‘You read poems?’ Maggie asked. ‘What poems would those be?’
Lacey reached into his back pocket and pulled out a dirty, well-worn paperback copy of Yeats. He handed it to Maggie. ‘I’m a sailor,’ he said, slurring his words only a little. ‘Able seaman … or I was. Not so able anymore. I spent lot of nights at sea staring at the stars, did a lot of reading.’
‘You read Yeats?’ she asked.
‘Him and a few of the other Irish poets. I like the sound of the old words,’ he said. ‘These days, I’m all alone, y’know, and words are my only company. Nobody bothers me here or tells me to shut my yap.’
Lacey began to recite, stumbling over only a few of the words.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade …
As the words came out, the cops all stared at Lacey. McCabe, too. Maybe McCabe most of all. When the old sailor paused, searching his memory, McCabe waited a moment and then filled in Yeats’s next line.
And I shall have some peace there,
for peace comes dropping slow …
‘So you know old William Butler, do ya?’ said Lacey. ‘Unusual for a cop.’
McCabe smiled. ‘Unusual for a sailor. Now, can you tell me when you first saw the girl?’
‘I didn’t see her at first. Didn’t see nothin’. Not till I got up to take a leak, which I did against that pile of scrap over there. I was just zipping up and I noticed something a little ways off. I walked closer and there she is. All cut up. It’s a terrible thing, y’know. A terrible thing.’
‘How long were you there before you had to take your leak?’ asked McCabe.
‘Not long. Twenty minutes.’ Lacey shrugged. ‘Maybe less.’
‘So you got here around eight thirty?’
‘Aw, jeez, I dunno. I don’t have no watch or nothin’. It was dark.’
‘Did you see anything else near the body?’
‘Something else? Like what?’
‘Like maybe a knife or a razor?’
‘Nah. Nothing like that.’
‘Or maybe some jewelry?’
‘What kind of jewelry?’
‘Any kind. Like maybe a gold earring you thought you could get a few bucks for?’
‘No. I didn’t see nothing. Or take nothing. I just wished I had something to cover her up with. She was lyin’ there exposed to the whole world.’
‘You didn’t touch her?’
‘No, I didn’t touch her or nothing else either.’ He pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from the sagging pocket of his pants. ‘D’ya mind if I finish what little’s left here?’ There was perhaps an inch of amber liquid in the bottle.
McCabe silently nodded assent. He wouldn’t have minded a little himself. ‘What kinds of cars were parked nearby?’ McCabe gestured to the curb, where the techs were checking for tire tread marks and other evidence.
‘Didn’t see no cars. Maybe some driving by, but none that were parked.’
‘Any that slowed down? Any you could identify?’
‘Just cars going along. You couldn’t see what kind of cars they were.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Lacey.’ McCabe looked up and noticed a couple of reporters had arrived, including a crew from the local NBC affiliate.
‘Hey, McCabe. Remember me? Josie Tenant, News Center 6. We heard the Dubois girl was found murdered here. Can you give us a statement?’
‘Not at the moment.’ McCabe turned away.
‘C’mon, McCabe. Is it Dubois in there or isn’t it?’
Media relations weren’t McCabe’s strong suit. He turned to face her. ‘Look, Josie, this is an active crime scene. I’m not entirely sure how you got here so fast, but it would really be helpful if you kept your folks on the other side of Somerset. We’re still trying to collect evidence.’ Tenant and her cameraman reluctantly retreated to their van. The other reporters followed.
McCabe turned to Comisky, the cop who’d found Lacey. ‘Kevin, would you take Mr. Lacey down to 109? If Detective Sturgis is around, see if he’d be kind enough to take the rest of Mr. Lacey’s statement. Otherwise, I’ll do it when I get back.’ To Lacey he added, ‘Make sure you let us know where we can find you. Here’s a card with my number on it. We may have to talk to you again. Do you understand?’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ He threw McCabe a shaky salute and staggered toward Comisky’s car. ‘Canadian whiskey’s not so bad, y’know,’ he said, looking sadly at his now empty bottle. ‘It’s not Irish, but it’s not bad.’ The homeless man climbed unsteadily into the back of the car.
Before Comisky could follow, McCabe said softly, ‘Make sure you check his pockets for a gold earring or anything else he might have picked up here.’