James Hayman - The Cutting

Terri knelt in the culvert and examined the wound. ‘Not much question about cause,’ she said. ‘Contact wound from a rifle. The killer must have held the muzzle up close against the kid’s head. This stippling effect’ — she pointed with a finger — ‘was caused by muzzle gases burning and staining the skin.’ She pointed to a clearly round indentation in the center of the wound. ‘Muzzle impact.’ Then, looking up, she said, ‘It’ll match the bore of the weapon.’ She wiggled the boy’s nose with a gloved hand. ‘Nose is broken. The guy must have roughed him up first.’

‘Time of death?’ asked Maggie.

‘Only a few hours ago. Between midnight and 2:00 A.M. ’ She gently moved one of the boy’s wrists back and forth. ‘Rigor hasn’t set in yet. Looking at the scrapes on the back and buttocks, I figure he was shot up there on the road somewhere and dragged here postmortem.’

‘We’ve found the slug.’ Jacobi walked over from the road, carrying a small evidence bag. ‘Imbedded about six inches into the road. Should match the one we took from the seat of the T-Bird.’

‘It’ll match,’ said McCabe.

‘’Course it will,’ said Jacobi.

Maggie and McCabe drove back to the crash site behind Bill Jacobi. They pulled in behind the crime scene tape about fifty yards away from the damaged vehicles. The shooter’s SUV was pretty nearly totaled, its hood smashed in against a two-hundred-year-old maple with a trunk that had to be six feet in diameter. A flatbed driver had positioned his vehicle behind the SUV and was preparing to haul it up onto his truck. Tom Tasco and Eddie Fraser were standing nearby.

‘He must have been doing forty at the moment of impact,’ Jacobi told McCabe. ‘The air bag deployed. Probably smacked him in the face. I’m surprised the son of a bitch was able to walk, let alone run.’

‘Anybody run the vehicle?’ asked McCabe.

‘Yeah,’ said Tasco. ‘Rented on September 13 at the Budget counter at Logan under the name of Paul Oliver Duggan. D-U-G-G-A-N. We assume that’s an alias.’

‘It is,’ said McCabe. ‘It’s another movie character. From Day of the Jackal. Paul Oliver Duggan was the name on the Jackal’s fake passport. Did Mr. Duggan have a reservation?’

‘No. He was a walk-up. No history of renting with Budget before. We’ve requested passenger manifests on all flights that arrived within three hours of the rental, but we doubt we’ll find the name Duggan.’

‘Let me check the manifests when they come in. The guy likes to use movie names. I may recognize one you miss. How about license and credit card?’

‘He had a California license and a valid Capital One Visa card. Both listed his home address as 5333 Zoo Drive, Los Angeles,’ said Eddie Fraser.

‘Let me guess. The L.A. Zoo?’

‘You got it.’

‘These guys are real comedians. Anything in the car?’

‘We’ll check for prints in Portland. The semen sample is going to a lab in Brunswick.’

‘He left the car in a hurry. He leave any stuff behind?’ asked McCabe.

‘Yeah,’ said Tasco. ‘A couple of country music CDs and an old DVD, apparently purchased out of the used pile at VideoPort on Middle Street. I guess after killing people, he likes relaxing with a movie.’

‘Let me guess again. Day of the Jackal.’

‘Two for two. There was also a pricey leather jacket. Nothing in the pockets except one of those tins of breath mints. Almost empty.’

McCabe froze. ‘Altoids?’

‘Yeah, Altoids. Also a couple of empty tins on the floor. The guy must have been an addict.’

‘Shit.’ McCabe reached for his cell and punched in the number Comisky had given him.

Wednesday. 6:30 A.M.

The shooter studied his image in the restroom mirror as he unwrapped the bandages from around his head. Nice touch for a hospital, he thought, hiding his shaved head with bandages instead of a hat. He once thought he ought to get a rug. It’d change his look alright. In the end, though, he decided there was no way he was gonna compromise his cool with something that looked so frigging ridiculous. He fingered the bruising under his left eye. It hurt. Fucking air bag smacked him in the face like a punch. Fuck it. Couldn’t do much about that now. He pulled off his jeans, rolled them into a tight ball, and hid them as best he could behind the toilet. He put on the scrubs and the little blue hat the cop had left behind in the bathroom. With the scrubs, he’d fit right in.

He checked the Blackie Collins switchblade strapped to his leg. Nice to know it was there, though his two hands were all the weapons he’d need. He didn’t have the rifle. That was hidden in the truck, parked two blocks from the hospital and bearing a new set of license plates.

The shooter looked again in the mirror. Blew himself a kiss. Forced himself to breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly. Deeply. Once. Twice. Three times. Keep it cool. Not too edgy. Not too excited. A stealth op. Excitement causes fuckups.

Time for recon. If he was gonna get into the bitch’s room, he needed one of those plastic ID badges they all hung around their necks. He’d have to borrow one. That was job one. He exited the restroom, turned out the light, and quietly closed the door.

‘A lot of people suck Altoids, McCabe.’

Maggie and McCabe were heading back down the turnpike toward Cumberland Medical. There was more traffic on the road now, the forward edge of rush hour, and McCabe was weaving around cars, siren blaring.

‘Yeah, I know, but I knew there was something not quite right about that guy. I should have seen it. I should have recognized him from his body shape. Didn’t fit with an old drunk sailor.’

‘Well, don’t take it so hard. I know you sometimes see yourself as SuperCop, but, like they say, shit happens. We make mistakes. We all do, even you.’

‘Work homicide long enough and it becomes part of your DNA that mistakes kill innocent people. Even not so innocent ones like my brother Tommy.’

McCabe pulled off 95 by the mall and took the connector to 295. A couple of minutes later they were at the Congress Street exit heading to the hospital.

Sophie Gauthier was out of recovery and in a room on the third floor. Finding the room turned out to be easy. When the shooter spotted a cop carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of something out of the cafeteria, he just followed the jerk right to the room. Then he kept walking. No one asked any questions. No one even looked up. Not the cops. Not the hospital security guys hanging around outside the room trying to act like they, too, were the real deal. Assholes.

Okay, so he knew where she was. Now he just had to stop crapping around in the hallways and get the goddamn ID badge. It had to look at least a little like him. They’d for sure check the picture. It took the shooter a while, going up and down stairs, roaming the halls to find the right guy. Finally, on the fourth floor, a guy walking toward him looked close enough to work. Same shaved head. Same shape to his face. The shooter checked the badge as they passed each other. Charles Lowery, Radiology. Okay, Charles, let’s find somewhere we can be alone. The shooter did a quick 180 and followed Charles to the elevator bay at the end of the hall. Charles pressed the down button and waited. The shooter stood next to him. If the car was empty, he’d take Charles right away. When the body was found, it’d cause a commotion. Doctors, nurses, and the security guys, they’d all come running. Maybe the cops, too. Could be the opening he needed.

Charles Lowery glanced at the shooter. Nodded his head. The shooter smiled and nodded back. A little bell rang and the elevator doors opened. The car was empty. They got on. Charles pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed.