by James Hayman
‘That’s why you came, isn’t it? But I already told you everything I know on the phone.’ She turned and headed back into the living room.
McCabe and Maggie followed her in. The living room, like the woman, smelled of stale smoke. Mrs. Rafferty signaled McCabe and Maggie to sit on a worn green sofa, not unlike one McCabe’s parents had purchased from a Sears store off Bruckner Boulevard in the seventies. McCabe wondered if his mother’s sofa would look as shabby as this one to a pair of cops entering her house today. He was sure it wouldn’t look as dirty.
The room was filled with junk. Piles of old newspapers and magazines lay against the walls. Knickknacks and souvenirs of vacations taken decades earlier covered every surface. McCabe noticed a framed photograph on the wall. Two overweight men were flipping steaks at a backyard barbecue and clowning for the camera. ‘The one on the left is my husband, Dennis,’ said Mrs. Rafferty. ‘He dropped dead of a heart attack just a coupla weeks after that picture was taken. Nineteen eighty-five.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said McCabe.
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Dennis was a nasty sonofabitch. He used to beat me silly every chance he got. I like to think God spared me a bunch of black eyes and maybe a few broken bones when he gave Dennis that heart attack. So,’ she added, ‘what else you wanna know?’
‘I’d like to look out the window where you saw Katie Dubois. If you don’t mind.’
‘No, I don’t mind. Not if you don’t mind the mess in the bedroom.’
The three of them climbed the stairs to a small bedroom at the front of the house. Mrs. Rafferty was right about the mess. The bed was unmade. Clothes were piled on the chair by the window. The old woman collected the clothes and tossed them on the bed. McCabe sat and looked out the window. He had an expansive view of the house and porch across the street. Of course, at five foot two Annie Rafferty would never have seen as much of Kenney’s house as McCabe at six foot one. He scrunched down to approximate Mrs. Rafferty’s height. Even at that level, he had a direct line of sight to Tobin Kenney’s front steps. It would have been easy for her to see the girl’s face as she turned, even in the dark. Unless, of course, the girl was silhouetted by light shining behind her from Kenney’s house. That was possible. A defense lawyer might try to make something of that. Still, even if Mrs. Rafferty’s testimony was bulletproof, it didn’t make Kenney a murderer. All the old woman saw was an angry girl leaving Kenney’s house alive. It seemed to McCabe that Kenney as a suspect was beginning to feel considerably cooler. Maggie asked Mrs. Rafferty if she’d mind coming down to police headquarters and repeating her story in an official interview. She said she wouldn’t. They set up a time. Then they left.
14
Sunday. 11:30 A.M.
After leaving Annie Rafferty’s house, the two detectives walked directly across the street. Nobody answered the doorbell, so they wandered around back, where they found Tobin Kenney up a ladder applying varnish to the side of an old wooden sailboat mounted on scaffolding.
Like a lot of young guys losing their hair, Kenney shaved his head in an effort to look cool instead of bald. McCabe figured he was twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine, lean and muscular with a flat stomach. No hint of a paunch. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses. His jeans were torn at the knees and stained with varnish. His gray T-shirt was adorned with a picture of a football and the words UVM. UNDEFEATED SINCE 1974. McCabe wondered if he was the kind of guy a teenage girl might find sexy.
‘Pretty good record,’ said Maggie, as Kenney stepped down from the ladder. She was gesturing at the T-shirt.
‘Oh, that,’ said Kenney with a smile. ‘That’s a UVM joke – ’74’s the year Vermont dropped football. I suppose you’re cops, aren’t you?’
McCabe ignored the question. ‘That’s a beautiful boat you’re working on,’ he said.
‘It surely is that,’ said Kenney. ‘She’s a 1936 Alden sloop. Kind of rare. They don’t make boats like this anymore.’
‘Yours?’
‘I wish. There’s no way I could afford anything like this. Rich people buy these boats and hire people like me to fix them up. Like I asked before, you guys are cops, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m Detective Margaret Savage, Portland PD.’ She held out her shield and ID. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. If you’re Tobin Kenney, we’d like to talk to you.’
‘Yeah, that’s me. I guess you want to talk about Katie? Jesus, what a terrible thing that was.’ He walked away from the scaffolding that held the boat, across the small yard, and up three steps to a wooden deck at the back of the house. Maggie and McCabe followed. ‘Anybody want a beer? Or an iced tea or something. You probably can’t drink alcohol if you’re on duty.’
‘No thanks, we’re fine,’ said McCabe.
Maggie sat at a small round patio table near the kitchen door. McCabe leaned against the railing. Kenney seemed edgy, but that wasn’t strange. People talking to cops in a homicide investigation were usually edgy, even when they didn’t have anything to hide. Kenney emerged from the kitchen. He was sipping a bottle of Geary’s and carrying a bag of potato chips. He slipped into the chair next to Maggie. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Tell us about Katie,’ said McCabe. ‘Everything you can think of, even if it doesn’t seem relevant. We’re going to record the conversation.’
‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’ asked Kenney.
‘Let’s just say we’re not real good at taking notes.’ Maggie put the small digital recorder on the table and turned it on.
‘That’s okay. I’m not much of a note-taker myself.’ He focused his attention on Maggie instead of McCabe. Maybe he found her attractive. Or maybe just less threatening.
‘What can I tell you about Katie?’ He shrugged. ‘She was a good kid. Smart. Real good player. I guess you know, I’m assistant coach of girls’ soccer. I met Katie coaching the freshmen my first year in Portland. For her age, she was about as good a player as I’ve ever seen. Small but fast. Great moves. If this hadn’t happened, she had a good shot at making all-state this year. She was already getting some interest from Division I schools, and she’s only a junior. Was only a junior,’ he corrected himself.
‘You played at UVM?’ asked Maggie.
‘Yeah. Three years varsity. Mostly second string. I was okay but no great shakes.’
‘Was Katie popular with the other players?’
‘I think so. She never acted like a big star. Just tried to fit in. Pretty girl. Big smile. Always seemed lighthearted. Except on the field. There she was totally different.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked McCabe.
‘She was an aggressive, competitive player who couldn’t stand losing. She pushed herself harder than the other players – harder than the coaches – ever did. It was like she was trying to prove something. Y’know, it’s hard to believe she could actually be dead. Who the hell could do something like that?’
‘Somebody bad,’ said McCabe. He paused, watching Kenney and letting the silence hang to see if it would provoke a reaction. It didn’t. Kenney just sipped his beer, looking from one detective to the other, waiting for the next question. Finally McCabe asked, ‘Did you ever see anyone hanging around at practice sessions that maybe shouldn’t have been there? Guys particularly. Anyone that made you suspicious?’
‘You know, when she went missing, I thought about that. Occasionally we get scouts from college teams. Mostly we get to know them, but there were a few this year I didn’t recognize.’
‘Any of them seem particularly interested in Katie? Interested enough to talk to her? Get to know her?’ asked Maggie.
‘Sure. They all wanted to talk to Katie. Pitch their schools. Like I said, she was our best player by far and still only a junior. It’s gonna be a tough year without her.’
‘Do you usually talk to them?’ asked Maggie.
‘They’re supposed to let us know they’
re there. Sometimes they don’t. Y’know, now that you mention it, one day after practice, the same week she disappeared, I saw Katie talking to some guy I didn’t recognize.’
‘What about him in particular?’
‘Just that she seemed real excited. Nodding and smiling a lot. After he left I asked her who he was. She said a scout from a school down south. That surprised me. Our players – even the good ones like Katie – don’t usually attract a lot of interest outside New England. She didn’t tell me his name.’
‘Remember which college?’
‘Yeah,’ Kenney said thoughtfully. ‘I’m trying to remember what she said. University of Southern Florida … Western Florida … something like that.’
Florida again. McCabe asked, ‘Can you describe the guy?’
‘I didn’t get a good look at him. Mostly from the rear.’
‘How about his size?’
‘Big. I’d say around six foot two. Built like an athlete. Trim. Broad shoulders.’
‘Hair?’
‘Well, he had hair. Unlike yours truly.’ Kenney flashed a smile at them. ‘Dark, I think. He was wearing a cap, so it was hard to tell. Back of the hair was trimmed short and neat. Conservative. They talked for a while, then he got in his car and left.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Kenney paused. It came to him. ‘An SUV. One of the expensive ones.’
‘Color?’
‘Dark. Green, I think.’
‘Did you notice the plates?’
‘Didn’t even glance at ’em.’
‘What was he wearing?’
Kenney closed his eyes as if trying to relive the moment in his mind. McCabe found it frustrating other people couldn’t visualize scenes as easily as he could. ‘Cowboy boots,’ he said finally, ‘black cowboy boots. Not many people in Maine wear ’em. Jeans, I think. A long-sleeve black polo shirt. A baseball cap.’
McCabe found it hard to imagine Spencer in cowboy boots, and he didn’t have broad shoulders. ‘Anything else you remember?’
‘Just that I told Katie not to talk to any more scouts, especially guys, without letting one of her coaches know. That it wasn’t smart.’
‘How’d she react to that?’
‘Practically rolled her eyes. Like any kid, she thought nothing bad could ever happen to her.’
‘Any word what the school’s doing as a result of her death?’ asked Maggie.
‘Not yet. My guess is the principal will declare the day of the funeral an official day of mourning and let the kids take time off to attend whatever service the family’s planning. That’s what I’d do.’
‘When was the last time you saw Katie?’
‘At practice. The day she disappeared. Wednesday before last.’
The answer seemed honest enough. Without Annie Rafferty as a witness, McCabe might have accepted it as the whole truth. Of course, McCabe knew, Rafferty might have made the whole thing up. A tired old woman, possibly dozing, in front of a bedroom window? Any defense lawyer worth his salt would jump on that and suggest that Rafferty was asleep and dreaming. Even if Rafferty was wide-awake and telling the truth, how were they going to prove the girl she saw on Kenney’s front porch was actually Katie? McCabe had to push harder. Get Kenney himself to provide the corroborating evidence. ‘You teach biology?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, sophomores and juniors. Never had Katie in class, though.’ He was on his way into the kitchen.
When he returned with another beer, Maggie said, ‘I guess you’ve done a lot of dissecting, being a biology teacher and all?’
Kenney looked at her strangely. ‘Dissecting? Sure. A zillion frogs. Sometimes fetal pigs. Sometimes things a little bigger. Why?’
McCabe wanted to see what would happen if he put on a little pressure. ‘Pretty good with a scalpel, are you?’ he asked. If Kenney was the killer, the question might rattle him, maybe make him think they were onto him.
‘What the hell is this all about?’ asked Kenney.
‘Maybe you want to tell us, Tobin?’ asked McCabe.
‘Whoa. Wait a minute. Let’s just back up here. Are you telling me I’m a suspect in all this?’
‘Suspect? Nobody said anything about suspect,’ said Maggie. ‘We’re just having a little conversation. Checking on the whereabouts of the people who knew Katie. The people she trusted.’
‘Am I under arrest or something?’
‘Come on, Tobin. Relax,’ Maggie said softly. ‘Like I said, this is just an interview, a little chat. That’s all.’
‘So maybe you can tell us what happened that night,’ McCabe said. It was his turn now.
‘What night?’ Kenney sounded worried. Defensive.
‘Well, the night Katie disappeared, of course.’
Kenney’s eyes darted back and forth between them. He didn’t say anything. McCabe figured he was thinking about lawyering up, and that’d be the end of the interview. If he was really innocent, though, he might keep talking just to prove it. ‘You got a girlfriend, Tobin?’
‘No … yeah. Well, not really. There’s this woman I see from time to time,’ said Tobin. ‘I don’t know what that has to do with any of this.’
‘Were you seeing her that night?’
‘The night Katie was killed?’
‘No. Not the night she was killed.’ McCabe leaned in toward Kenney, forcing the younger man to look up at him. ‘We can talk about that night later.’ He was speaking quietly. Calmly. One friend to another. Aware of the recorder and its little green light, there was no threat in his voice. All the threat was in his eyes, which bore in on Kenney. ‘Why don’t you just tell us about the night she disappeared? Where you were. What you were doing.’
Kenney slid his chair back an inch or two away, avoiding McCabe’s gaze, looking out toward the boat in the yard. ‘Jesus, I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Let me think. No. Wait.’ Pause. ‘I do remember what I was doing. Yes, I do. I remember the teachers talking about Katie’s disappearance the next day at school when she didn’t show up. When she didn’t show up for practice, that’s when I got really worried. I knew she might cut her classes, but Katie would never miss practice. Never. Not unless something was really wrong. The night before,’ Kenney said, ‘I went to the movies.’
‘The movies?’ asked Maggie, with just the slightest touch of well-practiced disbelief in her voice.
‘Yes. The movies.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Alone – but I can prove I was there. I ran into some people I know. Another teacher at the high school, Ellen Bodine, and her husband. I’ve probably still got the ticket stub.’ Kenney seemed relieved by his response. It was as though he’d solved a difficult problem and now things were going to be alright.
‘What did you see?’ asked McCabe.
‘You mean the movie? Cinderella Man.’ There was no hesitation.
‘How’d you like it?’ asked Maggie. ‘Is it as good as they say?’ The irrelevance of her question confused Kenney, which, McCabe knew, was Maggie’s intention. ‘Is Russell Crowe as good as they say?’ she continued. ‘And Renée Zellweger?’
‘Yeah. It’s good,’ said Kenney. ‘They’re good.’ His eyes were darting between them.
‘What time was the show? What time did it let out?’ McCabe asked.
‘I don’t know. It probably started at seven or seven fifteen.’
‘So it let out around nine?’
‘Yeah. Around then.’ A drop of sweat rolled down one of the lenses on Kenney’s glasses. He took them off, pulled up a dry bit of T-shirt, and wiped off the moisture.
‘So what did you do then?’ asked Maggie.
‘I came home. Had something to eat. I picked up a pizza at Torrelli’s on India Street. I graded papers for a while.’
‘All by yourself?’
‘Yes, of course, all by myself.’
‘Then what?’ aske
d McCabe.
‘Then I went to bed.’
‘Alone?’
Kenney looked at McCabe and didn’t say anything.
‘You went to bed alone?’ McCabe asked again.
‘Yes, alone.’
McCabe decided to take a chance. If Kenney lawyered up, then fuck it. ‘Y’know, Tobin, I really don’t like it when people bullshit me. I … really … really … don’t like it.’
Kenney looked up. ‘I’m not bullshitting anyone.’
‘Y’know what, Tobin? I think you are. Y’know what else? I think I can prove it.’
There was fear in Kenney’s eyes. ‘Prove what? You can’t prove anything.’
‘You weren’t alone that evening, were you, Tobin? In fact, I’ve got a witness who says as much. In fact, my witness will swear to it. Maybe you started out grading papers all by yourself, but then somebody stopped by a little later. Didn’t she, Tobin? Somebody named Katie Dubois? Isn’t that right, Tobin?’ McCabe was using Kenney’s first name over and over, hitting him with it, like a boxer jabbing lightly to the face. It was a technique he’d learned a long time ago. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. ‘Tobin? Are you listening to me, Tobin?’
Kenney sat still. He was clearly frightened. He didn’t say anything for a minute. Finally he asked in a small voice, ‘What sort of witness?’
‘A witness who saw and heard Katie Dubois leaving this house the night she disappeared. Now why don’t you just come clean and tell us about it, Tobin.’
Kenney sat stone still except for a little nervous fluttering of his eyelashes.
‘Maybe Katie was a little upset when she arrived?’ McCabe started in again. ‘Maybe she told you her boyfriend was cheating on her? Maybe you figured she needed a little comforting? Is that what happened, Tobin? Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re a nice guy, isn’t that right, Tobin? Comforting pretty little sixteen-year-old girls is right up your alley, isn’t it? A little comforting? Then maybe a little hugging?’ Then McCabe’s voice dropped the teasing tone and became hard. Cold. ‘Who knows? A little hugging might just lead to a little fucking, too. Isn’t that right, Tobin? Isn’t that what happened? You fucked her and then you killed her?’