The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  He began to ask questions. She cut him off. ‘I’ll tell you more about it when I see you.’

  ‘Don’t hang up,’ said McCabe. He exited the building and walked over to the unmarked Crown Vic. ‘Tell me what you know about Sanctuary House.’ He got in and started the engine.

  ‘Well, I’ve certainly heard of it. I’m a cop’s kid from Machias, and Sanctuary House is kind of controversial, even famous, up there. Or at least it was when it first opened, which was, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight years ago. John Kelly, the guy who started it, was standing next to Goff in that party picture Tom gave us. You find some connection?’

  McCabe’s windshield was coated with a solid layer of ice. He could scrape and talk to Maggie later or let the defroster do the work and talk now. He opted for now. ‘I’m not sure yet exactly what the connection is, but it looks like Sanctuary House is about to get a healthy chunk of change.’ He flipped the defroster blower to high. ‘Lainie Goff had company-paid life insurance, a hundred and eighty thousand dollars’ worth, and Sanctuary House is the sole beneficiary.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Maggie snorted. ‘Now isn’t that interesting? Here’s what I know. Sanctuary House is a shelter for runaway kids. A lot of them are from my folks’ neck of the woods.’

  ‘How old are the kids?’

  ‘Mostly teenagers. Both girls and boys. Most are victims of sexual abuse. That was the original mission. But they also take in drug addicts, kids convicted of petty crimes, some with mental or emotional problems, basically any young person in need of a safe haven and adult support. Father Jack – that’s what all the kids call Kelly – he’s an ex-priest, and he makes them all go for counseling. Therapy if they need it. Tries to help them clean up their acts, help them find jobs.’

  ‘You said it was controversial. What’s the controversy?’

  ‘The place was set up a year or so after word was beginning to spread about the priest abuse scandals. Father Jack was a young Franciscan at the time, and when he told the diocese he wanted to work with sexually abused teens, the bishop went ape-shit, figured Kelly was going to stir up a hornets’ nest when the Church was hoping the whole thing would just simmer down and go away. The bishop put a lot of pressure on Kelly to back off. He said no. The bishop said yes. Kelly said fuck you and turned in his collar.’

  ‘Left the priesthood?’

  ‘Yeah, and it was too bad, because he’s just the kind of young idealistic guy they desperately need. Instead he went out on his own, raised enough money to get started, and bought a big old house on one of the side streets off Longfellow Square. I’ve never met Kelly personally, but from what I hear he’s a hell of a charismatic guy. A real charmer.’

  Charismatic fit with the face they’d seen in the picture. Charismatic and intense. The windshield was clear now, and he slipped the car into gear. What Maggie told him was interesting, but it still didn’t explain Goff’s interest in Sanctuary House. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Just a rumor that John Kelly was abused by a priest himself when he was a teenager.’

  ‘Unsubstantiated?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the story goes that’s what made him so determined to help other kids, church or no church.’

  The Casco Bay Lines ferry terminal sat on the edge of the Old Port between Commercial Street and the water, less than a five-minute drive from Ten Monument Square. By the time McCabe clicked off the phone he was already there. The Bay Lines’ half-dozen ferries provided frequent and regular service to the handful of out-islands that fell within the city limits of Portland. Harts, with a year-round population of just under a thousand, was the biggest. McCabe left the unmarked Crown Vic in a five-minute parking space at the side of the terminal building, its PPD plates protecting it from the packs of contract towers that circled the place. He got out and headed toward the dock where the PFD fireboat, the Francis R. Mangini, was tied up. At midnight on a Friday, McCabe could hear loud Irish music spilling across the water from the bar that occupied the adjacent pier.

  As he approached, he speed-dialed Kyra’s number to let her know she wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. She didn’t answer. He left a message and put the phone away. He spotted Maggie and a couple of firefighters waiting for him in the stern of the Mangini. A pair of twin diesels was already churning up the water behind the sixty-five-foot steel-hulled vessel. McCabe eased himself down an icy aluminum gangway and climbed aboard. As soon as he was safely on, one of the firefighters unhitched the lines, and the boat pulled out. He led McCabe and Maggie to a small galley behind and below the wheelhouse where they could stay warm and have some privacy. Then he went up and joined his buddy and the officer piloting the boat. Inside the galley, McCabe noticed a pot of hot coffee. He held it up. Maggie shook her head no. He poured a mug for himself, dropped a buck in the can, and sat across from her at the dining table.

  ‘Okay, what’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I said, we may have a witness.’

  ‘On Harts?’

  ‘Yeah. While I was at Goff’s apartment I got a call from one of the uniforms assigned to the island. Guy named Scotty Bowman? You may not know him. He used to work in town, but he’s been out on the island for a while now. Always been kind of a pain in the ass. Perpetually pissed off because his career never took off like he thought it ought to. Sees himself as one of the best and the brightest.’

  ‘And he’s not?’

  ‘Scotty’s smart enough, but he tends to be a whiner and a malcontent. Also a chauvinist. He likes patting fannies.’

  ‘Ever pat yours?’

  ‘Only once. I cured him of that affliction in a hurry.’

  McCabe smiled. Knowing Maggie, he imagined the cure must have been painful.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I get this call from Bowman, and he tells me he’s not sure how significant it is, but a woman named Abby Quinn came charging into the station on the island Tuesday night claiming to have witnessed a murder.’

  ‘Four nights ago?’

  ‘Four nights ago.’

  ‘Did you ask what took him so long to report it?’

  ‘I asked. The short answer is he didn’t believe her.’

  McCabe frowned. ‘What’s the long answer?’

  ‘It seems Abby Quinn has a history of mental illness. She’s been in and out of Winter Haven at least a couple of times. Diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. She’s given to delusions and hallucinations. Sees things that aren’t there and hears voices nobody else can hear. She’s tried to kill herself more than once.’

  Not exactly an ideal witness. If the cops on the island didn’t believe what Abby Quinn was telling them, why would any jury? Beyond that, if Goff really was killed on Harts, why and how had the killer transported her body across the bay to the Fish Pier? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. He guessed they’d cross those bridges when they got to them.

  ‘Quinn lives with her mother in a cottage on the island,’ Maggie went on. ‘Bowman says she’s okay as long as she stays on her meds. He also says this wasn’t the first time she’s come barging into the station spouting some craziness or other. Last time it was aliens from outer space taking over our bodies.’

  Scenes from the fifties sci-fi classic Invasion of the Body Snatchers flashed through McCabe’s mind. Walter Wanger and Don Siegel’s black-and-white original. Not the remakes from ’78 or ’93. He wondered if Abby Quinn had seen any or all of them.

  ‘So he didn’t bother checking her story out?’

  ‘No. Not at the time. Just figured she’d gone off her meds again.’ Maggie helped herself to a sip of McCabe’s coffee. ‘Figured she was having a psychotic episode.’

  ‘Did he do anything at all?’

  ‘Not really. He says he thought about bringing her in to the emergency room, but when he told her that’s what he was thinking, she quieted right down. Apparently the idea of going to the hospital scared her more than any murderer. First she pleaded with Bowman not to take her, then told him he was r
ight, it was a hallucination, but it was over now and she was okay. She must’ve convinced him, because, quote, against his better judgment, unquote, he took her home. Back to her mother’s house. After that he took a quick run by the alleged crime scene.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘An empty summer house on the backshore.’

  ‘Where he doesn’t find a body?’

  ‘Where he doesn’t find anything. Inside or out. Just some tracks in the snow between the road and the porch, which he figured were Abby’s. No body, no weapon, no murder. The only thing remotely questionable was a frying pan he spotted lying in the snow under some shrubbery.’

  ‘A frying pan?’

  ‘Yeah. He figures it’s random junk, picks it up, and takes it back to the station and forgets about it until tonight. If you want my personal opinion, McCabe, Bowman was just too lazy to seriously investigate a story coming from a known crazy. Too lazy to even send her to the hospital and spend time writing up a report. He just took the easy way out and dropped the whole thing.’

  McCabe gave her a half-smile. ‘You really like this guy.’

  ‘Gee, how could you tell?’

  McCabe sat at the galley table, sipping his coffee, staring out the window, thinking about what Maggie had told him. His eyes followed a yellow and white island ferry chugging through the icy waters back to the Portland terminal. He checked his watch. After midnight. He didn’t realize the boats ran so late. ‘Okay,’ he finally said with a frustrated sigh, ‘so Bowman drops it. Then four days later he changes his mind and calls it in. Why? What suddenly makes him think maybe Abby Quinn wasn’t hallucinating?’

  ‘He heard about our murder,’ said Maggie, helping herself to another sip of his coffee.

  ‘Y’know, they have a whole pot of this stuff right over there. I’ll be happy to get you some of your own.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll just sip at yours.’ She took one more swallow and returned the mug to the table. Sometimes, he thought, she behaves more like a wife than Sandy ever did. Or Kyra for that matter.

  ‘Anyway,’ Maggie continued, ‘Bowman was off duty tonight, sitting at the bar at the Cross-Eyed Bear.’ The Cross-Eyed Bear, in spite of its cutesy name, was a serious drinkers’ joint on Silver Street, just down the block from 109. A lot of the cops coming off shift hung out there. So did guys who worked the waterfront. Not too many tourists or kids, though, and the few who did wander in rarely ventured beyond the front door. ‘He’s having a quiet drink by himself when a couple of his buddies come in and join him. They all start bullshitting, and they tell him how they were just working a crime scene down at the Fish Pier and how the reporters and TV crews showed up and how they’re all gonna get their faces on the eleven o’clock news. Naturally, they also tell him about our frozen stiff.’

  ‘And he decides to call you?’

  ‘Not right away. He says he still thought Abby Quinn might have been hallucinating and maybe the body turning up at the pier was just a coincidence. Says he wanted to make sure he had something worthwhile before wasting our time. So he catches the next ferry out to Harts. His idea was that he’d find Quinn and have her go over her story one more time. Maybe visit the crime scene again and have her walk him through it. If it made any more sense the second time around, then he was gonna call us. Probably thought he could score a few brownie points by insinuating himself into a big murder case.’

  McCabe nodded. ‘Either that or look less like an asshole for not following up on what Quinn told him in the first place.’

  ‘Anyway, he gets to Harts and guess what? He can’t find her. She’s not home, and she’s not at her job. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of her since Tuesday night.’

  Great, thought McCabe, not only is the witness a nutcase, now she’s a missing nutcase. It didn’t sound promising. ‘So he finally calls you?’

  ‘He finally calls. Tells me what I just told you. Naturally, I question him about the details of what Abby Quinn said.’

  ‘Anything I need to know?’

  ‘Yeah. Two things. Number one, when she came into the station she was too agitated to describe what the killer actually looked like. She just went on and on about some monster with icy eyes and a head exploding in fire. Even if we do find her, there’s no guarantee she’ll describe him any better.’

  Maybe Bowman had been right. Maybe it wasn’t worth following up on. ‘What’s number two?’ he asked.

  ‘Number two is why we’re on the fireboat. Apparently, in the middle of all her ranting, Quinn did manage to communicate that what she saw was this so-called monster, and again I quote, plunge a thin-bladed knife into the back of a woman’s neck.’ Maggie paused. ‘A naked woman with long dark hair.’

  They both knew the cops drinking at the Cross-Eyed Bear wouldn’t have had access to those details. They could only have come from Quinn. McCabe found himself hoping what they’d find on Harts Island was a live witness and not just another frozen corpse.

  Ten

  Harts Island, Maine

  Saturday, January 7 12:10 A.M.

  The fireboat slowed noticeably, and the officer at the wheel began maneuvering it alongside a wooden dock. When he had it in position, one of the firefighters leapt onto the dock and secured the boat fore and aft to a pair of steel cleats. McCabe could see a black-and-white PPD Ford Explorer waiting by the landing. The department’s slogan, painted in gold on the SUV’s rear fender, had been changed from PROTECTING A GREAT CITY TO PROTECTING A GREAT ISLAND. Two cops were keeping themselves warm inside. One was in plainclothes. McCabe guessed Bowman hadn’t bothered changing back into uniform before returning to the island.

  Maggie and McCabe walked up from the dock to the car, and Bowman climbed out to greet them. He was a big man, maybe six-two, with an athlete’s stance and body. No hint of a paunch in spite of his age, which McCabe figured for just south of fifty. He had a hard face with blotchy red skin, maybe from the cold, maybe from booze, or maybe it was just blotchy. He sported a short, neatly clipped mustache. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a lined windbreaker with a fake fur collar. He had his badge pinned to the windbreaker. There was no weapon strapped around his waist, and McCabe guessed he was wearing a shoulder holster under the jacket. Probably liked playing detective.

  Maggie made the introductions. ‘Scotty Bowman, Sergeant Mike McCabe.’ The two men shook hands. The officer in the SUV lowered the driver’s side window and waved. ‘Mel Daniels,’ he called out. Daniels looked too young to be a cop. He had a soft, almost feminine face and an open, eager expression. McCabe calculated backward. Since today was Friday, Daniels wouldn’t have been on duty Tuesday night. Cops assigned to the island worked fire department hours. Twenty-four hours on, twenty-four off, another twenty-four on, then five days off. McCabe and Maggie climbed into the back of the Explorer. The car felt warm enough to suggest it’d been running awhile. Maybe looking for Quinn. Daniels turned the vehicle around and started up the hill away from the landing. ‘You guys found our witness yet?’ asked McCabe.

  There was a short, tense silence before Bowman sighed. ‘No. Not yet. We don’t know where she is.’

  ‘You don’t know where she is?’ McCabe repeated. He hadn’t realized how pissed off he was about that. ‘That’s great, Bowman. That’s just fucking great.’

  The island cop turned in his seat and held up his hands, palms out. ‘Hey. We’ve been trying to find her since nine thirty when I got back to the island. But like I told Maggie on the phone –’

  For the second time in ten seconds Bowman had rubbed McCabe the wrong way. ‘Just for the record, you didn’t tell “Maggie” anything on the phone. You told Detective Savage. You got that straight?’

  The red-faced cop eyed McCabe cautiously. He didn’t like being corrected, especially not in front of a junior officer, but they both knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. ‘Fine,’ he said, his voice flat and unfriendly. ‘I told Detective Savage we checked Quinn’s house. She wasn’t there. He
r mother, a woman named Grace Quinn, said she hasn’t seen her daughter since Tuesday. However, since Gracie’s usually blind drunk, she probably hasn’t seen much of anything since Tuesday. We also talked to Lori Sparks, the owner of a restaurant called the Crow’s Nest where Abby waits tables.’

  McCabe knew the place. He and Kyra and Casey had all made a mess eating lobsters out on the deck one evening last summer. Gorgeous views of the bay and the sun setting down behind the Portland skyline. ‘Quinn hasn’t been there since Tuesday either. Lori was pissed ’cause it left her shorthanded. Friday’s her busiest night.’

  ‘Have you tried calling her cell phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Half a dozen times. Message keeps kicking in right away. Like it’s turned off. Or out of power.’

  McCabe took out his own phone and punched in some numbers. ‘This is McCabe,’ he said. ‘Hold on a sec.’ Then, addressing Bowman, he asked, ‘What’s Quinn’s number?’ Bowman gave it to him, and McCabe repeated it to the woman who picked up at the PPD Comm Center. He asked her to try to pinpoint the phone’s current location, and no, he didn’t know who the service provider was.

  Daniels pulled the Explorer into a parking space in front of the small brick building that housed the Harts Island police and fire stations, a branch of the Portland Public Library, a community room, and the only public restrooms on the island.

  ‘Have you looked anywhere else?’ asked Maggie. ‘Maybe she’s hiding out with friends.’

  The young cop turned to face them. ‘There aren’t a lot of people who hang out with Abby. Not the way she is now. It’s too tricky. I checked with a couple of her classmates, our classmates, from high school. The ones who are still on the island. Like me, they remember Abby the way she used to be. A totally different person.’

  ‘You and Quinn were in the same class?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Yeah. Portland High. Class of ’99.’

  ‘The classmates haven’t seen her either?’

  ‘No. Not since Tuesday. Neither has the guy who tends bar at the Nest. Young guy, twenty-one or twenty-two, named Travis Garmin.’