The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  ‘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 Hermes 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 amp;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 Cross.’

  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 jalapeno 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.’

  ‘Right — and there’s more. We just had Spencer in for an interview at Middle Street.’

  ‘And?’

  McCabe signaled Mandy and ordered another Glenfiddich. Maggie settled for a seltzer. ‘He didn’t behave like he was guilty. He was too relaxed. I mean, whoever killed Katie and the others knows we have a witness. He ought to be worried about it. Hell, we know he’s worried about it. He’s already tried to kill her twice and failed both times. His hit man is dead.’

  Maggie pulled out another cheesy nacho. McCabe waited until it was safely in her mouth, then said, ‘Spencer wasn’t worried. I don’t think he had a clue.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Jacobi’s guys found blood in the back of the Lexus — and Katie Dubois’s earring.’

  Maggie’s eyebrows went up. ‘Incriminating evidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘It ought to be, but Spencer didn’t recognize or react to the earring when Tom showed it to him. On top of that, I had Tasco ask him about Paul Oliver Duggan and Carol Reed. He never heard of them.’

  ‘Who’s Carol Reed?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘The director of The Third Man. The male director. Any real movie buff, anyone using the alias Harry Lime, ought to at least know the name. Spencer didn’t. I’m sure of it. Anyway, we’ll know for sure in forty-eight hours. We gave him a glass of water and got a saliva sample. The lab’s doing a DNA match with the blood on Cassidy’s dog’s teeth. That’ll prove it one way or the other.’

  ‘Okay, let’s suppose Spencer isn’t the murderer. So how did the blood and the earring end up in the back of the car?’

  ‘Maybe you just gave us the answer to that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hattie.’

  ‘Hattie Spencer?’

  ‘You know any other Hatties?’

  ‘C’mon, McCabe, maybe Hattie Spencer dug up Katie’s blood type, but she didn’t rape her or kill her. Or dump her body.’

  ‘No, she didn’t — but she probably passed on the information about the blood types to somebody who did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know who, but she did tell me she lent the Lexus to a friend last Wednesday through Friday while she was up in Blue Hill. At the time, I thought she was covering for her husband. Now I think she may have been telling the truth.’

  McCabe picked up a nacho. The jalapeno slipped off the top and landed on his shirt. ‘Shit.’ He picked it off and ate it, but it left a greasy ring behind.

  Maggie dipped her napkin in the seltzer, went around the table, and dabbed at the spot on his shirt. He watched her, a grumpy expression on his face. She looked up and smiled. ‘Y’know, you’re really very cute when you get all pouty.’ She leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Too bad you’re taken.’

  He glanced over to where the two cops had been sitting.

  ‘They left ten minutes ago,’ she said, ‘and the waitress is in the kitchen. Nothing to worry about.’ She turned to go to the ladies’ room. ‘Be right back,’ she called.

  McCabe thought about what Maggie had done. Totally unexpected, but not totally unpleasant. In fact, he kind of liked it, wouldn’t have minded doing it back. Except he was taken — and, for now at least, he was happy with that.

  Maggie slid back onto her chair. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, Hattie lent the Lexus to a friend. What friend?’

  McCabe looked into her dark brown eyes and realized, not for the first time, how attractive she was. There was no time to think about that now.

  ‘Mike, what friend?’

  He held up a finger.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Just give me a minute.’ He forced his mind back to the picture in Spencer’s office. Four surgeons. Four friends. All gazing down from the summit of Denali. We all went to medical school together. We did residencies together. All but one in cardiac surgery, transplant surgery… bringing the dead back to life. The Asclepius Society.

  All but one. Lucas Kane. Lost his license. Murdered in Miami. A tragic, tragic loss. A great talent. In some ways, the most talented of us all.

  Spencer went to the funeral. Hattie didn’t.

  Lucas Kane was somebody I knew a long time ago, Hattie had said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.

  Was Lucas Kane a friend?

  A friend? No, I never would have called Lucas that. If not a friend, then what? A lover?

  What about the other surgeons in the picture? DeWitt Holland and Matthew Wilcox. One in Boston. One in Nor
th Carolina. Did they attend Kane’s funeral as well? Did they all meet the shooter there? McCabe wondered if there was a press photographer at the funeral, if there were pictures. Maybe it was time to contact Melody Bollinger, the Miami Herald reporter who covered the case.

  ‘Mike, what are you thinking about?’

  He told her about the Denali picture. ‘Sophie said there were two surgeons in each of the transplant operations. Maybe it’s time we talked to Dr. Holland and Dr. Wilcox.’

  She considered this. ‘Makes sense. Surgeons. Old med school chums. If Spencer wasn’t involved, maybe one or both of them were.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out about Wilcox,’ said McCabe. ‘Meantime, you drive down to Boston and talk to DeWitt Holland.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be confined to my desk, you know?’

  ‘Holland won’t know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but Fortier will.’

  ‘Call in sick.’

  ‘I guess. Anyway, I’ve got an old pal on the Boston PD. Homicide guy. We used to date. I think he’ll help.’

  McCabe took another nacho.

  Maggie looked thoughtful. ‘McCabe, you said there were three other surgeons with Spencer in that picture. Holland and Wilcox are two. Who’s the third man?’

  ‘The third man,’ he said, ‘is Lucas Kane — and, like Harry Lime, he’s supposed to be dead.’

  43

  Thursday. 6:00 P.M.

  Had anyone been watching, the two figures would have appeared almost spectral. A man and a woman, both dressed in white, moving together across a translucent, nearly monochromatic emptiness, where sand blended into sea and sea into overcast sky without perceptible delineation.

  For a time, they seemed lost in thought, each looking down, each noting the prints their steps left behind in the sand. After a while they stopped and the woman turned toward her companion. She took one of his hands in hers as if willing him to move closer. He didn’t. She let go. A wisp of blond hair blew across her face. She brushed it away.

  She spoke, but her words were impossible for anyone but the man to hear. He shook his head. They resumed their walk, legs moving in tandem, as if attached by invisible cords. He slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned in close.