‘How long does a transplant operation take?’
‘Depends how complicated. Anywhere from four hours to a whole day.’
McCabe resisted the temptation to ask Spencer where he was between Tuesday night and Wednesday night. Or Thursday while the body was being dumped. He had no evidence whatsoever that Katie Dubois’s murder was anything other than a random attack by a sexual sadist. McCabe found Spencer’s manner annoyingly arrogant but he had nothing aside from the fact that he was a cardiac surgeon to implicate him one way or the other.
‘How many other surgeons are on staff here at Cumberland? How many other cardiac surgeons?’
‘There are twelve of us in the cardiac unit. Another hundred or so in other specialties or practicing general surgery. I’m not sure of the exact number.’
‘How many do transplants?’
‘Myself and two others. James Puccio and Walter Codman.’
‘Could you get me a list of the other surgeons’ names and contact info? Or shall I get that from a hospital administrator?’
‘Detective, I seriously doubt any surgeon on the staff of this hospital is leading a double life as a sadistic killer of teenaged girls. We’re pretty damned careful about who we bring on board.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, Doctor, but the evidence suggests we’re looking for a surgeon, and this is one of the places surgeons work. Especially surgeons with an interest in the heart. I’ll also be checking with other hospitals.’
Spencer pursed his lips. ‘Very well,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll have my assistant get you a list of the names.’
‘Thank you. I’d also like bios and résumés.’
‘Sorry. I’ll give you names, but that’s it. No CVs or other personal information. There are serious privacy issues involved. If you want to know more, you’ll have to talk to each of the doctors individually.’
As Spencer spoke, an image flashed in McCabe’s mind of Lucinda Cassidy, strapped to an operating table, Philip Spencer leaning over her, ready to cut. ‘Dr. Spencer, time is critical here,’ he said. ‘The more we spend chatting with your staff, the colder the trail will get. It would save us a lot of time if you would help.’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘I can get a court order, if I have to.’ McCabe wondered if the doctor knew he was bluffing. Getting a court order from any judge to go rummaging through the personal backgrounds of more than a hundred respected doctors might be a tall order.
‘Then that’s what you’ll have to do. I’m not giving you access. You can always try HR, but I don’t think you’ll have any better luck there.’
He thought about the murder of Elyse Andersen. ‘Any of your surgeons move here from Florida in the last couple of years? Orlando maybe?’
‘You’re starting to annoy me, Detective.’
Spencer’s patience was wearing thin. McCabe decided to drop the issue, at least for now, and try another tack. He glanced again at the Denali picture and again was struck by Spencer’s expression. What was it?
‘I see you’re a mountain climber,’ he said.
‘I’ve done some climbing, yes. Denali, as you can see. Logan in Canada, El Pico de Orizaba in Mexico, Katahdin here in Maine.’
Was Spencer relieved to be changing the subject? McCabe wasn’t sure. ‘Those other guys are friends of yours?’
‘Old friends. We all went to medical school together. We did residencies together. All but one in cardiac surgery, then transplant surgery. At the time, we called ourselves, a little arrogantly I suppose, the Asclepius Society.’
‘Asclepius?’
‘Yes. After the Greek god of healing. Asclepius was so skilled a physician he could actually bring the dead back to life. That’s what we thought we would be doing as transplant surgeons. Bringing the dead back to life.’
McCabe remembered the story from classics class at St. Barnabas. Instead of being pleased with the healer, Zeus became so angry with Asclepius for co-opting the ability to bestow immortality that he slew him on the spot. Seared him with a lightning bolt, like an ancient Tony Soprano.
‘How about you?’ asked Spencer.
‘How about me what?’
‘Are you a climber?’
McCabe thought back to his muddy descent down the slope of the Western Prom. ‘No. I’m definitely not a climber,’ he said. ‘It’s not anything I’ve ever thought about doing.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘Well, I could give you a lot of rigmarole about healthful exercise, but I’ve always thought the best answer to why anyone climbs mountains was George Mallory’s. Mallory was a British climber who tried an ascent of Everest back in 1924. He wanted to be the first man to reach the summit. When people asked him why he was determined to make a climb most considered impossible, and some thought suicidal, his answer was “Because it’s there.”’