Free The Cutting by James Hayman Page A

2003.’ Starbucks traced an index finger along the back edge of the blob that, thanks to his efforts, now looked more like a car. ‘See? Follow the rear roofline? Now look.’ A second, more recognizable SUV popped up on the screen next to the still-blurry shot from the security camera. ‘Here is a known 2002 Lexus SUV. Same position. Same angle. You can see the line’s the same.’
    The outlines seemed nearly identical. Then the Lexus image was replaced by another similar one. ‘Now here’s a BMW,’ said Starbucks.
    Again a similarity to the blob. Not quite as close. Without taking his eyes off the screen, McCabe said, ‘Eddie, can you guys check DMV for all ’01 through ’06 Lexus SUVs registered in Maine? Check BMWs as well while you’re at it, and throw in New Hampshire. Then see if you can cross-check ownership against a database of male MDs. Especially surgeons and pathologists. Maybe biologists or biology teachers. Eliminate anyone over the age of sixty. Our guy’s not that old. Starbucks, can you do anything to tell us more about the guy who gets out of the car?’
    Starbucks advanced the tape frame by frame searching for an image of the man that might provide additional information. McCabe watched. Just as the man-shaped object reached the back of the vehicle, he paused and turned toward the road, maybe to check if he was being watched, but he never looked right at the camera. At best, it was a one-quarter to one-third profile, more side than front. Still, it was something.
    Starbucks’s fingers worked his keyboard, and the image on the screen became more of a man, less of a blur. ‘Starbucks,’ said McCabe, ‘keep a record of exactly what you’re doing to enhance this image. If the tape’s ever going to be admissible in court, you’re going to have to be able to repeat and verify every single thing you do.’
    ‘No problem, Sergeant. I’m keeping notes, and I’m recording each step on a nonerasable CD. Repeatable and verifiable. How much it will tell us about the bad guy is less certain.’ Both McCabe and Starbucks knew that even if the tape led them to the killer, by itself it wouldn’t be sufficient to positively identify the guy or prove he did it. They’d need more.
    The young Somali zoomed in, isolating the portion of the frame where the man-blob could be seen in direct relation to the car. ‘Since we know the height of the car and the height of the fence, we can see the man is quite tall. By simple triangulation I estimate his height at six foot one or, at most, six two.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘His face is mostly turned away, and the source material is of poor quality. However, he has broad shoulders, appears to be Caucasian, and is wearing a baseball cap. Even from this angle we can see he has quite a long face. Maybe a big nose, but that’s less certain.’
    ‘A tall, thin-faced white doctor in a cap. Well, that narrows things down some,’ said Tasco.
    McCabe watched as Starbucks played with the keys again. He advanced the image to the scene where the man-blob lifted the tailgate and unloaded his cargo. Starbucks advanced the scene again and stopped it. Now the tall white doctor was carefully carrying his trophy in his outstretched arms into the scrap yard. A groom carrying his bride over the threshold. In the middle of a busy city. The guy was clearly a risk-taker. Maybe that was part of the thrill.
    Starbucks moved the scene forward and back a number of times, finally stopping on the frame that provided the best view of the bundle. It seemed to be wrapped in a light-colored fabric. Starbucks zoomed in on the image. ‘Well, from the shape it certainly could be Katie,’ said McCabe. ‘Or maybe just a bundle of trash from some guy too lazy to go out to Riverside.’
    ‘Strange shape for trash,’ said Tasco. ‘Besides, Jacobi’s team didn’t find anything else out there remotely similar.’
    ‘Just Katie.’
    ‘Yeah, just Katie.’
    They ran through the portions of