James Hayman - The Cutting

The first priority was getting a sample of Spencer’s DNA to match against the blood on Cassidy’s dog’s teeth. Tasco poured himself a glass of water, then offered one to Spencer. Spencer took it and placed it on the table next to him. They needed him to sip so they could check the saliva he might leave on the glass.

A video camera hidden in the emergency light recorded Spencer in medium close-up. McCabe could see Tasco’s back and hear his voice-over. ‘This is an interview at Portland Police Headquarters between Detective Thomas Tasco, Portland, Maine, Police Department, and Dr. Philip Spencer, currently residing at 24 Trinity Street, Portland, Maine. The time is 7:30 A.M., Thursday, September 22,2005.'

Spencer sat back, tanned and confident. He wore a preppy-looking collared polo shirt and had a yellow cotton sweater tied loosely around his neck. Mr. Male Model. Right out of GQ. If the sonofabitch was guilty, thought McCabe, he sure as hell hid it well.

‘Betcha he talks to us,’ McCabe said to Bert Lund, who’d asked to sit in.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Lund. ‘He’s not gonna say a word.’

‘Ten bucks?’

‘C’mon, this guy knows enough to keep his mouth shut. Why wouldn’t he?’

‘Arrogance. Spencer’s got a congenital need to show off. He’s gotta prove he’s the smartest guy in the room. Almost can’t help himself.’

‘That’s pretty dumb.’

Spencer cocked his head one way, then the other, and pushed his dark hair to the side with one hand. McCabe could have sworn he was aware of the camera. Spencer asked the first question. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is all about? Am I under arrest?’

‘No. Nothing like that,’ Tom told him. ‘This is just an interview to help us obtain information regarding the murder of Katherine Dubois. Your presence here is entirely voluntary.’

Spencer looked around for the camera. ‘Hello, McCabe,’ he said. ‘You can see me, can’t you?’

Tasco ignored the comment except to say, ‘Please address yourself to me, Dr. Spencer.’

Spencer finally took a sip of the water. Score one for our side, thought McCabe.

‘You mean McCabe’s not going to ask me any questions?’ he asked. ‘I’m hurt.’ Tasco showed him the bag containing Katie Dubois’s earring. ‘Dr. Spencer, do you know what this is?’

‘It appears to be an earring.’

‘We found this earring in your wife’s car.’

‘Really?’ He didn’t seem fazed. Merely curious.

‘Do you know how it got there?’

‘No, I can’t say I do. I suppose it could be Hattie’s.’ He peered at it again. ‘Though it doesn’t really look like her sort of thing. Maybe it belongs to one of her friends.’

‘Actually it’s Katie Dubois’s. Its mate was still in her ear when her body was found.’ Still no reaction.

‘Doctor, where were you last Thursday night between 8:00 P.M. and midnight?’

‘I already told Sergeant McCabe. At home. Reading. Then sleeping.’

‘You also told him your wife was with you.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, but she says she was up in Blue Hill visiting her sick mother.’

‘Really?’ Spencer shrugged. ‘Well, I must have been mistaken.’

‘She says she drove your BMW.’

‘Yes. Now I remember. I drove my Porsche that day.’

‘Not your wife’s Lexus?’

‘No. I prefer the Porsche.’

‘Where was the Lexus?’

‘I don’t know. In the garage, I suppose.’

‘Who were you with? Thursday night? While your wife was in Blue Hill?’

‘I already told you. I was alone. Reading. Then sleeping.’

‘How about Friday morning between five and seven? Did you happen to go jogging on the Western Prom?’

‘No. I was still sleeping.’

‘Thursday night, what were you reading?’

‘ In Cold Blood. ’

‘ In Cold Blood?’

‘Yes. Truman Capote’s nonfiction novel about a family that gets murdered in Kansas. They’re about to release a new movie based on the book. I last read it in college, and I wanted to see how it held up.’

‘Are you interested in murder, Doctor?’

‘Isn’t that a little obvious, Detective? My God, the man reads about murder! He must have killed the girl!’

‘Are you interested in murder, Doctor?’

‘Only as a form of entertainment.’

‘Entertainment?’

‘Yes. You know. Movies. Books. You do read, don’t you, Detective?’

Spencer was laughing at them, but neither McCabe nor Lund minded Spencer’s attitude. Overconfidence might lead him into a catchable lie.

‘Ever heard the name Harry Lime?’

‘Well, it seems you do watch movies, after all. Yes. Harry Lime is the name of the Orson Welles character in the movie The Third Man.’

‘How about Paul Oliver Duggan?’

‘Sorry. Don’t know that name.’

‘One more, Dr. Spencer. Carol Reed?’

‘Never met the lady.’

‘Did you speak to anybody on the phone Thursday night?’

‘I might have. I don’t remember.’

‘Think hard.’

Spencer thought hard. McCabe figured what he was thinking about was whether the cops had a record of calls to and from his phones. ‘Sorry, I don’t remember any calls.’

‘Have you ever met the guy in this picture, the one on the left?’ Tasco showed Spencer a picture of a smiling Brian Henry, his arm draped around his partner’s shoulder, taken days before Henry disappeared.

Spencer studied the picture. ‘He looks familiar.’

‘His name is Brian Henry. A student at Bowdoin. The dean of admissions at Tufts Medical School confirmed that you interviewed Henry last fall as part of the admissions process.’

‘Yes. I do remember. Bright kid. He came to the house. About a year ago. I wrote him a strong recommendation.’

‘Have you seen Henry since then?’

‘No.’

‘We have reason to believe Brian Henry was murdered in the same manner and by the same person as Katie Dubois.’

This time Spencer did react, surprise showing for a split second, followed by deadpan. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a nice young man.’

‘Have you ever been to France? Montpellier?’ Tasco pronounced it like the capital of Vermont.

‘I’ve been to France a number of times. The last time was about two years ago. Only to Paris, though.’ On the monitor they could see Spencer looking at his watch. He was getting antsy. He wanted out.

‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Doctor? I’ll be right back.’

‘I’m afraid I have to be leaving, Detective.’

‘Just one second. I promise. I’ll be right back.’

Tasco walked back to confer with McCabe and Lund. ‘Got any bright ideas?’ he asked. ‘He’s gonna clam up any minute.’

Before McCabe could respond, there was a knock on the door and Jack Batchelder poked his head in.

‘Hey, Mike. There’s a black dude here says he’s Spencer’s lawyer. Wants to talk to you. He says now.’

The door opened wider, and a tall, slender African American pushed past and entered the room. McCabe recognized him immediately from his frequent appearances on television talk shows. ‘Gentlemen, Sheldon Thomas,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘Dr. Spencer’s asked me to represent him.’

Burt Lund stood up, shook Thomas’s hand, and introduced himself. One of the best among a growing cadre of black criminal defense attorneys that included the late Johnnie Cochran, Billy Martin, and Theodore Wells, Thomas worked out of an office in Boston, which, McCabe figured, was why he hadn’t gotten here earlier. McCabe clicked off the monitor.

‘You must be McCabe,’ Thomas said.

‘How can we help you, counselor?’ McCabe asked. Keeping rich guys out of the slammer looked like it paid well, he thought as he shook the proffered hand. The lawyer’s hand-tailored pin-striped suit must’ve cost five thousand dollars, maybe more. Add in the two-thousand-dollar Burberry trench coat slung over one shoulder and the three-thousand-dollar Hermes briefcase hanging from the other and the guy was wearing about ten grand worth of stuff, not counting his shoes and the probable Rolex. Sandy would have loved him.