by James Hayman
‘Something like that.’
‘I’m not supposed to.’
‘I know, but this is important. So just be quiet and listen.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘If, as I believe, all three victims plus Cassidy were abducted to use their hearts for transplants, they couldn’t have been chosen randomly. At a minimum the donor blood has to be a match with whoever’s getting the heart, or the transplant won’t work.’
‘So he has to have access to their medical records.’
‘Which probably means all four records can be found in one place.’
‘Cumberland?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking.’
‘Someone hacked into the hospital’s computer system?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe someone already had access because someone just happened to be their number one superstar surgeon.’
‘Assuming all four victims were ever patients at Cumberland.’
‘Assuming that.’
‘There are other places that record blood type. Doctors’ offices. Testing labs. Maybe some others,’ said Maggie.
‘Can you check ’em out? Fast?’
‘Alright, I’m on it.’
‘Thanks.’
As soon as McCabe hung up, Bill Jacobi called from the garage. ‘You were right, Mike. We found blood – and something else that’ll interest you.’
McCabe checked his watch. It was now nearly 9:00 P.M. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said.
McCabe locked the Henry and Branca files in his bottom drawer, shut down his computer, and headed for the garage. Jacobi directed him to the cargo area of the Lexus and turned out the lights. Blackness closed in. As McCabe’s eyes adjusted, he could see three small blotches of blue phosphorescence shining on the car’s carpet. Then Jacobi opened the spare tire well. The telltale blue glow of more blood. Quite a lot more.
‘Okay, you can turn the lights on,’ said McCabe. He was forced to squint from the sudden brightness. Once again, his eyes adjusted. ‘When will you know if it’s Katie’s?’
‘We already sent it in for DNA. We told the lab to make it a priority rush.’
‘Have them check for a couple of other matches as well. A woman named Wendy Branca and a guy named Brian Henry. I have the files upstairs.’
‘What about Cassidy?’ asked Jacobi.
‘Her, too.’
‘We’ll get it in the works.’
‘You said you had something else, Bill. What is it?’
‘This.’ Jacobi held out a small plastic bag. ‘We found it in the spare tire well. It must have slipped down there. Maybe it caught on something.’
Inside the bag McCabe saw a single small gold earring with a dangling heart-shaped charm. The charm was still shining brightly.
41
Thursday. 7:30 A.M.
McCabe fidgeted impatiently, eyes glued to a TV monitor, in a viewing room at 109 Middle Street. He watched a uniformed officer escort Philip Spencer into the interview room next door, where Tom Tasco sat waiting. McCabe was anxious to get as much out of Spencer as possible before a lawyer showed up and shut him down.
The first priority was getting a sample of Spencer’s DNA to match against the blood on Cassidy’s dog’s teeth. Tasco poured himself a glass of water, then offered one to Spencer. Spencer took it and placed it on the table next to him. They needed him to sip so they could check the saliva he might leave on the glass.
A video camera hidden in the emergency light recorded Spencer in medium close-up. McCabe could see Tasco’s back and hear his voice-over. ‘This is an interview at Portland Police Headquarters between Detective Thomas Tasco, Portland, Maine, Police Department, and Dr. Philip Spencer, currently residing at 24 Trinity Street, Portland, Maine. The time is 7:30 A.M., Thursday, September 22, 2005.’
Spencer sat back, tanned and confident. He wore a preppy-looking collared polo shirt and had a yellow cotton sweater tied loosely around his neck. Mr. Male Model. Right out of GQ. If the sonofabitch was guilty, thought McCabe, he sure as hell hid it well.
‘Betcha he talks to us,’ McCabe said to Bert Lund, who’d asked to sit in.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Lund. ‘He’s not gonna say a word.’
‘Ten bucks?’
‘C’mon, this guy knows enough to keep his mouth shut. Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Arrogance. Spencer’s got a congenital need to show off. He’s gotta prove he’s the smartest guy in the room. Almost can’t help himself.’
‘That’s pretty dumb.’
Spencer cocked his head one way, then the other, and pushed his dark hair to the side with one hand. McCabe could have sworn he was aware of the camera. Spencer asked the first question. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is all about? Am I under arrest?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ Tom told him. ‘This is just an interview to help us obtain information regarding the murder of Katherine Dubois. Your presence here is entirely voluntary.’
Spencer looked around for the camera. ‘Hello, McCabe,’ he said. ‘You can see me, can’t you?’
Tasco ignored the comment except to say, ‘Please address yourself to me, Dr. Spencer.’
Spencer finally took a sip of the water. Score one for our side, thought McCabe.
‘You mean McCabe’s not going to ask me any questions?’ he asked. ‘I’m hurt.’ Tasco showed him the bag containing Katie Dubois’s earring. ‘Dr. Spencer, do you know what this is?’
‘It appears to be an earring.’
‘We found this earring in your wife’s car.’
‘Really?’ He didn’t seem fazed. Merely curious.
‘Do you know how it got there?’
‘No, I can’t say I do. I suppose it could be Hattie’s.’ He peered at it again. ‘Though it doesn’t really look like her sort of thing. Maybe it belongs to one of her friends.’
‘Actually it’s Katie Dubois’s. Its mate was still in her ear when her body was found.’ Still no reaction.
‘Doctor, where were you last Thursday night between 8:00 P.M. and midnight?’
‘I already told Sergeant McCabe. At home. Reading. Then sleeping.’
‘You also told him your wife was with you.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, but she says she was up in Blue Hill visiting her sick mother.’
‘Really?’ Spencer shrugged. ‘Well, I must have been mistaken.’
‘She says she drove your BMW.’
‘Yes. Now I remember. I drove my Porsche that day.’
‘Not your wife’s Lexus?’
‘No. I prefer the Porsche.’
‘Where was the Lexus?’
‘I don’t know. In the garage, I suppose.’
‘Who were you with? Thursday night? While your wife was in Blue Hill?’
‘I already told you. I was alone. Reading. Then sleeping.’
‘How about Friday morning between five and seven? Did you happen to go jogging on the Western Prom?’
‘No. I was still sleeping.’
‘Thursday night, what were you reading?’
‘In Cold Blood.’
‘In Cold Blood?’
‘Yes. Truman Capote’s nonfiction novel about a family that gets murdered in Kansas. They’re about to release a new movie based on the book. I last read it in college, and I wanted to see how it held up.’
‘Are you interested in murder, Doctor?’
‘Isn’t that a little obvious, Detective? My God, the man reads about murder! He must have killed the girl!’
‘Are you interested in murder, Doctor?’
‘Only as a form of entertainment.’
‘Entertainment?’
‘Yes. You know. Movies. Books. You do read, don’t you, Detective?’
Spencer was laughing at them, but neither McCabe nor Lund minded Spencer’s attitude. Overconfidence might lead him into a catchable lie.
‘Ever heard the name Harry Lime?’
‘Well, it seems you do watch movies, after all. Yes. Harry Lime is the
name of the Orson Welles character in the movie The Third Man.’
‘How about Paul Oliver Duggan?’
‘Sorry. Don’t know that name.’
‘One more, Dr. Spencer. Carol Reed?’
‘Never met the lady.’
‘Did you speak to anybody on the phone Thursday night?’
‘I might have. I don’t remember.’
‘Think hard.’
Spencer thought hard. McCabe figured what he was thinking about was whether the cops had a record of calls to and from his phones. ‘Sorry, I don’t remember any calls.’
‘Have you ever met the guy in this picture, the one on the left?’ Tasco showed Spencer a picture of a smiling Brian Henry, his arm draped around his partner’s shoulder, taken days before Henry disappeared.
Spencer studied the picture. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘His name is Brian Henry. A student at Bowdoin. The dean of admissions at Tufts Medical School confirmed that you interviewed Henry last fall as part of the admissions process.’
‘Yes. I do remember. Bright kid. He came to the house. About a year ago. I wrote him a strong recommendation.’
‘Have you seen Henry since then?’
‘No.’
‘We have reason to believe Brian Henry was murdered in the same manner and by the same person as Katie Dubois.’
This time Spencer did react, surprise showing for a split second, followed by deadpan. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a nice young man.’
‘Have you ever been to France? Montpellier?’ Tasco pronounced it like the capital of Vermont.
‘I’ve been to France a number of times. The last time was about two years ago. Only to Paris, though.’ On the monitor they could see Spencer looking at his watch. He was getting antsy. He wanted out.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Doctor? I’ll be right back.’
‘I’m afraid I have to be leaving, Detective.’
‘Just one second. I promise. I’ll be right back.’
Tasco walked back to confer with McCabe and Lund. ‘Got any bright ideas?’ he asked. ‘He’s gonna clam up any minute.’
Before McCabe could respond, there was a knock on the door and Jack Batchelder poked his head in.
‘Hey, Mike. There’s a black dude here says he’s Spencer’s lawyer. Wants to talk to you. He says now.’
The door opened wider, and a tall, slender African American pushed past and entered the room. McCabe recognized him immediately from his frequent appearances on television talk shows. ‘Gentlemen, Sheldon Thomas,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘Dr. Spencer’s asked me to represent him.’
Burt Lund stood up, shook Thomas’s hand, and introduced himself. One of the best among a growing cadre of black criminal defense attorneys that included the late Johnnie Cochran, Billy Martin, and Theodore Wells, Thomas worked out of an office in Boston, which, McCabe figured, was why he hadn’t gotten here earlier. McCabe clicked off the monitor.
‘You must be McCabe,’ Thomas said.
‘How can we help you, counselor?’ McCabe asked. Keeping rich guys out of the slammer looked like it paid well, he thought as he shook the proffered hand. The lawyer’s hand-tailored pin-striped suit must’ve cost five thousand dollars, maybe more. Add in the two-thousand-dollar Burberry trench coat slung over one shoulder and the three-thousand-dollar Hermès briefcase hanging from the other and the guy was wearing about ten grand worth of stuff, not counting his shoes and the probable Rolex. Sandy would have loved him.
‘I believe you’re conducting a noncustodial interview with my client, Dr. Philip Spencer?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘A, I’d like to speak with my client, and B, he has nothing more to say.’ Thomas spoke in a soft, confident voice. ‘Unless you have reason to detain him, he’s leaving now.’
‘We could place Dr. Spencer under arrest,’ said Tasco.
Thomas responded, ‘That’s your option, but you’d better have good cause. Also, even if you do arrest him, he’s not saying anything more.’
‘Let him go,’ said McCabe. He showed the lawyer to the interview room, where Thomas spoke briefly with Spencer. Then the two of them left.
Once they were gone, McCabe rejoined Lund and an agitated Tasco. ‘Mike, what the hell was that all about? We shoulda charged that sonofabitch and stuck his well-bred ass in a cell. Shit, we’ve got the car, the earring, the blood, the video. What the hell more do we want?’
‘Tom, if Spencer’s the guy – and we won’t know that for sure until the DNA results come in – sticking him in a cell isn’t going to help.’
‘It’ll help keep him from killing Cassidy.’
‘Only one problem with your logic.’
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘If Spencer is the guy, he’s the only one who knows where Cassidy is. Hell, he could’ve stuck her in a cave somewhere for all we know. We lock him in a cell, do you think he’s gonna tell us where she is? No way. It’d just prove he’s guilty. He’ll just sit there quiet as a mouse. Meanwhile, Cassidy doesn’t have her heart cut out. She just dies of thirst. Or starvation. Or God knows what.’
‘We could try a plea bargain,’ said Tasco, uncertainty creeping into his voice. ‘Offer him a lesser sentence for letting us know where she is.’
McCabe turned to Lund. ‘Talk to the man, Burt. You’re the prosecutor. You seriously think the AG’s office would go for a plea bargain that lets a serial killer off the hook, a serial killer who’s mutilated and maimed at least five innocent people and, God knows, maybe a whole bunch more?’
Lund shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Frankly, I don’t think Spencer would go for it either.’
Tasco turned back to McCabe. ‘Okay, McCabe, you’re the boy genius. What do you suggest we do now?’
‘Keep looking. At the same time, keep a loose rein on Spencer. If we don’t let him know we’re watching, maybe he’ll lead us to her.’
‘Or maybe not.’ Tasco sounded glum.
‘Okay, or maybe not, but right now he’s the only connection we’ve got.’
Tasco left. McCabe and Lund followed, just in time to watch Spencer in his preppy sweater and Sheldon Thomas in his pin-striped suit disappear behind a pair of closing elevator doors. ‘Well, one thing we know for sure,’ McCabe said, his eyes moving from Thomas to the rumpled Burt Lund, walking by his side, busily munching on a handful of M&M’s.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘Their side dresses better than ours.’
42
Thursday. 4:30 P.M.
McCabe asked Maggie to meet him for a drink at Tallulah’s. Despite the high-toned name, Tallulah’s was a neighborhood hangout for the singles crowd on Munjoy Hill. As usual, the place was noisy and crowded. A couple of off-duty cops were hanging at the bar, ones McCabe didn’t know very well. They found an empty table in the corner, far enough away from the cops not to be overheard. An artist friend of Kyra’s, Mandy something or other, took their order. Like most artists, she couldn’t support herself selling her work, and, unlike Kyra, she had no trust fund to take up the slack. Everyone should have a trust fund, McCabe thought. Of course, then there’d be no waitresses or dishwashers or plumbers or cops. Just artists and drinkers. McCabe ordered a Glenfiddich with a Shipyard chaser. Maggie just ordered the Shipyard. Then, after a brief, losing struggle with her inner demons, she also ordered a plate of nachos. McCabe could never figure out how she stayed so slim.
Kyra’s friend left to get the drinks and food.
‘Okay, I found out some interesting stuff.’ Maggie went first. ‘Number one, Cumberland Medical Center’s not the blood-type connection. Only one of our four victims was ever a patient there. Number two, they all used different doctors.’
Before Maggie could tell him number three, Mandy came back with their drinks. ‘Your nachos’ll be here in a sec.’
When she was gone, McCabe asked, ‘So what is the connection? A testing lab?’
‘Nope. The Red C
ross.’
McCabe considered that for a second. ‘Blood drive?’
‘Yes. Wendy Branca, Brian Henry, Katie Dubois, and Lucinda Cassidy all gave blood within the last year.’
‘So somebody hacked into the Red Cross computer?’
‘No. Here’s where it gets interesting. For the past eighteen months, wouldn’t you know, a certain doctor’s wife has been volunteering at the Red Cross three days a week.’
‘Well, do tell. With full access to the records?’
‘According to my source, yes.’
McCabe stirred the warm whiskey with his index finger and then sucked it off. Pieces were falling into place. Pieces he hadn’t expected.
Maggie continued. ‘The way I see it, McCabe, we always thought one of the Spencers was involved. Why should we be surprised if both of them are?’
The nachos arrived, cheese dripping off. Maggie positioned a jalapeño in the middle of one and managed to lower it neatly it into her mouth.
‘Interesting. Just when I was beginning to have doubts.’
Maggie stopped munching. ‘Doubts about what?’
‘Doubts about Dr. Phil. About his involvement. At least in the murders. Maybe now in the surgery as well.’
‘McCabe, if it’s not uncool to remind you, yesterday you had no doubts.’
‘Today I have doubts.’ He sipped the Scotch.
‘So what’s changed?’ She took another nacho and offered him the plate. He shook his head.
‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘Sophie seems pretty damned sure he’s not the recruiter.’
‘Okay. He could still be the surgeon. He could still have cut out Katie’s heart.’
‘Yes, he could, but whoever the recruiter was, he told Sophie his name was Philip Spencer. If Spencer was involved, why would the recruiter do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘To frame Spencer in case the shit hit the fan?’
‘Framing Spencer only makes sense if Spencer had nothing to do with any of it,’ said McCabe. ‘If Spencer was one of the surgeons and he found out “Harry Lime” was framing him, he’d talk. Anybody would.’
‘Which means framing Spencer only makes sense if he knows nothing, if he’s innocent.’
