The Cutting Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: James Hayman
in gold on its rear fender. Some days, he thought, we keep that promise better than others. A dirty-looking man of indeterminate age was leaning against the back door. A uniformed officer stood nearby. Satisfied he wasn’t going to find anything else useful, McCabe walked over to join them. After a last look back at the body, Maggie followed.
‘This is the guy who found the body,’ the cop told them. ‘Says he’d be happy to tell us more about it if maybe we could come up with a little whiskey for him.’
‘Oh, really,’ said McCabe. ‘Well, I guess we’ll have to think about that.’
The man steadied himself against the car. He was a skinny little guy. Maybe five feet four. His eyes darted between McCabe and Maggie. Clearly he had no love for cops.
‘What’s your name?’ McCabe asked.
‘Lacey. Dennis Patrick Lacey.’
‘Got any ID, Dennis?’
The man handed McCabe a Maine driver’s license. It had expired three years ago. Lacey was fifty-five years old. McCabe would have guessed ten years older. He handed the license back.
‘Wrestling fan?’
‘Huh?’
McCabe pointed toward Lacey’s T-shirt. A picture of a grimacing wrestler and the letters wwe adorned the front.
‘Christ, no. They give you this crap at the shelter. It’s stuff nobody else wants.’
Lacey seemed coherent enough. McCabe glanced at Maggie, who flipped open a mini recording device.
‘This is Detective Margaret Savage, Portland, Maine, Police Department. The time is 9:54 P.M. , September 16, 2005. The following is an interview recorded in a vacant lot off Somerset Street, Portland, Maine, between Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, also of the Portland PD, and Mr. Dennis Lacey, residing at … Mr. Lacey, can you tell us where you live?’
‘Wherever I can doss down.’
McCabe began. ‘Would you tell us what you saw tonight?’
‘I didn’t have nothing to do with it.’
‘We don’t believe you did,’ McCabe said as gently as he could. ‘We just need to know what you saw to help us find whoever did do it.’
Lacey looked at McCabe as if trying to gauge to what degree he could be trusted. He finally shrugged and began speaking. ‘Aw, jeez, it was awful.’ McCabe could hear traces of a brogue under the man’s slur, its lilting rhythms reminding him of his own Irish grandparents. ‘Warm nights like this,’ Lacey said, ‘I sometimes sneak into the scrap yard. Just to sit. Look at the stars. Have a few drinks. Read a few poems. If I can afford it, maybe I bring something to eat.’
‘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
‘This is the guy who found the body,’ the cop told them. ‘Says he’d be happy to tell us more about it if maybe we could come up with a little whiskey for him.’
‘Oh, really,’ said McCabe. ‘Well, I guess we’ll have to think about that.’
The man steadied himself against the car. He was a skinny little guy. Maybe five feet four. His eyes darted between McCabe and Maggie. Clearly he had no love for cops.
‘What’s your name?’ McCabe asked.
‘Lacey. Dennis Patrick Lacey.’
‘Got any ID, Dennis?’
The man handed McCabe a Maine driver’s license. It had expired three years ago. Lacey was fifty-five years old. McCabe would have guessed ten years older. He handed the license back.
‘Wrestling fan?’
‘Huh?’
McCabe pointed toward Lacey’s T-shirt. A picture of a grimacing wrestler and the letters wwe adorned the front.
‘Christ, no. They give you this crap at the shelter. It’s stuff nobody else wants.’
Lacey seemed coherent enough. McCabe glanced at Maggie, who flipped open a mini recording device.
‘This is Detective Margaret Savage, Portland, Maine, Police Department. The time is 9:54 P.M. , September 16, 2005. The following is an interview recorded in a vacant lot off Somerset Street, Portland, Maine, between Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, also of the Portland PD, and Mr. Dennis Lacey, residing at … Mr. Lacey, can you tell us where you live?’
‘Wherever I can doss down.’
McCabe began. ‘Would you tell us what you saw tonight?’
‘I didn’t have nothing to do with it.’
‘We don’t believe you did,’ McCabe said as gently as he could. ‘We just need to know what you saw to help us find whoever did do it.’
Lacey looked at McCabe as if trying to gauge to what degree he could be trusted. He finally shrugged and began speaking. ‘Aw, jeez, it was awful.’ McCabe could hear traces of a brogue under the man’s slur, its lilting rhythms reminding him of his own Irish grandparents. ‘Warm nights like this,’ Lacey said, ‘I sometimes sneak into the scrap yard. Just to sit. Look at the stars. Have a few drinks. Read a few poems. If I can afford it, maybe I bring something to eat.’
‘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
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