Mike McCabe 01 - The Cutting

by James Hayman

  ‘Your stepmother.’

  ‘You think I look like Mom? I mean my real mom?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Your mother’s a beautiful woman. You will be, too.’

  He looked down and was surprised to see that Casey was holding a picture of Sandy. In the picture, Sandy was wearing cutoffs and a bikini top and leaning against the T-Bird. The black hair. The ice blue eyes. The face the camera loved.

  ‘Where did you find that?’ He hadn’t seen the picture in years.

  ‘I’ve had it,’ she said. ‘I brought it with me from New York.’

  ‘Really?’ This was news to McCabe. ‘Do you have any others?’

  ‘A couple. This is the best one.’ They sat quietly for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say next.

  ‘Do you want to see your mother?’ he finally asked with more than a little reluctance.

  There was another silence. Longer this time. ‘No. Not right now. Why were you so late last night?’

  ‘We were investigating a murder.’ McCabe wondered how much he should tell her about it and decided to offer an expurgated version. She’d see it on the news soon enough anyway. ‘A girl was killed,’ he said, ‘not much older than you.’

  ‘She was murdered?’ There was shock in Casey’s voice. She found it hard to believe such a thing could happen to someone her own age. ‘That’s horrible. Was she that soccer star, the one in those posters they had up all over town?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, she was actually murdered?’ Casey fussed with Bunny, pulling at his ears, not saying anything for a minute and then playing with the word ‘murdered,’ repeating it softly to herself once or twice to make it real. Finally she asked, ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you’re gonna catch them?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sat on the bed beside her, pulled her up onto his lap, and gave her a long, hard hug. ‘It’s an awful thing, but there are awful people in the world. That’s why I do what I do. That’s why you never talk to strangers. We’ll catch him. C’mon … this is supposed to be quality time.’ Teasing each other with the words ‘quality time’ was one of their private jokes. ‘Let’s get dressed and I’ll take you down to the Porthole for a cheese omelet. Then I’ve got to go back to work. Jane’ll take you to soccer.’

  ‘Okay.’ Casey said, smiling. She loved riding on the back of the Harley. She ran down the hall to her room to get dressed.

  As McCabe watched her go, he recognized the small knot of fear that began to grow in his stomach. A fear that was as real and hard as a fist. A fear that one day, perhaps soon, he might no longer be able to protect this child whom he loved and for whom he would so readily lay down his own life.

  6

  Saturday. 9:00 A.M.

  McCabe headed for Middle Street right after dropping Casey off at the apartment. He checked to find what, if any, progress had been made on the two cases during the hours he’d been away. That didn’t take long. Basically, there’d been none. An e-mail from Terri Mirabito informed him the Katie Dubois autopsy was scheduled for 3:00 P.M. Maggie had been copied. He hit ‘Reply All’ and told Terri they’d both be there. There were two phone messages from Bill Fortier, who sounded nervous. Before returning them he called Tom Shockley’s home number.

  ‘Tom. It’s Mike McCabe.’

  ‘Mike. I heard about the Cassidy woman.’ Shockley sounded juiced up, excited. McCabe ran down the current status of both cases for Shockley. Much of the information the chief had already heard from other sources. ‘I’m talking to the press at eleven. I want you with me.’

  ‘Chief, press conferences aren’t really my thing.’

  Shockley was in no mood to be dissuaded. ‘Mike, I’m just asking you to give me an hour. The press has to be briefed.’

  Knowing Shockley, McCabe imagined it’d be a real circus. ‘Maybe so, but I don’t think we ought to give away too many details. For one thing, it gives the killer what he craves: publicity and attention. For another, it might give ideas to would-be copycats.’

  ‘McCabe, we’ve just had a horrible murder of an innocent teenaged girl. On the very same day, another young woman is kidnapped. The public has a right to know what’s going on. What we’re doing to catch the killer. The media expects you to be part of the briefings, and so do I. Cases like these don’t happen in Portland – at least not very often – but they’re part of the reason I pushed back against both the union and department tradition to offer you a job. Don’t worry. I’ll do most of the talking. All you have to do is stand there and look professional.’

  For a moment McCabe just stared at the picture of Casey on his desk and said nothing.

  ‘Mike, are you there?’

  ‘What time does the party start?’

  ‘Eleven. Outside City Hall.’

  ‘Alright. Just do me one favor, Chief. A case like this is going to bring the nutcases out of the woodwork. So let’s not give out too many details.’ Knowledge of the details was exactly what they could use to separate genuine informants from the fakers.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Shockley. ‘How about we don’t mention the earring or how the body was arranged?’

  ‘How about we don’t say anything about her heart being cut out either. That’s the big one.’

  Shockley didn’t respond. He knew the details about Katie’s heart would really turn the media on. McCabe figured he was reluctant to give that up.

  ‘Alright,’ he said finally. ‘We’ll keep the heart to ourselves.’

  ‘That’s the right decision,’ said McCabe. ‘I’ll be there. So will Maggie.’

  ‘Good,’ said Shockley. He hung up.

  McCabe stared angrily at the dead phone in his hand. He knew it wasn’t the need for a press briefing that was bugging him. That was a given. Part of the game. What was really pissing him off was his feeling that, deep down, Shockley saw Katie Dubois’s murder as an opportunity to generate headlines that’d make him look good, headlines that might even lend traction to his rumored run for governor. Especially if it was Mike McCabe, the cop from away, the cop Shockley hired over the objections of many in the department, who cleared the case. That’s what was pissing him off.

  McCabe forced himself to put Shockley’s press conference out of his head. He pushed the button to boot up his computer and Googled ‘Cumberland Medical Center,’ ‘Portland,’ and ‘heart surgery.’ On Cumberland’s Web site he learned its cardiac unit, the Levenson Heart Center, was the jewel in the hospital’s crown, named one of America’s top one hundred cardiac facilities three years running. A little more digging told him a Dr. Philip Spencer headed up the cardiac unit and was, apparently, its superstar surgeon.

  He clicked on Spencer’s name, and his bio popped up on the screen. Tufts University Medical School, 1988. Residence in cardio-thoracic surgery, Bellevue Hospital, New York City, ’88 through ’92. Advanced training at the Brigham in Boston in heart transplant procedures, ’92 through ’96. Came to Maine in 1996, nine years ago, to start Cumberland’s transplant program. Spencer’s list of honors ran for several paragraphs. Obviously, if anyone knew how to remove a human heart and who else in Maine had the skills to do it, Spencer was the guy.

  He called Spencer’s office at Cumberland, but the doctor wasn’t there. To McCabe’s surprise, his home number was listed. He lived on the West End near the hospital. McCabe tried the number. A woman answered.

  ‘Mrs. Spencer?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Detective Michael McCabe, Portland police. Is Dr. Spencer at home?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not. I think he’s gone out for a run.’

  ‘Could you ask him to call me when he returns?’

  ‘May I ask what this is in reference to? We’ve already given to the Children’s Fund.’ Her voice and manner were pure Yankee blue blood.

  ‘Mrs. Spencer, this is not about a donation. We’re investigating a homicide, and Dr. Spencer may be able to help.’

  �
��Oh, I see. It’s about that poor girl, isn’t it? Do you have any suspects yet?’

  ‘Mrs. Spencer, I’m sure you’ll understand, I’m not at liberty to discuss the case.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have Philip call you.’

  McCabe gave Spencer’s wife his cell number. He looked up and saw Tom Tasco and Eddie Fraser standing by his desk. They looked tired. Normally Eddie had a kind of jumpy energy. He couldn’t stand still. Right now he was standing still.

  ‘We may have a witness,’ Tasco said.

  McCabe hung up the phone. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Eddie and I were canvassing all the commercial properties in the area to see if anybody saw or heard anything,’ said Tasco. ‘There’s a moving and storage company on the other side of Somerset? Richard A. Morgan Van Lines?’

  ‘I know the place.’

  ‘Seems they’ve got a night security guy. Student at USM. Name’s Mark Shevack.’

  ‘How long has he worked there?’

  ‘About a year,’ Fraser said. ‘He got the job when he started over at the U. last September. My guess is he mostly snoozes or listens to his iPod, but he occasionally has to wander around and check things out. Says he thinks he saw a car stop and park on Somerset on a line with where the vic was found. It stayed there about ten minutes, then took off.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Thursday around midnight.’

  ‘That works okay with time of death, but it means she was lying there for nearly twenty-four hours before anyone spotted her.’

  ‘Not many people go in there.’

  ‘Did Shevack get a decent look at the car?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Tasco. ‘He says it was a dark-colored SUV. Couldn’t tell what kind. Thought it might be European. Curvier look than a Jeep or Explorer. He couldn’t make a color or plate number either. He says it was pretty dark and he really wasn’t paying much attention. He’s only responsible for checking the warehouse. He only noticed it because cars don’t stop on Somerset very often. Almost never that late.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No. There was a security camera, too,’ said Fraser.

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘Yes and no. Unfortunately, it’s mostly pointed on the warehouse area, but on a corner of the frame, it picked up what might be part of the car in the background.’

  ‘Might be?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s time-coded, but way the hell out of focus. You can see a dark car-blob stop where Shevack said at eleven forty-eight. A human-blob gets out of the car-blob and goes to the rear, where, as best we can tell, it unloads what might possibly be the body and carries it into the yard. Then the human-blob comes back without the possible body-blob, gets in the car, and drives away. It’s eleven fifty-nine.’

  ‘Eleven minutes?’ McCabe considered how long eleven minutes could be. Too much time just to carry the body to where it was dumped, arrange it to his liking, and walk back. So what’s he doing in there for eleven minutes? Admiring his handiwork? Jerking off? That’s some cocky bastard.

  Eddie Fraser was trying to get his attention. ‘Mike, it’s gotta be our guy. It’s gotta be. Starbucks is trying to computer-enhance the image now. C’mon, let’s see how he’s doing.’

  McCabe and the two detectives went downstairs to the small cubicle where the PPD’s resident brainiac sat in front of a computer setup far more sophisticated than McCabe’s. He was a Somali kid named Aden Yusuf Hassan. When he started working for the PPD a few years earlier he was instantly nicknamed Starbucks by the cops, more for his addiction to strong coffee than for any resemblance to the Melville character.

  Starbucks had arrived in Portland at age fifteen back in 2000, in the first wave of Sudanese and Somali refugees who came fleeing genocide in their own lands. Shockley hired him part-time while he was still in high school, part of a brief flirtation with building racial diversity in the department. The kid had never touched a computer in his native country, but he learned fast. He was a natural. One of the best McCabe ever saw. He could teach himself the basics in complex programs in just a couple of hours, mastery in a few days. Without question, he was the number one computer geek in the department, maybe in the whole city. Starbucks sat hunched in front of a flat-panel monitor, his dark brown face scrunched up in concentration.

  He looked up as McCabe and the others approached. His face exploded in a huge smile. ‘Good news, Detectives!’ He said it emphatically, practically shouting out the word ‘Detectives’ with only a trace of a Somali accent, his only language until age fourteen. ‘I make the car as definitely an SUV. Maybe a Lexus. Maybe a BMW. A 2002 model, maybe 2003.’ Starbucks traced an index finger along the back edge of the blob that, thanks to his efforts, now looked more like a car. ‘See? Follow the rear roofline? Now look.’ A second, more recognizable SUV popped up on the screen next to the still-blurry shot from the security camera. ‘Here is a known 2002 Lexus SUV. Same position. Same angle. You can see the line’s the same.’

  The outlines seemed nearly identical. Then the Lexus image was replaced by another similar one. ‘Now here’s a BMW,’ said Starbucks.

  Again a similarity to the blob. Not quite as close. Without taking his eyes off the screen, McCabe said, ‘Eddie, can you guys check DMV for all ’01 through ’06 Lexus SUVs registered in Maine? Check BMWs as well while you’re at it, and throw in New Hampshire. Then see if you can cross-check ownership against a database of male MDs. Especially surgeons and pathologists. Maybe biologists or biology teachers. Eliminate anyone over the age of sixty. Our guy’s not that old. Starbucks, can you do anything to tell us more about the guy who gets out of the car?’

  Starbucks advanced the tape frame by frame searching for an image of the man that might provide additional information. McCabe watched. Just as the man-shaped object reached the back of the vehicle, he paused and turned toward the road, maybe to check if he was being watched, but he never looked right at the camera. At best, it was a one-quarter to one-third profile, more side than front. Still, it was something.

  Starbucks’s fingers worked his keyboard, and the image on the screen became more of a man, less of a blur. ‘Starbucks,’ said McCabe, ‘keep a record of exactly what you’re doing to enhance this image. If the tape’s ever going to be admissible in court, you’re going to have to be able to repeat and verify every single thing you do.’

  ‘No problem, Sergeant. I’m keeping notes, and I’m recording each step on a nonerasable CD. Repeatable and verifiable. How much it will tell us about the bad guy is less certain.’ Both McCabe and Starbucks knew that even if the tape led them to the killer, by itself it wouldn’t be sufficient to positively identify the guy or prove he did it. They’d need more.

  The young Somali zoomed in, isolating the portion of the frame where the man-blob could be seen in direct relation to the car. ‘Since we know the height of the car and the height of the fence, we can see the man is quite tall. By simple triangulation I estimate his height at six foot one or, at most, six two.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘His face is mostly turned away, and the source material is of poor quality. However, he has broad shoulders, appears to be Caucasian, and is wearing a baseball cap. Even from this angle we can see he has quite a long face. Maybe a big nose, but that’s less certain.’

  ‘A tall, thin-faced white doctor in a cap. Well, that narrows things down some,’ said Tasco.

  McCabe watched as Starbucks played with the keys again. He advanced the image to the scene where the man-blob lifted the tailgate and unloaded his cargo. Starbucks advanced the scene again and stopped it. Now the tall white doctor was carefully carrying his trophy in his outstretched arms into the scrap yard. A groom carrying his bride over the threshold. In the middle of a busy city. The guy was clearly a risk-taker. Maybe that was part of the thrill.

  Starbucks moved the scene forward and back a number of times, finally stopping on the frame that provided the best view of the bundle. It seemed to be wrapped in a light-colored fabr
ic. Starbucks zoomed in on the image. ‘Well, from the shape it certainly could be Katie,’ said McCabe. ‘Or maybe just a bundle of trash from some guy too lazy to go out to Riverside.’

  ‘Strange shape for trash,’ said Tasco. ‘Besides, Jacobi’s team didn’t find anything else out there remotely similar.’

  ‘Just Katie.’

  ‘Yeah, just Katie.’

  They ran through the portions of the tape where the car was parked. Two other cars drove by during the eleven minutes, but there was nothing else that seemed revealing. ‘Let’s put out some publicity on this,’ said McCabe. ‘See if we can find one or both of the drive-bys. Maybe they’ll remember something useful about the parked car.’

  ‘I’ll continue working with this,’ said Starbucks. ‘By altering the individual pixels I think I can improve resolution. Give us a better idea of what the guy looks like. What he was wearing. However, as I said, the quality of the source material is poor.’

  McCabe checked his watch. Almost time for Shockley’s press conference. ‘Okay. I’ll check in with you guys later. Right now I’ve got to attend a command performance for the GO.’ ‘The GO’ was the squad’s nickname for Chief Shockley, a.k.a. ‘the Great One.’

  7

  Saturday. 11:00 A.M.

  The press conference began on schedule on the broad granite steps of Portland’s hundred-year-old beaux arts City Hall. The event was, as McCabe expected, perfectly stage-managed. Camera crews and reporters from the local network affiliates plus reporters from all of Maine’s major daily papers stood in a crowd at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Shockley. Among them McCabe saw a face he recognized as a stringer for one of the New York tabloids. There were probably others.

  The mayor and several city council members flanked Chief Shockley. Close to a hundred of the merely curious were also in attendance. Shockley wore full-dress blues for the occasion. McCabe and Maggie Savage positioned themselves behind him and slightly to his right. At least, McCabe mused, there were no musicians on hand to start things off with a rousing chorus of ‘Hail to the Chief.’ Probably only because Shockley hadn’t thought of it.