McCabe winced. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘How much alcohol?’
‘Not much. Apparently it was part of her last supper. He treated her to beluga caviar and champagne just before killing her. They found traces of both in her stomach.’
‘A little farewell party?’
‘I guess. Also, they’re pretty sure he had sex with her multiple times both front and rear.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing critical. We’ll have to ask Terri when she’s less pissed off. Right now she’s very pissed off.’
He imagined Katie, battered and sexually abused, being forced to eat caviar and champagne as a prelude to her own death. It was hard not to share Terri’s anger. ‘I want to call a cop in Orlando,’ he told Maggie. ‘It’s that thing I mentioned in the car. I’ll see you in the conference room in about fifteen minutes.’ McCabe had scheduled a meeting of the detectives involved in the two cases.
‘I’ll be there.’
He called the Orlando, Florida, police department as soon as Maggie left.
‘Sergeant Cahill,’ he said to the voice on the other end. ‘Aaron Cahill.’
McCabe found himself wondering if Cahill was still a cop, wondering if he was still in Orlando, wondering if there was a chance in hell he might have come to work early on a Sunday morning. If not, he’d try to get a cell number. Waiting, McCabe drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk. He glanced at the picture of Casey.
‘This is Cahill.’ A deep, Johnny Cash-like voice with traces of the Florida panhandle boomed over the phone line. Apparently Cahill had come to work.
‘Sergeant Cahill? This is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’
‘Two oh seven? Is that Maine or Oregon?’
The Johnny Cash-like sound was uncanny. McCabe half expected Cahill to burst into a chorus of ‘I Walk the Line.’
‘Maine.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Elyse Andersen?’
‘What about her?’
‘We’ve got one of our own.’
‘No shit? Same MO? What do you know about the Andersen case?’
‘The MO’s not identical, but close enough. What I know is what I read in the Sentinel coverage.’
‘Which is?’
‘Your vic’s nude body was accidentally discovered by a construction crew about three weeks after death. That part’s not similar. Our body was dumped in a scrap yard in the middle of town. The part that is the same is that the cause of death was the removal of the girl’s heart, and in both cases the ME says whoever removed the heart knew what he was doing.’
‘Yeah, the medical examiner felt pretty strongly that the heart was removed by a doctor, most likely a surgeon.’
‘Exactly what our ME said.’
‘Okay,’ said Cahill, ‘let’s talk, but just to make sure you are who you say you are, I’m going to call you back.’
‘Don’t you have caller ID?’
‘I do, but for all I know there could be a whole bunch of spare phones at the Portland PD.’
‘So call me back. Ask for Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. You want the number?’
‘I’ll look it up.’
McCabe hung up and waited. Less than a minute later, his phone rang. ‘Cahill?’
‘Yeah, it’s me. Tell me about your case.’
McCabe ran down the basic facts surrounding the discovery of Katie Dubois’s body and what Terri Mirabito had reported, including that Katie died in excruciating pain.
‘Sounds like it could be the same guy,’ said Cahill, ‘but why would he bury the vic in one case and dump her in the middle of town in the other? Getting lazy?’
‘No. Our body wasn’t just dumped. I think he was presenting it to us. Maybe taunting us with it. I think he likes taking chances, gets off on it.’
‘Well, that part’s sure as hell different. Our guy was trying to hide the body. Only pure chance we ever found her. She was buried in a piney woods section of Orlando that was slated to become a new golf course. If construction took place as planned, we never would’ve found her. She would’ve been six feet under the ninth hole, probably forever.’
‘Sounds like Jimmy Hoffa under the fifty-yard line at Giants Stadium.’
‘Same idea,’ said Cahill.
‘So how’d you find her?’
‘The guy had no way of knowing it, but the architects decided to change the plans. They put the clubhouse where the ninth hole was going to be.’
‘So they sent the diggers in?’
‘You got it. Right in the middle of digging the foundation, the backhoe comes up with a load of mucky soil, and smack in the middle of it, there’s Elyse Andersen. At least what was left of her. The backhoe driver doesn’t notice her at first and drops the whole load into a dump truck. He finally sees one of the workers jumping up and down and pointing at the truck.’