The Cutting

by James Hayman

  Afterward, angry with herself and with Philip, she decided against reconstructive surgery. After all, only Philip ever saw her naked, and it was important to her that he never again find pleasure looking at her body. That he never forget what he had done.

  Hattie climbed into the tub and let the water from the shower, hot as she could stand it, course over her body. She scrubbed herself over and over again with the loofah until her skin felt raw. Then she dried and brushed her hair and dressed in clean jeans and a new sweatshirt.

  She went downstairs. Philip sat in the den, reading. Ignoring him, Hattie crossed to the living room and poured herself another two inches of gin. Then she went to the kitchen for ice cubes and added them to the glass. ‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ she heard Philip call out. ‘The single malt. No ice.’ She poured the drink and brought it to him. She sat in the small leather club chair across from him sipping her gin. Philip continued reading. The loudest sound in the room was the ticking of the ancient burled walnut grandfather clock Hattie had inherited from her own grandfather. As she sipped, she felt the familiar easing of tension, the comforting signal the gin was finally kicking in, beginning to do its job. She picked up the half-completed Times crossword puzzle, then put it down again.

  ‘That detective was here today,’ she said. ‘McCabe?’

  ‘Really? What did he want?’

  ‘I was in the garden and found him peering into the garage. Then he came in and asked me some questions.’

  ‘What sorts of questions?’

  ‘Mostly about who drove what car. He asked me about Lucas.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That we knew Lucas years ago. That he was dead. That he’d been murdered.’

  Philip was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s alright.’

  17

  How long had she been there in the dark? Hours? Days? Weeks? Longer? Lucy had no idea, no way to measure the passage of time. Once or twice she tried by counting. ‘One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand.’ Each time, she’d get up to five- or six-hundred-one-thousand and forget why she was counting.

  Her throat was parched. Her stomach hurt from hunger. She remembered reading that a human being could last for weeks without food but only three or four days without water. She was desperately thirsty. Her tongue felt like a big dry furry thing stuck in the middle of her mouth, although she didn’t think she could be totally dehydrated. Even now she could still make tears. More than once she’d felt the wetness sliding out from under her lids and rolling down her cheeks. She tried catching the drops with her tongue to moisten her mouth, but it never worked.

  18

  Monday. 8:00 A.M.

  At this hour on a Monday morning, Middle Street was crowded with worker bees on the way to their various hives. McCabe angled past a trio of pin-striped attorneys spread three abreast across the sidewalk. Lawyers and stockbrokers. About the only people left in Maine still wearing suits to the office. A pretty blond in tight jeans, carrying a briefcase, smiled at him. A fat brown Labrador retriever waddled by her side, apparently on his way to the office, too.

  McCabe entered 109 and took the stairs two at a time. The place was already buzzing. Tom Tasco flashed him a greeting. McCabe stopped. ‘How are you guys doing with the doctors?’ he asked.

  ‘Three teams working full-time. We’ve talked to sixty-two surgeons in the last twenty-four hours. More on tap for today.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘No suspects yet, but if you ever need a quadruple bypass, let me know. I’ve got a lot of connections.’

  Maggie was on the phone, feet, as usual, propped on her desk. An oversized note from Shockley’s admin greeted McCabe at his own desk. The Chief wants to see you. ASAP!!! Deirdre. That’s all he needed now, more crap from the GO. He held the note in front of Maggie, who was still on the phone, with a ‘Do you know what this is about?’ gesture. She shrugged and shook her head no.

  He headed for Shockley’s corner office. Might as well get whatever it was out of the way. The door was open. Deirdre told him to go on in. He found Shockley deep in bullshit mode, collar undone, tie pulled down. He was playing to an appreciative audience. Portland mayor Gary Short, who stood nearly six foot five, and Will Hayley, a longtime fixture on the city council, were both seated on his large leather couch. In a city where mayors are selected from the council on an annual basis, Short had no more clout than Hayley, and on issues of public safety Shockley was more powerful than either.

  ‘Sit down, Mike.’ Shockley signaled to the chair in front of his desk. ‘You know Gary and Will?’

  McCabe continued standing and nodded at the two men. ‘We’ve met. What’s on your mind, Chief? I’ve got a busy morning.’ Short and Hayley exchanged glances and decided they’d rather not be present for what McCabe supposed was intended as a dressing-down. They gathered their things.

  ‘You guys have a lot to talk about,’ said Hayley. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’ Mayor Short closed the door as the two men left.

  ‘I got an unwelcome call this morning,’ said Shockley, ‘from Dr. Phil Spencer. He’s not happy. Apparently his wife discovered you snooping around their property yesterday. Then you questioned her, according to Spencer, like a common criminal, quote unquote.’

  ‘I’m not sure “like a common criminal” applies, but yes, I was there, and yes, I did talk to her. I also talked to Spencer the day before, at the hospital. What of it?’

  ‘McCabe, Phil Spencer is one of the most prominent men in this community, not to mention one of the top transplant surgeons in New England. He knows a lot of people, and he’s got a lot of clout that can impact this department. I would appreciate it if you didn’t go crashing around in his affairs. I’d have thought you had more sense than that.’

  McCabe stood silently for a minute, weighing his response. ‘Am I or am I not the lead on this case?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Am I or am I not the lead on this case? If I am the lead, there are a couple of things we’d better get straight before the investigation goes any further.’

  Shockley eyed McCabe cautiously, a cobra eyeing a mongoose. Nobody talked to him this way. ‘Really? And what might those “couple of things” be?’

  ‘For one, as long as I’m in charge of this investigation, I’ll go wherever the facts – and my instincts – lead. If they happen to lead to, quote, one of the most prominent men in this community, unquote, so be it. For another, it seems you had an earlier conversation with Dr. Spencer at the Pemaquid Club Friday night. You talked about my private life and revealed confidential information about the investigation, to a man who, by the nature of what he does for a living, might become a suspect. Then, to top it off, you shoot your mouth off to the press about the removal of Katie’s heart. We agreed we’d keep that quiet. It’s a detail your adoring public didn’t need to know.’

  Tom Shockley stood, placed both hands on his desk, and leaned into McCabe, his pale face turning bright scarlet. ‘Number one, Phil Spencer is no suspect. I have total confidence that anything I say to Philip Spencer is and will remain confidential. Number two, I also have total confidence he has nothing to do with this murder. Number three, and I believe I’ve said this before, the public has a right to information about one of the most horrific murders this city has ever seen.’

  ‘As for Spencer, maybe he has nothing to do with the case. We don’t know. Either way, as lead investigator it’s my job to decide how to conduct this investigation. Not yours. As for the public’s right to know, all you’ve accomplished by releasing unknown details is to make it harder for our people to screen out the nut jobs. You know? The whackos who call us every day with bullshit information or confessions. By the same token, you made it harder for us to identify someone as the murderer because he knows stuff he shouldn’t. Chief, you may have just doubled our workload. On behalf of my detectives and my
self, thanks a bunch.’

  Shockley was trying to control his rage. ‘One more word, McCabe. Just one more and you are fucking toast. You got that?’

  ‘You want my shield, Tom? Here. Take it. Go solve the murder yourself.’ McCabe took out his badge wallet and tossed it on Shockley’s desk, wondering if Shockley would call him on it. Wondering if it even was a bluff. Then he jumped in with both feet. ‘Just remember, Chief, it will make for interesting reading when you try to explain to the press why your star detective suddenly got the ax. The same detective you just bragged about hiring. I’m sure the reporters will find it even more interesting how the chief of police fucked up the investigation.’

  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 polic
e 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-hundred-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?’