James Hayman - The Cutting

As the words came out, the cops all stared at Lacey. McCabe, too. Maybe McCabe most of all. When the old sailor paused, searching his memory, McCabe waited a moment and then filled in Yeats’s next line. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow…

‘So you know old William Butler, do ya?’ said Lacey. ‘Unusual for a cop.’

McCabe smiled. ‘Unusual for a sailor. Now, can you tell me when you first saw the girl?’

‘I didn’t see her at first. Didn’t see nothin’. Not till I got up to take a leak, which I did against that pile of scrap over there. I was just zipping up and I noticed something a little ways off. I walked closer and there she is. All cut up. It’s a terrible thing, y’know. A terrible thing.’

‘How long were you there before you had to take your leak?’ asked McCabe.

‘Not long. Twenty minutes.’ Lacey shrugged. ‘Maybe less.’

‘So you got here around eight thirty?’

‘Aw, jeez, I dunno. I don’t have no watch or nothin’. It was dark.’

‘Did you see anything else near the body?’

‘Something else? Like what?’

‘Like maybe a knife or a razor?’

‘Nah. Nothing like that.’

‘Or maybe some jewelry?’

‘What kind of jewelry?’

‘Any kind. Like maybe a gold earring you thought you could get a few bucks for?’

‘No. I didn’t see nothing. Or take nothing. I just wished I had something to cover her up with. She was lyin’ there exposed to the whole world.’

‘You didn’t touch her?’

‘No, I didn’t touch her or nothing else either.’ He pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from the sagging pocket of his pants. ‘D’ya mind if I finish what little’s left here?’ There was perhaps an inch of amber liquid in the bottle.

McCabe silently nodded assent. He wouldn’t have minded a little himself. ‘What kinds of cars were parked nearby?’ McCabe gestured to the curb, where the techs were checking for tire tread marks and other evidence.

‘Didn’t see no cars. Maybe some driving by, but none that were parked.’

‘Any that slowed down? Any you could identify?’

‘Just cars going along. You couldn’t see what kind of cars they were.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Lacey.’ McCabe looked up and noticed a couple of reporters had arrived, including a crew from the local NBC affiliate.

‘Hey, McCabe. Remember me? Josie Tenant, News Center 6. We heard the Dubois girl was found murdered here. Can you give us a statement?’

‘Not at the moment.’ McCabe turned away.

‘C’mon, McCabe. Is it Dubois in there or isn’t it?’

Media relations weren’t McCabe’s strong suit. He turned to face her. ‘Look, Josie, this is an active crime scene. I’m not entirely sure how you got here so fast, but it would really be helpful if you kept your folks on the other side of Somerset. We’re still trying to collect evidence.’ Tenant and her cameraman reluctantly retreated to their van. The other reporters followed.

McCabe turned to Comisky, the cop who’d found Lacey. ‘Kevin, would you take Mr. Lacey down to 109? If Detective Sturgis is around, see if he’d be kind enough to take the rest of Mr. Lacey’s statement. Otherwise, I’ll do it when I get back.’ To Lacey he added, ‘Make sure you let us know where we can find you. Here’s a card with my number on it. We may have to talk to you again. Do you understand?’

‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ He threw McCabe a shaky salute and staggered toward Comisky’s car. ‘Canadian whiskey’s not so bad, y’know,’ he said, looking sadly at his now empty bottle. ‘It’s not Irish, but it’s not bad.’ The homeless man climbed unsteadily into the back of the car.

Before Comisky could follow, McCabe said softly, ‘Make sure you check his pockets for a gold earring or anything else he might have picked up here.’

The patrol officer nodded, slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and opened all four windows before starting off.

Bill Jacobi and Terri Mirabito were completing their tasks. There didn’t seem to be much more McCabe could do. He approached one of the other uniformed patrol officers. ‘Keep the reporters out until the body’s picked up and the area’s clear — and don’t listen to any of their bullshit.’

‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’ve heard it all before.’

McCabe and Maggie Savage got into Maggie’s Crown Vic for the short ride back to the office. ‘Do you want to join Sturgis interviewing Lacey?’ McCabe asked.

‘No. There’s no way he’s the killer. I’m sure Carl can get whatever else there is to get. I just hope he doesn’t start doing his bullying Carl shit. Lacey’s got enough problems already.’

‘Well, Maggie, that’s very thoughtful of you. Maybe, instead of interviewing Lacey, we should just get him a bottle of Jameson’s and ask him to read us some more Yeats.’

Maggie didn’t laugh. ‘You know, McCabe, I love you dearly, but sometimes you’re really an asshole,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I called Katie’s mother and stepfather when I saw the news van pull up. I didn’t want them hearing about their daughter’s death from News Center 6. So I told them, as gently as I could, that I thought we’d found her and that we needed to talk to them again.’

‘How’d they take it?’

‘About what you’d expect. The mother broke down sobbing. Couldn’t talk. Just wanted to know if I was sure it was Katie. I told her I was, and she put the stepfather on the phone. He was quieter. They agreed to come downtown and talk to me when I told him how important starting fast could be on cases like this. We’ll see if maybe they can remember anything new.’

‘Okay. Just drop me off. I want to take another look at the missing persons file on Katie. Then I’m going to hit the computer. See if anybody’s reported anything similar.’

Maggie pulled into the curb in front of 109 Middle Street, the PPD’s small headquarters building on the edge of the Old Port.

‘You’ve got the world-famous memory. Anything ring a bell?’

McCabe didn’t answer. He just sat staring out the windshield. A few raindrops were splattering against the glass. Why the hell would anybody neatly and precisely cut a girl’s heart out of her body? Sexual nutcase? Some kind of anatomical collector filling his trophy case?

‘McCabe?’

He looked at her and nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘I do remember something,’ he said.

‘D’ya want to share it?’ she asked.

‘Let me check it out first. I also want to set up appointments with a couple of the cardiac surgeons up at Cumberland Med. Find out what it takes to cut out somebody’s heart.’

‘Think this could be the start of a serial string?’ Maggie asked as McCabe exited the car.

McCabe turned back and leaned in the open window. ‘I don’t know. It’s sure got the earmarks.’

The streets were emptier now. As McCabe walked toward the building, he could feel that the air had become noticeably cooler, the first hint of the coming autumn and the dark winter that lay beyond.

Friday. 10:30 P.M.

Two foam cups partially filled with cold coffee greeted McCabe at his desk. He checked his messages. There were two from his boss, Lieutenant Bill Fortier. In the first, Fortier delivered fair warning that Chief Tom Shockley was going to take a personal interest in this case. In the second, he asked McCabe to set up a detectives’ meeting for the morning to organize the investigation. Finally, there was one from the great man himself, Portland Police Chief Thomas H. Shockley. ‘Hey, Mike. It’s Tom Shockley. We need to talk about Dubois ASAP. I’m giving a speech at a fund-raiser tonight. I can fend off the press until tomorrow, but then I need a complete update. Meantime, don’t talk to the media. I’ll handle that. Give me a call at home tomorrow A.M. You’ve got the number.’