The Chill of Night Read online

  ‘Looks like paper,’ said Terri.

  ‘A gag?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said McCabe. ‘It’s not balled up like a gag would be. Looks folded. Maybe some kind of note? Like maybe the murderer left us a message. Can you get it out?’

  ‘I don’t know. Her jaw’s frozen in position. No more than an eighth of an inch clearance. I’ll try to thread it through the opening with forceps.’

  ‘Won’t the paper be frozen, too?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Mouth would have to be wet for the paper to freeze, but it might have been. Possibly with saliva. Or, if decomp already started, there might be some purge fluid.’

  Terri rummaged in her bag and came out with an instrument that looked like a pair of delicate tweezers with small blunt teeth at the ends. She slipped it between Jane Doe’s parted lips, grasped the paper, and gently tugged. It didn’t move. ‘It’s frozen, alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can wiggle it free.’

  It took three or four minutes of carefully pulling and prodding, first one way, then the other. Finally the paper moved. ‘I think maybe I’ve freed it. Now let’s see if I can extract it without tearing it.’

  Holding Jane Doe’s frozen jaw in place with her left hand, Terri coaxed the paper through her parted teeth. Finally it was free.

  ‘Can you unfold it?’ asked McCabe. ‘Let’s see what’s written. If anything.’

  ‘Not till we warm it up a bit,’ said Terri. She was holding what looked like a standard 81/2’ by 11’ sheet of copy paper between the teeth of her forceps. The paper was folded over and over into a one- by two-inch wad. It had been discolored, probably by fluid in the mouth.

  ‘Here, Doc, put it in here.’ Bill Jacobi was holding out a small stainless steel pan. ‘We’ll warm it in the van. Then maybe we can take a look.’

  Terri dropped the folded sheet of paper into the pan. They walked back toward Jacobi’s crime scene van. It only took a minute for Bill to warm the paper enough to unfold it. He flattened it on a tray and took two shots of it, front and back, with a digital camera.

  McCabe looked down. The paper was blank except for two words printed in the center in twelve-point type in an ordinary font.

  Amos. 9:10.

  ‘From the Bible?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Yes,’ said McCabe. ‘Unfortunately. It may not be good news.’

  Maggie looked at him sharply. ‘Why? What’s it say? Who’s Amos?’

  ‘One of the minor Old Testament prophets. Book of Amos. Chapter nine. Verse ten.’ McCabe closed his eyes and let his brain take him back to sixth-grade Bible class at St Barnabas. There he was, eleven-year-old Michael, the oddity standing uncomfortably before the entire class. And there was Sister Mary Joseph, standing over him, smiling benignly down, celebrating God’s gift of eidetic memory to her young student, making him recite yet another passage from an obscure book of the Bible. Her version of Trivial Pursuit. Could she stump him? No, she couldn’t. Not even with the Book of Amos. Twenty-seven years later in the cold and dark of the Portland Fish Pier, McCabe’s mind brought the words back. ‘It seems someone was punishing our victim for her sins.’

  ‘What’s it say?’ Maggie asked again.

  ‘All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword, which say, The evil shall not overtake nor prevent us. That’s what the Book of Amos was all about. God punishing the Israelites for their sins.’

  ‘What kinds of sins?’

  ‘The standard list. Greed, corruption, oppression of the poor.’

  ‘It did say all the sinners – so there might be more?’

  ‘Well, she might be the only sinner he planned on punishing, but I’m not sure I’d count on it.’

  Jacobi stared at McCabe. ‘Book of Amos? Chapter nine? Verse ten? I heard you have a fancy memory, but how in hell would you know a thing like that?’

  ‘Trust him, Bill. He knows,’ said Maggie.

  ‘You know the whole Bible by heart?’

  ‘No. Just the parts we learned in class.’ He passed Terri the note.

  Terri glanced at the note and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Wonder what sins he was punishing her for.’

  ‘The sins of the flesh, I suppose. It’s a pretty common syndrome among whackos all the way from Jack the Ripper to that guy Picton they just put away in Vancouver.’

  ‘Those guys were hunting prostitutes,’ said Maggie. ‘Elaine Goff was a lawyer, not a prostitute. And yes, McCabe,’ she added, looking directly at him, ‘there is a difference.’

  He smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Bill, I’d like to get the body up to Augusta as soon as we can,’ Terri said to Jacobi. ‘How long do you think it’ll take to pry her out of the trunk?’

  ‘When we’re finished with the scene here, we’ll flatbed the Beemer to 109. We’ll probably end up cutting the car out from around her. Take a couple of hours to do it neatly.’

  ‘You can get her up to Augusta tonight, though?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll call Jose Guerrera so he’s there to receive.’ Guerrera was Terri’s lab assistant.

  Joe Vodnick up close looked even bigger than he did from a distance.

  ‘It’s Joe, right?’

  ‘Yes sir, Sergeant.’

  McCabe looked him up and down. Mostly up. ‘You ever play ball?’ he asked.

  Vodnick smiled. ‘Yeah. A few years back. U. Maine Black Bears. All-conference defensive end. Twice, ’01 and ’02.’

  ‘I think I saw you play once. Real nice moves.’ McCabe was bullshitting. He’d been to one U. Maine game in his life, and that was a couple of years after Vodnick graduated. Still, the big man seemed pleased at the compliment, which was what McCabe intended in the first place.

  ‘Yeah. I was pretty quick for my size.’

  McCabe smiled at Vodnick, threw an arm around one massive shoulder, and steered him away from the cluster of cops to the other side of the pier. ‘Joe, you and I need to talk,’ he said, keeping his voice low, his tone friendly. ‘Tell me what went down tonight.’

  ‘It was just like I told Detective Savage. I was patrolling the Old Port. Not much going on. At least not on the streets. Too damned cold. Anyway, I get a call. Dispatch tells me to check out an illegally parked car at the end of the Fish Pier.’ Vodnick repeated the rest of the story pretty much the way Maggie had told it.

  When he finished, McCabe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Why’d you pop the trunk?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah. Why. You know? Probable cause?’

  Vodnick shrugged. ‘Car wasn’t locked. Keys sitting in the ignition. Didn’t feel right. A 40K car left like that. First I thought maybe the car was stolen by some joyrider, then just dumped here, but I checked, and it wasn’t.’

  ‘But you did notice that little plastic bag full of white powder that was sticking out from under the driver’s seat? Isn’t that right?’

  Vodnick hesitated. ‘White powder?’ He shook his head. No.

  McCabe’s eyes bored into the bigger man’s. ‘You remember, Joe. That small plastic bag of white powder that’s now in the evidence van. That’s what caused you to pop the trunk, isn’t that right?’

  Vodnick hesitated again. Then, as understanding dawned, ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘That small plastic bag. Under the driver’s seat? The one I thought might contain an illegal substance?’

  McCabe nodded back at him. ‘That’s right. That’s the one. So what did you do when you saw it?’

  ‘Well, I figured I better open the trunk to see if there might be more illegal substances back there.’

  ‘And did you find any?’

  ‘No. All I found was the woman’s body.’

  ‘And you haven’t discussed this with anyone else?’

  ‘Just Detective Savage.’

  ‘Not with any of your pals over there?’

  ‘No. Nobody else.’

  There was something so earnest and childlike about Vodnick’s response, McCabe found h
imself resisting a temptation to reach up and pat the big man on the head. He settled instead for a more manly slap on the back. ‘Okay. That’s good. Where’s Hester now?’

  ‘Sitting in his office keeping his butt warm.’ Vodnick pointed up to a couple of lit windows on the second floor of the building nearest the end of the pier. ‘I told him to sit tight till you talked to him.’

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him about the body, but he’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to have figured something was up.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll let him know we want to talk to him at 109. Then I want you to take him downtown, get a set of prints, then park him in an interview room on four. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  McCabe slapped his shoulder again, turned, and headed for the building. Maggie fell into step alongside. ‘All set with the big guy?’ she asked.

  ‘All set.’

  ‘Good.’

  A small sign identified the three-story aluminum box as the MARINE TRADE CENTER, 2 PORTLAND FISH PIER. They took the stairs up one flight and found a door with HESTER ASSOCIATES, MARINE AND GENERAL INSURANCE painted on frosted glass. It was basically a one-room office. Maybe three hundred square feet. Doug Hester was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, looking out at the scene below. He didn’t look happy. Probably hated being here this late on a Friday night. That was alright. McCabe hated it, too. Hester was a chubby little guy, maybe five foot six. McCabe put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. He combed his reddish brown hair over in a fruitless attempt to hide male pattern baldness.

  ‘Mr Hester?’ asked Maggie. Hester looked up. ‘I’m Detective Margaret Savage. This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. We’re in charge of the investigation, and we’d like you to come down to police headquarters to review everything you reported related to the incident.’

  ‘Is this really necessary? I already told the other officer, the big guy, everything I know. Which isn’t a whole lot. It’s my sister-in-law’s birthday. We’re having a dozen people over to celebrate. They’re probably already there.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said McCabe, ‘but I’m sure your sister-in-law will understand. A woman’s body was found in the trunk of the car.’

  ‘A dead body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hester blanched. ‘Jesus. A dead body sitting there for two days. How’d she get in the trunk?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Jesus, why the hell would anyone leave a dead body in a car on the pier?’

  ‘We don’t know. But like Detective Savage said, we’d like you to come down to Middle Street and tell us what you know.’

  Hester just shook his head in apparent disbelief. ‘I’m not sure what I can add.’

  ‘Going over it again may help you remember things you didn’t realize were important when you talked to Officer Vodnick. Or maybe didn’t realize you saw.’ Maggie gave him her best smile. ‘Anyway, since you apparently touched the car we’ll also need to get a full set of your fingerprints. Unless you were wearing gloves at the time.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I just ran downstairs to look at the car. I wasn’t even wearing a coat.’

  ‘Okay. Officer Vodnick will drive you down. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Can’t I take my own car?’

  ‘We’d rather you went with him.’

  ‘Alright,’ Hester said nervously, ‘but one of you is gonna have to explain to my wife why I’m missing her sister’s party. She’s going to be mightily pissed.’

  Five

  Murder is major news in Portland, and major news travels fast. By the time McCabe and Maggie slipped out the back door of the Marine Trade Center, a cluster of reporters and photographers was already gathering at the front. The two detectives snuck along the side of the building, using a pair of parked vans bearing the logos of the local NBC and Fox affiliates as cover. The idea was to get to Maggie’s car and drive away unnoticed. It didn’t work. Luke McGuire, the crime beat guy for the Press Herald, spotted them first. ‘Hey, McCabe,’ he shouted. McCabe stopped. Game over. The reporters surged forward, shouting out questions and shoving microphones in his face. He turned to face them. Dealing with the press had never been McCabe’s strong suit. In fact, Chief Shockley had warned him more than once that if he didn’t stop snarling at journalists he’d be involuntarily enrolled in a course at USM called Effective Media Relations. Or, as Maggie put it, SmileyFace 101.

  ‘Hey, McCabe,’ McGuire repeated, ‘who’s the dead woman? What’s her name?’

  McCabe tried to put on his best friendly yet serious face. ‘Sorry, Luke, I’m afraid we don’t yet have positive identification. Until we do, she’ll be listed as Jane Doe.’

  Two or three others shouted out questions more or less simultaneously. ‘How was she killed? Are we calling it murder? What’s the body doing on the Fish Pier?’

  McCabe held up one hand for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please. The ME’s office hasn’t made an official determination on cause of death. We’ll let you know as soon as they do. To answer your second question, the circumstances of her death are under investigation.

  ‘Is it true the body’s frozen solid? Stuffed in the trunk of that car over there?’ The question came from Josie Tenant, an on-camera reporter for NBC’s News Center 6. Tenant was, without question, the most aggressive of the locals. Rumor had it she was also Tom Shockley’s secret playmate du jour. Tenant’s record as the conduit of leaks on major cases suggested it was more than rumor.

  ‘Well, since the body’s been outside in subfreezing temperatures for at least two days, I’ll let you draw your own conclusion. I’m afraid that’s all for now. Detective Savage and I have a lot of work to do. I’ll ask you all please to stay back and respect the crime scene. Officers have been instructed to keep everyone out of the area until it’s been totally cleared. Thank you.’

  They managed to reach Maggie’s car without answering any more questions. In the background McCabe could hear Tenant begin her live report. ‘Tonight there’s breaking news from the Portland Fish Pier. Earlier this evening the body of an unidentified woman was found stuffed into the trunk of a car illegally parked at the end of the pier. According to anonymous sources close to the investigation, the victim, who appeared to be in her twenties or early thirties, may have been Portland attorney Elaine E. Goff. However, identity has not yet been confirmed. Detectives on the scene told News Center 6 the victim’s body had been stored in the trunk long enough for it to freeze solid in the record low temperatures …’

  ‘Goddammit!’ McCabe slammed his fist hard against the dashboard of Maggie’s car. ‘Sonofabitch just couldn’t resist rewarding his little bedmate.’

  McCabe pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Shockley’s direct line at police headquarters. As Maggie eased the car forward, Shockley picked up. ‘Hey, Mike. How you guys doing down at the pier?’ He sounded echoey, as if he were talking on speakerphone. ‘By the way, Bill Fortier’s been briefing me on the case.’ Well, that, at least, answered one question.

  ‘With all due respect, Chief, we’d be doing a whole lot better if you could hold off talking to your special friends in the press.’ These last words were delivered with more than a spoonful of sarcasm. ‘At least until we know for sure who the victim is – and maybe inform her next of kin?’

  ‘McCabe, that’s an outrageous accusation. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ McCabe heard Shockley asking Fortier to leave and to shut the door. Then the chief switched off the speakerphone and spoke in a low, threatening voice. ‘McCabe, if you want to stay in this department, if you even want to stay in Portland, you’d better learn to keep a tighter handle on your righteous indignation.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You also better learn to get your facts straight.’

  ‘If I was mistaken, Chief, I apologize. But maybe you want to turn on News Center 6.’

  There was a brief silence as Shockley turned on the set i
n his office. In the background, McCabe could hear what sounded like Josie Tenant’s live report. Shockley came back on. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Josie ought to know better than that.’ His voice sounded tight and angry. A second later he hung up. If he hadn’t managed to get himself fired, McCabe figured he might at least have damaged Tenant’s inside line to the department.

  Maggie exited the Fish Pier and turned right on Commercial, heading east into the heart of the Old Port. McCabe leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. With the windows closed and the heater starting to blast warm air, the strong, greasy smell of Chicken McNuggets filled the car. McCabe’s foot found the empty container. He picked it up and peered in. There were a couple of cold McNuggets left on the bottom. ‘Mind if we get rid of this? It’s making me feel sick.’

  ‘Sorry. My dinner,’ said Maggie, an unrepentant junk food junkie. Somehow it never seemed to affect her. There wasn’t much fat on her long, lanky frame. She pulled over by a curbside trash bin, and McCabe tossed the box in. He left the window open to release the smell.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘Not going to puke or anything?’

  McCabe was leaning back, looking out the open window, breathing in cold air. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m fine.’

  She turned left onto Market. Cold or not, it was still Friday night in the Old Port, and the bars and clubs were hopping. Kids armed with ID, fake or real, darted from one noisy doorway to another.

  ‘Y’know, it’s weird,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you look at, what, a dozen murder victims over the years? Some cut up, some shot up, some missing arms, legs, and other body parts. Some bloated and turning green. Almost all of them bloodier than Our Lady of the Icicles. Yet never once have I seen you turn the color you did back there. Remember the song “A Whiter Shade of Pale”? That was you.’

  ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ 1967. Procol Harum. Number one on the British charts for six consecutive weeks. Only made number five in the U.S. Sometimes McCabe wished he had a delete button for all the crap sloshing around in his brain. ‘Okay. What about it?’