept walking, open palms turned outward toward Fischer. About fifteen feet out he figured he was close enough that a round from Fischer’s gun might hit him even if the professor was trying to miss. Given the guy’s marksmanship, maybe especially if he was trying to miss.
“I know you don’t want to hurt anyone,” said McCabe softly. “And we certainly don’t want to hurt you. We just need you to tell us what you know about the deaths of Joshua Thorne and Charles Loughlin.”
“I don’t know anything about their deaths. Now I’m asking you, please, please don’t take another goddamned step.” There was a hint of panic in Fischer’s voice. “Please don’t make me kill you.”
Chapter 33
MCCABE KEPT WALKING. Fischer looked panicky, studying McCabe, as if trying to decide what to do next. When McCabe was only about ten feet away Fischer lifted the rifle over his head with both hands and threw it at McCabe and, as he did, he turned and ran.
McCabe caught the weapon before it hit him and without a round going off.
“Stop,” Maggie cried as she dashed out from behind the tree she was using for cover. “Dammit, stop, you sonofabitch, or I will shoot.”
But Fischer kept going. He was already around the cabin and into the woods.
Maggie holstered her weapon and ran to the left around the cabin following Fischer into the woods.
McCabe ran around the other side and joined the chase.
Fischer was moving fast and probably knew the lay of the land like the back of his hand. For sure better than they did.
At first, it was easy to see the red of Fischer’s plaid shirt flashing in and out between the green of the trees. But as the professor went deeper into the woods, they saw a lot more green and a lot less red. The guy was a runner. No question about that. His legs covered the ground over twisty and difficult paths surprisingly fast. The two detectives followed as best they could, the ground under them covered with jagged ice, hidden rocks and fallen branches, all waiting to trip them up. Fischer was opening the distance between them and McCabe figured it would only be seconds before he totally disappeared from view. That’s when their luck turned. Fischer tripped on something and fell forward, landing flat on his face. He rose painfully to his feet but Maggie was almost on him. He ran right at her. Probably hoping to knock her out of the way and continue his fligh
t.
But Mag was three inches taller and maybe twenty pounds heavier. She hit his gut with her shoulder, wrapped her arms around his legs and brought him down exactly the way her kid brother Harlan taught her to tackle back when he was playing middle linebacker at Machias Memorial High School. Fischer went down hard. A face-plant into rough ice and stone with Maggie still on top of him. He’d probably end up looking more bruised and battered than McCabe. Putting her knee in the small of his back she pulled Fischer’s arms behind him and snapped a pair of cuffs onto both wrists. Then she flipped the professor over on his back.
“Evan Fischer?” Maggie asked, kneeling next to him.
“You know who I am. Why are you asking? I fired a gun at you. Why don’t you just shoot me and be done with it?”
“You wanna die?” asked McCabe as he reached the spot. “You want us to put a bullet in your brain and put you out of your misery? Well, tough shit, Professor. You’re gonna have to leave this world on your own terms. We’re not helping you out.”
The fight went out of Fischer all at once. His body deflated. He lay strangely calm.
“Joining Hannah in death,” he said, lying quietly on the frozen ground. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. Having you do it for me would be so much easier than finding the courage to do it on my own.” Fischer smiled bitterly.
McCabe patted him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying any other weapons. He wasn’t. “Now let’s get up,” said McCabe, hauling the smaller man to his feet. He started marching him back toward the cabin.
“Are you going to arrest me? For shooting at you?”
“I haven’t decided. Depends whether or not you tell us the truth about who killed Joshua Thorne.”
“If I talk to you, answer your questions as best I can, will you go away and leave me alone?”
“If you can convince us you had nothing to do with Joshua Thorne’s or Charles Loughlin’s deaths, then most likely yes.”
McCabe pushed Fischer into the cabin ahead of him. Maggie picked up Fischer’s rifle from the ground. She pulled out and emptied the magazine, put the rounds in her pocket, made sure the chamber was empty and followed them into the cabin and closed the door. “We’re going to have to hang on to this rifle for a while,” she said to Fischer.
