James Hayman - The Cutting

He returned to the house.

Upstairs, he gazed at Spencer’s mutilated corpse. The sirens faded in the distance. The crime scene techs were on their way. He had to figure out what to do next. For the moment, he didn’t have a clue.

Maggie appeared at his side. ‘McCabe, what in hell is this all about?’

‘It’s about Lucas Kane.’

‘I thought Kane was dead.’

‘Kane faked his own death.’

‘Why?’

‘Lots of reasons. Probably figured being dead would keep the cops from watching his new business venture too closely. Probably thought disappearing into the grave was cool.’

‘Cool like Harry Lime in The Third Man?’

‘ Cool like that.’

‘Why’d he have to castrate Spencer? Why couldn’t he just kill him… well… normally?’

‘I think it’s about power.’ Sex defined nearly everything Lucas Kane did. ‘In Kane’s mind, cutting off the genitals might have been a way of symbolically neutralizing an enemy’s power.’

Maggie looked dubious.

‘That’s not a new idea. Balls have been a metaphor for bravery and power for a long, long time.’

‘Sick.’

‘Very.’

‘You’re sure it was Kane you saw down there?’

‘You know me. I never forget a face.’

‘Jesus, McCabe, doesn’t this creep ever take a vacation?’ Bill Jacobi called from the door. ‘My guys can’t keep up with the corpses.’ He looked down at the mutilated body. ‘Cute. What did he do with the guy’s schwantz? Keep it for a souvenir? Terri here yet?’

‘Not yet. We’ll get out of your way so you can do your job.’

Outside, the scene had changed dramatically. An ambulance and half a dozen patrol units were pulled up, plus a couple more unmarked Crown Vics. Crime scene tape surrounded the property. Neighbors and passersby gawked from the street. Rumors of Philip Spencer’s violent death brought the media out in force. Flies to honey. News Center 6’s Josie Tenant once again in the lead. McCabe had no doubt her reports would go directly into NBC’s national feed. He owed Melody Bollinger a call, but that’d have to wait.

A pair of EMTs lifted Eddie Fraser into the ambulance for the short ride to Cumberland. ‘Three or four broken ribs and a concussion,’ Tasco told them. ‘Maybe some other broken bones as well.’

McCabe and Maggie walked over to Shockley and Fortier. ‘Anybody get the Porsche?’

‘Not yet.’ Shockley spoke first. ‘Nobody’s seen it since it left the West End.’

‘We’ll find him,’ said Fortier. ‘If he’s still in it.’

‘He won’t be.’ McCabe told his bosses about Lucas Kane.

‘You’re sure it was Kane?’ asked Fortier.

‘I’m sure.’

‘He’s got a hostage?’ asked the chief.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. We spotted a blond female in the car.’

‘Harriet Spencer? Lucinda Cassidy?’

‘My money’s on Hattie.’

The call came less than a minute later. A female shopper pulling into a space on the upper level of a garage off Monument Square noticed a blond woman slumped in the Porsche parked next to her. She thought the woman might be sick, so she looked closer. Then she called 911.

Five minutes later McCabe peered through the Porsche’s window himself. There was no doubt about it. The blond was Harriet Spencer, and she was dead. Stabbed in the heart, naked from the waist down, seat belt still engaged, pants and panties folded neatly on her lap. When they looked, the crime scene guys found sand in her panties. Beach sand, they thought.

Kane must have driven into the garage, parked, and driven out in another vehicle. The garage didn’t have a surveillance camera. The cashier didn’t notice a thing. ‘Just great,’ said McCabe. ‘Now we don’t even know what kind of car we’re looking for.’

‘So what now?’ asked Fortier, frustration palpable in his voice.

‘Beats the shit out of me,’ McCabe muttered. ‘I guess we’ll think of something.’

He checked his watch. In an hour and a half Sandy would be arriving to pick up Casey. He asked Maggie to give him a ride back to the condo.

Friday. 2:30 P.M.

They drove in silence, their minds focused on Spencer’s death, needing to figure out what to do next. Images of the city slid by. At the end of Danforth, a bronze statue of John Ford, a Portland native, relaxed in an oversized director’s chair. Nearby, giant fish kites fluttered above a Japanese restaurant. Maggie took the half right onto Fore Street and headed into the Old Port. McCabe gazed absently at the passing parade, strategies, angles of attack, taking shape in his mind. He watched a pack of noisy teenagers, boys in baggy pants, girls showing too much skin, pointing and giggling at the silly sex toys in the windows of Condom Sense. A trio of Muslim women, heads and bodies covered, gave the same windows sidelong glances as they passed.

Did you consider Kane a friend? he’d asked Hattie. She’d smiled an ironic smile. No, I never would have called Lucas that. No. Kane wasn’t Hattie’s friend. He was her lover. A lover Hattie helped by fingering candidates with the right blood types. Fingering candidates for murder. Was Spencer dead because Hattie told him about it? Or maybe he figured it out on his own and confronted Kane. Either way he had to be eliminated — and so did she. In the Porsche, Harriet’s pants and panties lay neatly folded on her lap, sand inside the panties. Kane must’ve screwed her on a beach and stabbed her then and there. Death at the moment of orgasm? He imagined Kane getting off on it.

Maggie missed the light at Pearl. While they waited, McCabe watched a group of office workers cross the street in front of them, probably escaping early for a September weekend. He envied them their freedom. When the light changed, Maggie drove across India and up Munjoy Hill, where Fore Street turns into the Eastern Prom. Casco Bay glittered before them.

As she pulled in behind his condo, McCabe broke the silence. ‘Did you ever talk to DeWitt Holland?’

‘On the phone,’ said Maggie. ‘Not much joy in it. Said he hadn’t seen Spencer in a couple of years. I made a date to interview him in person tomorrow.’

‘Did he seem nervous?’

‘Not especially. Claimed he didn’t know anything about the murder, hadn’t even seen it on the news. “I don’t pay attention to things like that” is how he phrased it.’

‘Telling the truth?’

‘I’m not sure. He was pretty smooth.’

‘Maybe you better call your homicide buddy on the Boston PD. If Holland was involved or knew anything about it, he could be next on Killer Kane’s hit list.’

Maggie reached for her cell and dialed. ‘His name’s John Bell,’ she said to McCabe as she flipped the phone to speaker mode.

‘Hey, Mag,’ Bell’s voice boomed out, ‘how goes the investigation? When are you coming down?’

‘John, I’ve got my partner, Mike McCabe, with me. You’re on speaker.’

‘Okay, that’s fine. What’s up?’

‘We’ve had another murder up here. Victim was a top heart surgeon. We think Dr. DeWitt Holland, a heart surgeon at the Brigham, may be the killer’s next target.’

‘Jesus, somebody have something against heart docs? Can you give me a little background on this?’

McCabe slipped a note under Maggie’s nose. How much do you trust this guy?

She scrawled underneath, Completely.

‘Mag, you there?’

‘Sorry, John.’ Maggie told Bell what they knew, starting with Katie Dubois’s murder and ending with Philip Spencer’s.

‘How does that connect with Holland?’

‘Spencer, Holland, and another transplant surgeon named Matthew Wilcox all did their residencies with Kane in New York in the eighties,’ McCabe said. ‘They were big buddies. Called themselves the Asclepius Society after the Greek god of healing. They stayed friends at least through the nineties, climbing mountains together, stuff like that. When Kane dreamed up this illegal transplant idea, naturally he needed a surgeon or two to help. Now we think Kane’s closing the business down and wants to get rid of anyone who knows anything. He’s already killed Spencer and Spencer’s wife. He may have killed Wilcox. We don’t know for sure if Holland’s involved, but if he is, he’s in grave danger. I suggest you get him into protective custody or at least have him covered if Kane comes calling.’