James Hayman - The Cutting

McCabe knew Kyra had found it unsettling when she first discovered he could repeat, verbatim, lengthy passages from a book or an investigation report he read months before. She assumed what he had was a photographic memory. He said not. ‘There is no such thing,’ he told her. ‘Nobody’s ever been able to prove that a brain can “photograph” an image and then “see” it again.’

‘You remember everything?’

‘Only if it interests me. I’ve got something called an eidetic memory. My brain is just unusually efficient at organizing stuff and filing it away where it can lay its hands on it.’

They continued up Exchange Street. They passed a black-and-white patrol car pulled into a space marked with a NO PARKING sign. A young, round-faced female cop sat behind the wheel. She smiled as she spotted McCabe with someone so obviously his girlfriend. ‘Hey, Sergeant, how ya doin’?’ she called out.

He smiled back. ‘Keeping an eye on the delinquents?’

‘Yeah, you know, Friday night. Another few hours the drunks’ll start pouring out of the bars.’

Arno, as expected, was crowded and noisy. Two or three groups stood by the door waiting for the hostess to notice them. Since their own reservation wasn’t for another fifteen minutes, McCabe and Kyra wandered into the small bar, where squadrons of young business types, male and female, jockeyed for position. He noticed the distinctive squat shape of a Dalwhinnie among the bottles at the back of the bar. It was one of his favorite malts and not always available. He signaled the bartender and ordered a double, neat, for himself and, without having to ask, a Sancerre for Kyra. Glancing over, he saw she was chatting with one of her art contacts, Gloria Kelwin, a gallery owner he’d met a couple of times before. McCabe brought the drinks over and handed Kyra her wine.

‘Why, hello, Michael,’ Gloria purred, bending forward to brush McCabe’s cheek with her lips. ‘Caught any bad guys lately?’ She spoke in a mannered way McCabe found consistently irritating. Not waiting for his response, she turned her attention back to Kyra. Kelwin’s gallery, North Space, carried Kyra’s paintings and prints, and Kyra was hoping to schedule a solo show. McCabe watched Kyra’s face, animated and alive, as she described a new series of figure studies she was working on, small oils of young dancers, bodies abstracted in fluid athletic poses. He found her quite irresistible, watching her when she didn’t know he was watching. In the end, he was happy shutting out the words and concentrating instead on the smooth peaty burn of the Scotch as it traced its way down his throat, wondering for the hundredth time how he’d managed to attract this sensual, sensitive woman.

As he sipped, McCabe felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out in time to see the call was from Maggie Savage. While a chance encounter with an overbearing gallery owner couldn’t spoil the evening, McCabe knew Maggie’s call might. Placing his nearly empty glass on the bar, he excused himself and stepped out onto Exchange Street. The air felt fresh, and he could smell the sea. He leaned against the building and waited a moment before calling her back. Then he punched in her number.

Maggie was the number two detective in McCabe’s Crimes Against People unit. Technically, as the unit’s leader, McCabe wasn’t supposed to have a partner, but he’d stretched the rules, and they’d worked together since his arrival in Portland three years ago. Back then, she hadn’t been shy about letting him know she resented the ‘so-called star’ from the NYPD sweeping in and taking the job she felt she’d earned for herself. In her view, the department passing on her application was nothing more than simple sexism. The fact this was the first time they’d ever brought in a senior detective from outside, regardless of expertise or experience, reinforced her conviction. Nevertheless, McCabe knew that in the process of working together, he’d earned her respect — and she his.

Maggie picked up on the first ring. ‘Hate to interrupt a night on the town, McCabe, but we’ve got kind of a mess here.’

‘What’s up?’

‘A teenaged girl’s body was found in that scrap metal yard off Somerset. Looks like it could be the Dubois kid.’

Katie Dubois had disappeared more than a week ago. ‘I gather the body’s pretty cut up,’ she continued. ‘Maybe a sex thing. I don’t know. You’re the murder expert.’

‘Aw, shit.’ He let the idea sink in. Portland wasn’t New York, and murder wasn’t all that common. Hell, there’d been only nineteen homicides in the whole state the previous year. Just two in the city of Portland.

‘Alright, I’m at Arno. Y’know, the new place on Exchange? Pick me up here. I’ll run in and apologize to Kyra.’

The noise level in the bar had risen to a din, and McCabe didn’t want to shout to make himself heard. He tapped Kyra’s shoulder and led her over to a marginally quieter corner near the coat room. ‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘Oh, no,’ she said, disappointment spreading across her face. ‘It’s taken us weeks to get this reservation.’

‘Someone’s been murdered. A teenage girl.’

Kyra closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and nodded. ‘Okay. You go. I’m sure I can join Gloria.’ She looked up and kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Don’t worry. It’s what I get for falling in love with a cop.’

‘I’ll see you at the apartment?’

She nodded, smiled, and turned to go back into the bar.

Maggie was waiting at the curb in an unmarked Crown Vic when McCabe emerged. He slid into the passenger seat. ‘Any more background?’

‘The body was found by a homeless guy. Drunk. Possibly disturbed. Other than that, nothing. No ID. No wallet. No clothes. Nada. The uniforms on the scene are pretty sure it’s Dubois.’

They rode in silence for several minutes.

‘So how’s the food at Arno?’ Maggie asked. ‘As good as everyone says?’

‘I dunno.’

Maggie peered at him in that owlish way she had. He’d seldom seen a cop who looked less like a cop. ‘I forgot,’ she said. ‘You only eat Scotch and steak.’

‘The Scotch was great, but I never got to the steak. We never even got to the table. Kyra’s probably just sitting down now with a gallery owner we ran into in the bar.’

‘Well, I am sorry to have dragged you away.’

‘Not your fault.’

It took less than five minutes for McCabe and Savage to reach the scene. There were a couple of black-and-white units, blue lights flashing, blocking access to the area. Maggie pulled in behind one. They got out. McCabe grabbed a Maglite and a pair of latex gloves from the trunk.

The area was a small industrial wasteland slated for eventual development. Maybe two or three acres, no more than that. Most of it was surrounded by a deteriorating chain-link fence. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the openings in the fence and back another thirty or so yards. Piles of rusting scrap metal littered the landscape. A few clumps of weeds struggled for life in the stony hardpan. Other than that, just dirt, a lot of trash, and a dead body. Identity would have to be confirmed, but as they moved closer, McCabe became certain it was Katie Dubois.

Even in the empty grayness of death, he could see Katie once had a pretty face. Round with chubby cheeks. Shoulder-length blond hair tied in a ponytail. Eyes open and clouded over, revealing none of the horror one expected in the eyes of someone facing imminent slaughter — and slaughter it was. She’d been sliced practically in half by a deep cut that angled from just below her neck to just above her navel. The flaps of skin were folded neatly back into place. Circular burn marks were visible on her breasts and on her thighs near her genitals. There might be others hidden from view.