Monday. 11:00 A.M.
‘Ever hear of Dr. Philip Spencer?’ McCabe asked as he watched Burt Lund ease his large round bottom onto one of JavaHut’s small round bentwood chairs. A prosecutor in the attorney general’s office, Lund had a reputation as a bulldog. A chubby bulldog. Once he got his teeth into you, they said, he hung on no matter what.
‘The heart surgeon? Sure, I’ve heard of him. Never met him, though.’ Lund looked around. They had the coffee-house pretty much to themselves. ‘Kind of a big cheese, isn’t he?’
‘Seems to be. He’s buddies with Shockley. Hangs out at the Pemaquid Club. There’s a picture of him with Bush senior and Olympia Snowe on his office wall.’
‘He’s your suspect?’
‘Maybe a long shot, but yeah.’
‘What makes you think Spencer’s cutting up little girls?’
McCabe told Lund about the Lexus turning up in the surveillance video, again at Katie Dubois’s soccer practice, and finally in Spencer’s garage.
‘That’s it? His wife owns a Lexus? Even assuming the accuracy of your video manipulation and the coach’s recollection, I hope you have more than that.’
‘I do. Terri’s autopsy indicated Dubois’s heart was most likely cut out by a cardiac surgeon. Spencer’s one of the best. He has no alibi for the critical hours, and he matches the description we got from Kenney -’
‘From the rear – and from a distance.’
‘He’s also the same height as the guy in the video.’
‘It’s pretty thin, McCabe. There must be a million doctors who own Lexus SUVs.’
‘Four hundred and ninety. We’re checking them out.’
‘Spencer have any history of sexual kinkiness?’
‘None that I know of, but the guy gives off strange vibes. Not exactly sexual, not exactly not. When I was in his office, he described to me how it felt to hold a human heart in your hand. It was strange, like he was getting off on it. Also, I have a feeling he may swing both ways.’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Probably not.’
Each of them sipped at his cardboard cup of coffee. Finally McCabe spoke. ‘I want a warrant.’
‘What are you searching for? Even if Spencer’s your guy, what do you think he’s holding on to?’
‘Souvenirs. Serial killers often keep them. An earring was missing from Dubois’s left ear. Assuming there were previous victims, and a chat I had with a cop in Florida convinces me there are, Spencer might just be hiding a little collection.’
Lund said nothing. Just nodded thoughtfully.
McCabe continued, ‘I want to go over the Lexus for any trace of the victim. Fingerprints or anything that can give us DNA. Hair, blood, anything else in the back cargo area.’
‘He’d have cleaned it out.’
‘Tough to hide blood traces from Luminol. No matter how hard you clean.’
‘Fair enough. Of course, you might not need a warrant to search the car.’
‘I will if it’s locked in Spencer’s garage.’
‘True.’
‘You think I’ve got enough for probable cause?’
‘The connection to Spencer’s pretty thin. I wish you had more. Although that’s not all that’s bothering me.’
‘What else, then?’
‘Letting Spencer know he’s a person of interest. If the guy was Joe Schmoe, no problem, but he’s not. You know as well as I do the minute you show up at Spencer’s house with a warrant, he’s gonna howl bloody murder. Start calling all of his influential pals. Get himself lawyered up, and it won’t be with some court-appointed nobody. You go after somebody with Spencer’s resources, you’d better have hard evidence tied down six ways to Sunday or the guy walks.’
‘Like OJ?’
‘For example, and compared to the evidence they had against him, you don’t have beans. Why not wait till you have a little more?’
‘We can’t afford to wait.’
‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’
‘Lucinda Cassidy.’
‘What about her?’
‘I told you I talked to a cop in Florida? A woman named Elyse Andersen was murdered in Orlando in 2002. Whoever killed Andersen used the same alias, Harry Lime, and the same MO as the guy who cut up Katie Dubois.’
‘Could be a copycat.’
‘I don’t think so. The Orlando cops never released the alias.’
‘Okay.’
‘In both cases the killer kept the victim alive for roughly one week before taking out his scalpel and saw. Lucinda Cassidy disappeared early Friday morning. If it is the same guy and if he follows the same pattern -’
‘She’s scheduled for surgery in four days.’
‘Give or take.’
Lund looked thoughtful. ‘Unfortunately, not a whole lot of what you’ve got connects to Spencer.’
‘At the moment he’s all I’ve got.’
‘Okay. Write it up. We’ll take it to Judge Washburn. Paula doesn’t hang out at the Pemaquid Club, and she’s not one to be impressed by Spencer’s social standing. I think she’ll sign it.’
Washburn was an older district court judge, nearing retirement. McCabe had never met her, but her reputation was ‘tough but fair’ and ‘doesn’t suffer fools lightly.’ He hoped she was the right choice.
Back at Middle Street, Starbucks already had Katie’s hard drive wired into his computer. ‘I’m making some progress,’ he announced. Maggie and McCabe peered over his shoulder at the screen. ‘No problem getting in. She always used the same password, SOCCERGIRL07. I checked all her e-mails. Received, sent, and saved at Gmail and RoadRunner. Nothing stood out, but you may want to review them.’ He handed McCabe a CD.
‘In her address books,’ asked Maggie, ‘did you find the name Harry Lime?’
‘Lime? L-I-M-E?’ He reviewed the list. ‘No. Nothing like that. However, there were a couple of bookmarked Web sites you may want to know about.’
‘Like what?’
‘First, she had a personal profile page on a social networking site called OurPlace. She used it to communicate with her electronic network of friends. A lot of the kids do.’
McCabe was vaguely familiar with the site. He wondered if Casey was signed up. Accessing Katie’s contacts on the site could widen the circle of possible suspects. Or maybe narrow it.
‘Is the site open to predators?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ said Starbucks. ‘They claim that they offer a lot of privacy protection, but it’s not all that tight. We’re getting the list of her contacts from the company. She was also registered with a dating service called Heartthrob. com. Do you know it? Anybody looking for pretty young girls could find pictures, a profile, and easy ways to make contact. I know many people who’ve used it. Including myself. I’ve met several very nice young ladies.’
McCabe imagined the young Somali trolling for dates on the Internet. Odd. He’d never thought of Starbucks as having any social life at all. ‘How would the wrong person gain access?’
‘Easy,’ said Maggie. ‘Just register using a phony name and e-mail address and you can contact any target who looks appealing. Exchange e-mails and photos, make dates. Whatever.’
‘Does anyone keep a record of contacts made?’
‘The site is supposed to,’ said Starbucks. ‘Again we’re trying to get a list, but they, too, have privacy issues, so we’ll probably have to wait until that’s sorted out.’
McCabe went back to his desk hoping to come up with enough probable cause to justify a warrant to search Harriet Spencer’s Lexus and the house at 24 Trinity Street. Lund called just as he was finishing up. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘Judge Washburn’s out of town until late tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Shit. That shoots twenty-four hours. How about trying somebody else?’
‘I thought about that, but I think Washburn gives us the best shot of actually getting the warrant. I say we wait.’
McCabe wasn’t happy with the idea of waiting, but he reluctantly agreed.
‘In the meantime, do you have an affidavit you’re prepared to swear to?’ asked Lund.
‘Ready to go.’
‘Stop by my office and let me eyeball it, see if it needs any changes.’
Before going to Lund’s, McCabe called Aaron Cahill.
‘How you doin’, McCabe?’ The deep voice of the Orlando cop boomed out of the phone. It was almost comforting. ‘Solved your heart case yet?’
‘Looks like we’re chasing the same whacko, Aaron. Harry Lime’s business card turned up in our victim’s dresser drawer.’
‘Well, do tell. Does the card say what Harry does for a living? Aside from cutting up pretty girls, I mean?’
‘Assistant athletic director, University of West Florida.’
‘I assume the card’s a phony?’
‘Yeah. Nobody named Lime works at the university. The number printed on the card is an unassigned extension at Florida Power and Light.’
‘Hmm. School’s up in Pensacola. Not far from where my mama lives. Fax me a copy of the card. I’ll nose around. See what I can find out. Anything else to report?’
McCabe filled Cahill in on the conversations with Tobin Kenney and Joanne Ceglia. ‘Not much to go on,’ he added.
‘At least you’ve got a partial ID.’
‘From the rear.’
‘More’n we ever got. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Lime was driving an SUV, probably dark green. Same kind of vehicle we caught on video near where the body was dumped. We’ve got a doctor in the area, a heart surgeon, who owns a similar vehicle. I’m trying to get a warrant to search it. That’s it so far.’
‘Sounds like you’re making progress.’
‘Let’s hope so. You busy otherwise?’
‘Who me? Hell no.’ Cahill’s voice slipped into sarcasm. ‘We’ve just been whiling away the days waiting for the next hurricane to come knock us into next week. McCabe, I’ll tell you, it’s been a hell of a summer down here, and they’re telling us there’s more to come.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been reading about it.’
‘You get those case files I sent your way?’
‘They’re right here on my desk. Haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. I’ll do that at home tonight. Let’s talk in a couple of days.’
‘Okay, I’ve gotta run. Keep me posted.’ Cahill hung up.