by James Hayman
‘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 myself. 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 aft
ernoon.’
‘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.’
‘Hmm. School’s up in Pensacola. Not far from where my mama lives. Fax me a copy of the card. I’ll nose around. See what I can find out. Anything else to report?’
McCabe filled Cahill in on the conversations with Tobin Kenney and Joanne Ceglia. ‘Not much to go on,’ he added.
‘At least you’ve got a partial ID.’
‘From the rear.’
‘More’n we ever got. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Lime was driving an SUV, probably dark green. Same kind of vehicle we caught on video near where the body was dumped. We’ve got a doctor in the area, a heart surgeon, who owns a similar vehicle. I’m trying to get a warrant to search it. That’s it so far.’
‘Sounds like you’re making progress.’
‘Let’s hope so. You busy otherwise?’
‘Who me? Hell no.’ Cahill’s voice slipped into sarcasm. ‘We’ve just been whiling away the days waiting for the next hurricane to come knock us into next week. McCabe, I’ll tell you, it’s been a hell of a summer down here, and they’re telling us there’s more to come.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been reading about it.’
‘You get those case files I sent your way?’
‘They’re right here on my desk. Haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. I’ll do that at home tonight. Let’s talk in a couple of days.’
‘Okay, I’ve gotta run. Keep me posted.’ Cahill hung up.
21
Monday. 1:30 P.M.
Had Katie Dubois died in any of the ordinary ways teenagers die, from illness or an accident, from an overdose of alcohol or drugs, her funeral would have passed largely unnoticed. As it was, it ranked as one of the major media events of the year in Maine, and the city’s press corps and public personages turned out en masse.
Detectives Margaret Savage and Michael McCabe arrived early at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, home of the Diocese of Portland, a massive Gothic Revival redbrick church with a soaring two-hundred-foot spire that was crowned with a golden cross.
As agreed, Maggie positioned herself outside the main door, trying to camouflage herself behind the cluster of reporters and news photographers. She carried an SLR digital camera Starbucks had given her that was fancy enough to look professional. Her job was to shoot head shots of everyone entering or leaving the church. The camera’s endless buttons, dials, and levers baffled her when Starbucks first handed it over. He set it on full automatic and told her just to point and click. So far she was doing okay.
McCabe went inside. He’d been in the cathedral a couple of times before, for Christmas concerts with Casey and last year with Kyra as well. Each time the church’s soaring, luminous white-and-gold interior briefly seduced McCabe into a fantasy of returning to the religion he’d abandoned twenty years before, something he knew would never happen. He stood alone in a quiet corner, watching the faces of the mourners as they filed in. He felt self-conscious in his only suit, a dark gray pin-stripe he once thought pretty dapper. He hadn’t worn it since leaving New York and only managed to get the trousers buttoned by sucking in his gut.
The organ was playing something sonorous and sad. People filled the pews, pressing themselves into every corner of the large church. The misnamed Mayor Short seated himself near the front, directly behind Katie’s family. The city council came in a group, all in gray or blue suits like McCabe’s. A sprinkling of state legislators and local celebrities arrived. Chief Shockley showed up in full dress uniform, Bill Fortier trotting along by his side. McCabe was surprised to see Terri Mirabito. She didn’t see him. He’d never seen her at a funeral before.
Teachers and tight clusters of teenagers, many openly weeping, were everywhere. McCabe recognized the boyfriend, Ronnie Sobel, from a photo in the murder book. Tobin Kenney came alone and sat alone. A young woman seated with some students, another teacher, McCabe supposed, beckoned Kenney to join her, pointing to an empty seat next to her. He shook his head and stayed where he was. She shrugged and turned away.
McCabe examined the faces as people entered and sat down, registering those he recognized, studying those he didn’t, filing their images away in the hard drive he carried in his head. He wondered if the murderer was among them. There was no way of knowing.
The Most Reverend Leo F. Conroy, DD, ThD, STL, Bishop of Maine, presided over the requiem mass. He greeted Katie’s coffin at the door of the cathedral. McCabe was sure the elegant mahogany box had cost the Ceglias more than they could afford. People always pay too much when they bury their child. The bishop sprinkled the coffin with holy water and intoned the words of the De profundis.
Then the pallbearers, six of Katie’s classmates, carried her coffin and placed it down just outside the sanctuary, feet facing the altar. It was at that moment that McCabe saw the woman’s face. She was standing against a wall on the opposite side, her face crossed diagonally by a deep shadow. He watched her stand motionless until he was sure. Yes. It was the same woman he’d followed down Exchange Street and lost.
She sensed his gaze and turned so that she was looking right at him. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, in her direction. She acknowledged the gesture. He glanced around and saw no one else watching him. He moved toward her. The congregation was standing, singing a hymn. She watched him come and didn’t move away. The hymn ended, and a voice from the altar echoed through the otherwise silent cathedral. ‘For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.’
McCabe stood next to the woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘I can’t speak to you here.’ She spoke with an accent. French, he thought.
‘Then where?’
‘I’ll be in touch. Please don’t follow me.’
‘How do I know you’ll call?’
‘You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.’
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, but she was already leaving and didn’t hear his question. He started after her, then stopped. He’d wait for her call.
McCabe continued scanning faces in the church. But even if he’d known where to look, he wouldn’t have seen the tall, dark-haired man looking down at him, eyes peering through a small opening high above the altar, one hand unconsciously scraping the edge of a scalpel along the back of the other, the razor-sharp blade whisking away a dozen dark hairs.
‘Let us pray.’
22
Monday. 4:00 P.M.
Every time McCabe turned around, Florida kept popping up. Elyse Andersen. Murdered in Florida by Harry Lime. The University of West Florida soccer scout. Again Harry Lime. Then Lucas Kane, Spencer’s medical school friend and maybe lover, also murdered in Florida. Murde
red by whom? Harry Lime? Philip Spencer?
Mrs. Spencer, were your husband and Lucas Kane lovers?
Get out.
McCabe booted up his computer and entered the name ‘Lucas Kane’ and the words ‘murder’ and ‘Florida’ in the Google search box. There were thousands of hits. Number one was a headline from the Miami Herald, ESTRANGED SON OF ACCLAIMED MAESTRO SLAIN IN SOUTH BEACH CONDO. Turned out Lucas Kane’s father was the classical pianist Maurice Kane. At the time of the murder, father and son had apparently not seen or spoken to each other in years.
The murder rated extensive coverage in the Miami Herald, most of it written by a crime reporter named Melody Bollinger. McCabe read it all. In the late nineties, Kane was a fixture in South Beach. The article didn’t say anything about Kane being a doctor. Or anything else legitimate. He supported himself, apparently well, supplying drugs, mostly coke and meth, and warm young bodies, both male and female, to visiting high rollers from New York and L.A. He lived in an oceanfront apartment, drove a BMW 740, and was a regular on the South Beach club circuit. He frequently mingled with the gay glitterati at the mansions of the rich and famous, including, according to Bollinger, Gianni Versace’s.
However, Kane must have pissed somebody off. In March of 2001, somebody stuck a 12-gauge up under his chin and turned his jaw and face into hamburger. His body was found naked and tied to an overturned chair in his apartment. Nobody admitted hearing the blast. Four or five hours after the shooting, Kane’s live-in lover, a body builder and hanger-on named Duane Pollard, discovered the body and called the police.
Visual ID of the face was impossible, but the corpse was the right size – six two, 205 pounds – and fingerprint matches were found all over the apartment and the Beemer. Identification was officially confirmed through DNA analysis. No other evidence was found at the scene. Boyfriend Pollard had an airtight alibi. Miami Beach PD looked elsewhere and eventually figured the murder was drug-related since Kane was a known dealer. A detective named Stan Allard theorized the local drug lords killed Kane to rid themselves of a semipro competitor who was becoming annoying. McCabe got the feeling the investigators were just as happy Kane was dead. They let the case go cold after a couple of weeks. The elderly father, Maurice Kane, reportedly suffering from congestive heart failure, refused public comment on his son’s death.