by James Hayman
Last December, before Christmas, Wendy and a couple of girlfriends went up to Sunday River for a weekend of boarding and prospecting for guys. Saturday night they headed for a place called Giggles, which featured a big bar scene for the twenty-something crowd. All three women started the evening off with a couple of appletinis. The idea of actually drinking something called an appletini made McCabe cringe. After that the women started circulating. They talked and danced with a bunch of different guys. At some point, no one knew exactly when, Wendy disappeared.
Her friends told detectives they hadn’t worried. They just assumed Wendy got lucky and left with someone. Not that unusual, they said. Wendy attracted men like flies, and she liked having fun. They figured she’d turn up at the motel either later that night or, if things clicked, sometime the next morning.
When she wasn’t back by 10:00 A.M., one of the friends started calling her cell. Each time the message kicked in right away. Still they weren’t worried. They figured she’d turned the phone off because she didn’t want to be bothered. They left Wendy’s stuff with the motel desk clerk, checked out, and headed to the mountain. At 5:00 P.M. they stopped back at the motel and discovered her stuff was still there. That’s when they called the Bethel police.
The local cops talked to the motel manager and everybody who worked at Giggles. No one at the bar remembered Wendy except for one of the bartenders and a guy who played guitar in the band. He remembered her because A, she was ‘a hottie,’ and B, she kept requesting Dixie Chicks songs. Seems he hated the Dixie Chicks. Neither the guitar player nor the bartender saw who she left with.
After twenty-four hours Wendy still hadn’t turned up. The Bethel cops ran out of ideas and called in the state police. Teams of MSP detectives interviewed every male who’d paid with a credit card at Giggles that night. They also showed Wendy’s picture around at every other bar and motel in the area to see if she’d been spotted anywhere else. She hadn’t. They broadened the search to include men who paid with a credit card either at the ski area for lift tickets or at condos or motels within a twenty-mile radius. Still nothing. They checked with Cingular, who showed no activity on Wendy’s phone since early Saturday evening. The phone had been turned off since then. Detectives interviewed every known family member, friend, and acquaintance plus all of Wendy’s former boyfriends and lovers. Still nothing.
A massive search of the area yielded no results either. According to a Press Herald reporter, Wendy Branca just disappeared ‘into thin air.’ McCabe was pretty sure that wasn’t the case.
Katie Dubois and Wendy Branca. That still left one heart unaccounted for. Because he knew Darryl Pollock was gay and because he suspected Spencer swung both ways, McCabe pulled the files on missing young men. It took over an hour, but he found what he was looking for. Around the middle of April, just weeks before graduation, a Bowdoin senior from Portland named Brian Henry disappeared without a trace. Henry was blond, handsome, a starting forward on the soccer team, and openly gay. Possibly a sexually desirable target, but, unlike with Branca, there was no obvious time or place where Spencer might have met Henry or picked him up. According to Henry’s roommate and partner, they enjoyed a monogamous relationship and neither of them frequented gay bars or other hangouts. It was unlikely Henry had simply taken off. He was a serious student and looking forward to starting medical school in the fall. Tufts Medical School.
It was nearly 8:00 P.M. The Tufts admissions office would be closed. McCabe Googled the name of the dean of admissions, then used Superpages to find his home number. The dean told him yes, prospective students were often interviewed by prominent alumni. McCabe asked him who, if anyone, interviewed Brian Henry. The dean said he wouldn’t be able to check the records until morning. McCabe told him why he needed the information sooner. The dean said he’d call back in twenty minutes. He did.
It turned out that Brian Henry had indeed been interviewed and that the interviewer was none other than a ‘prominent Portland surgeon and Tufts graduate, Dr. Philip Spencer.’ McCabe stuck both files in his drawer. Brian Henry made victim number three. He knew that unless he made progress fast, Lucinda Cassidy would be number four.
McCabe called Maggie at home. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be working any cases, but he needed her help. He told her what he had discovered about Wendy Branca and Brian Henry.
‘Do the dates Henry and Branca disappeared coincide with the dates Sophie gave you for the surgeries?’
‘Close enough. We know he kept Dubois alive for about a week after kidnapping her. He probably did the same with them.’
‘So Cassidy could still be alive?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, but time’s running out. Mag, I want you to do something for me.’
‘Something like work on the case?’
‘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.
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sp; 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.
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p; ‘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.’