Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  Boldt found himself now standing on the front landing, a steady drizzle falling onto his shoulders and hair. His stomach felt inexorably knotted, the bitter taste of bile threatening at the back of his throat. He tried to imagine the killer walking away.

  Then Kramer honked the car horn, and Lou Boldt was back on the steps of Croy’s small house on Seventy-fourth Street.

  Absentmindedly, the detective looked down, his eyesight zeroing in on the first concrete step. He crouched down.

  There on the step, a brightly colored speck lay floating in a small puddle of water. He bent down further, making his knees wet, and touched his fingertip to it and it clung eagerly to his skin. He drew his finger in close to his eyes, his vision shifting focus, the speck becoming clearer.

  A single red fiber.

  3

  Lieutenant Philip Shoswitz had eyes shaped like sunflower seeds and a dark bristly mustache that helped to hide his rabbitlike front teeth. It was his nature to move quickly, nervously, always fidgeting, rubbing at his chronic tennis elbow or scratching at his scalp. Boldt sat in the only other chair in the lieutenant’s cramped but ordered office space that was defined by five-foot sound baffles, the dull clattering of typewriters spitting out arrhythmical reports from somewhere on the other side. When Shoswitz had weighed 250 he had been indolent and lethargic, now he was an entirely different man, wired and restless. Boldt remembered him from those early years when the two had played a weekly game of poker together, long before wives and mortgages, back when a policeman’s pay had seemed decent enough. Boldt hadn’t played poker in years.

  “So how was Portland?” the lieutenant asked in his high, strained voice.

  “Interrupted.”

  “Kramer tried to switch things around while you were gone.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He told you? I’m surprised. He was careful about it. He gave it his best, which for him isn’t too good, is it? Right? I told him we would leave things as they were. I think he knew my answer before he even asked. Right? I have to give him credit for trying.” Shoswitz had long since adopted the annoying habit of asking, “Right?” in the middle of any conversation, as if expecting a reply—as if needing the reassurance. His apparent insecurity was nothing more than the lieutenant’s way of making a statement. It was as if he believed himself always in the know, always right.

  Boldt didn’t play the game, not even nodding. After years of the rhetorical question he let it pass. But ignoring the query only made Shoswitz more persistent.

  “So what’s up?” Boldt asked.

  “I need a pinch hitter.” Shoswitz was devoted to baseball. The game continually crept into his conversations and Boldt was often annoyed by the tired clichés and useless statistics.

  Boldt waited.

  “I’m being interviewed. Correction: We’re being interviewed. Right? A graduate student in journalism at the University is doing a term paper—the topic of which, he’s quick to point out, concerns the inappropriate influence of the press on our legal system. He referred to the Gary Hart disaster as an example. At any rate, it would seem the Jergensen case has caught his eye, and my wonderful friends down in Public Information,” he said sarcastically, “arranged for him to interview me. And I’m putting you on deck. If I swing and miss, then by all means correct me and set the record straight. I’ll do the same for you. It’s safer with two of us. Right?”

  “Why not the captain?”

  “He wants to distance himself from Jergensen. The fallout from that one continues to be intense. It’s off-limits. Be thankful for small favors. You missed last night’s news. They were less than kind. We’re to make it perfectly clear that Jergensen’s low-level and not at all the sort of thing that would have crossed the captain’s desk. Notice is served. Keep in mind, Lou, our necks are on the line here. This is game seven—and we’re behind.”

  “There isn’t much to tell this kid, is there?”

  “Short and sweet, then. That’s fine with me. If you can end the interview politely, then by all means, be my guest.” Shoswitz rubbed his elbow, his face showing curiosity as he peered over Lou Boldt’s shoulder. “I think he’s here. I’ll grab a chair. Remember, you’re my expert. Act like an expert. Right? And for God’s sake, tuck in your shirt. You’re looking a little bit ratty these days, Lou, for Christ’s sake.”

  Boldt grunted, moving his chair in preparation for the interviewer. A minute later Jerry Kline was seated, notebook in hand. He looked nervous. Boldt was glad for that. Kline combed his knotted hair out of his eyes with ink-stained fingers and began, “Let me make one thing clear, gentlemen. I’m on your side in this, if sides exist in such matters, and it is my contention not only that they do, but that the lines are sharply drawn. My interest is in developing a factual foundation to support the theory that misconduct of the media can have devastating effects on law enforcement, and therefore society as a whole. That said, I should also explain that the reason for this seemingly biased attitude is that I have conducted interviews and research into the other side of the story—not this particular story, mind you, though I plan on that—and therefore am looking for substantiation of the opposing viewpoint. If I do a good job, this may run in our Journalism Quarterly, which enjoys a limited national circulation.” Shoswitz threw Boldt a meaningful look.

  Kline continued, “There are plenty of examples where so-called thorough investigation on the part of the press reaffirms the First Amendment and weeds out corruption at the highest level. I am not an advocate of censorship. However, if I understand the Jergensen case correctly, a hungry press may essentially have been responsible for an innocent man’s death—”

  “Not an innocent man,” Boldt interjected.

  “Good. Okay. Fine. Let’s start there, Detective.”

  “Labor Day weekend Jergensen was arrested on a B&E, breaking and entering, charge. A patrol caught him in possession of a stolen television set. Irrefutable evidence. ‘Red-handed’ you might call it. He stole the set and we caught him. That’s how it all began.”

  “Exactly,” Shoswitz contributed, hand working his elbow. “And from there it got out of hand.”

  “Not right away,” Boldt corrected. “It wasn’t overnight. It was a logical progression of events, really. It just backfired on us.”

  “Can you explain that, please?” Kline requested.

  Boldt shrugged. “Jergensen was brought here, downtown. Standard procedure. He was booked on B&E and grand larceny. Jergensen couldn’t afford an attorney so a public defender was assigned.”

  “But is it not the department’s contention that the media and printed press directly interfered with the judicial process?”

  Boldt looked over at Shoswitz, who nodded slightly and said, “I think the best response to such a question is ‘no comment.’ You may draw your own conclusions, Mr. Kline. Right? That’s a pretty sweeping statement. Off the record… we have a relationship to maintain with the press, and a responsibility to the public not to get into name-calling. Why don’t we just take you through it and you can make the call. Such a decision is better for you, anyway. After all, we were direct participants.”

  “The people I interviewed in the press were less considerate, Lieutenant. I had hoped—”

  Boldt interrupted, “Our job is to arrest criminals, okay? Keep the streets safe. The city safe. We are not practiced in baiting and goading. What Lieutenant Shoswitz is telling you is that we’ll give you the sequence that led to the Jergensen shooting. Drawing any conclusions, forming any opinions is better left up to you.”

  Kline looked a little puzzled. “I thought your department was upset about this.”

  “Off the record?” Boldt wondered, making sure to wait for an acknowledgment.

  “Yes. Sure.” Kline raised his pencil ostentatiously.

  “My personal opinion is that the press overstepped their bounds. They created an atmosphere of a witch-hunt and a man died as a result. One thing important to remember is that, as cops, we read
the papers. We watch the TV news, too. We’re an integral part of the society we serve. If the press puts forward an idea, there are many of us on the force who are caught up in it as well. That’s often overlooked. People think of us as uniformed men in an ivory tower. They forget that cops go home to a wife and kids, feed the dog, turn on the tube and pop a beer. In or out of uniform a cop is the guy next door.”

  “But that’s off the record?” Kline complained.

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s good stuff. I’d like to use it.”

  “Put it into your own words, then. I won’t be quoted on opinion.”

  Kline nodded. “I get the picture.”

  Shoswitz said, “Jergensen was apprehended approximately thirty-six hours after the discovery of the eighth victim—Robin Bailey—of what the papers are calling the Cross Killer murders. Same neighborhood. By that time the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI, the BSU, had drawn up a psychological profile based on the limited evidence we had. Only a few of us here in Homicide were privy to it.”

  “Could we go over the purpose of the profiles please? All I have is what I’ve read in the papers.”

  Shoswitz explained that the profiles draw on past case histories and present evidence. They give the police someone to look for. “The BSU interviewed convicted murderers and learned a great deal about what makes these guys tick, what motivates them, how they felt at the time, et cetera. They have amassed an enormous data base and as professional psychologists and psychiatrists—some of the sharpest minds in the country—they attempt to create a picture of the man we are after.”

  “I’ve read about this, but I find it hard to believe such a profile can actually help.”

  Boldt said, “There are many people in our department who would agree with you. As an investigator I can tell you that the BSU profiles are invaluable. Their track record is uncanny.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance, a series of murders was uncovered in a major West Coast city. The BSU profile stated that the suspect was between twenty-eight and thirty years old, lived alone within a mile of where a victim’s station wagon had been found, and, believe it or not, that he wore a double-breasted suit most of the time. He was believed to have been previously institutionalized and released. BSU sent the police a map with a circle drawn on it, within which they believed the suspect would be found. The police started on the dot in the center of the circle. The very first door they knocked on was opened by a gaunt man in his late twenties wearing a double-breasted suit coat. A subsequent search of the premises revealed they had located the killer.” Kline registered disbelief. “That city was Seattle, Mr. Kline. I was a part of that investigation. It makes a believer out of you. There are dozens of similar examples. But that’s the most dramatic I’ve ever been connected with. That’s why we call the BSU efforts uncanny. It’s a lot more than guesswork, which some people would have you believe.”

  “I could never use that. It’s far too fantastic.”

  “Nonetheless,” Shoswitz said, “it happened. It’s necessary you understand our faith in the BSU profiles, if you are to understand the Jergensen shooting.”

  “Go on.”

  Boldt explained. “That profile arrived on a Wednesday morning. It’s critical that it isn’t released to the media. If it is, suddenly everyone is seeing the killer everywhere and we’re flooded with false reports. Running down false leads wastes our limited manpower. We have a staff psychologist—our resident expert—who helps narrow our beam. It’s a team effort. The profile is integrated into our investigation. It’s not the most important thing, because our physical evidence and our victims are our most valuable asset.”

  “The profile is merely further grist to our mill,” Shoswitz said.

  “So you received the profile.”

  “And someone leaked it to the press,” Boldt explained. “And that’s when we ran into trouble.” The silence in the small space was heavy. Kline studied both men and resisted asking a question. He scribbled something in his notebook. Boldt wondered what he could be writing. Boldt continued, “As we’ve said, the profiles themselves are not enough to go on. With the profile leaked, however, all it took was one clever reporter. I won’t mention any names but he works the crime beat. He had seen Jergensen in here the day before and he made the connection to the physical description in the profile. Mind you, to us the physical description is but one facet of the profile, and the profile but one facet of the investigation. This reporter made a series of what have now proven to be erroneous jumps in logic. A equals C, B equals C, A equals B. It may work in math, but not in logic or police investigations. One thing to keep in mind, Mr. Kline: a good investigator assumes nothing. We base our investigations on fact alone, which is not to say we don’t make educated guesses, but we differentiate strongly between an educated guess and an assumption. It’s something the press should learn.”

  “The paper made an assumption,” Shoswitz said, taking over. “That was their mistake. They pointed out the uncanny physical similarity between Jergensen and the BSU profile of the Cross Killer and implied the two were one in the same.”

  “What we continue to ask,” Boldt added, “is why we allowed ourselves to bend to public sentiment. There’s no question we began to believe that we had caught the Cross Killer. The killings stopped, after all. And although they had stopped for long periods before, we had never had someone in custody. One and one makes two, even in law enforcement. In hindsight, there came a time when this department was determined to link Jergensen to all the killings. Why? Because we wanted it over as much as anyone. You see, Mr. Kline, this is where the pressure of the media comes into play. I guarantee you there were law-enforcement officers who were convinced Jergensen was the Cross Killer. Did we allow ourselves to be swayed by the media?”

  Shoswitz said, “The killings stopped. Right? Suddenly we had ourselves believing. And this is where the real damage to society occurs. Right? We backed off on our investigation. We scaled back in order to accommodate a lot of other urgent investigations.”

  Kline asked, “Did Jergensen actually fit that closely?”

  Boldt glanced at Shoswitz, who nodded. Boldt explained, “As with any criminal, Mr. Kline, reliable witnesses are nearly impossible to come by. To this day we still can’t connect Jergensen to any of the death scenes. Neither, however, can we substantiate any kind of alibi for him. In fact, he was robbing the same neighborhoods where the killings took place. The press emphasized that as well. He was a drug user, which fit the profile. He lived alone. And he even had prior history of being institutionalized.”

  “Good God.”

  “So, you see our dilemma. The man closely fit the profile. The crime scenes were—are—exceptionally clean, making physical evidence sparse, and therefore a match extremely difficult. The press knew we couldn’t tie him to the murders. They harped on the fact that all we had Jergensen on was a B&E, and implied a mass murderer was about to ‘slip from the jaws of justice,’” Boldt quoted. “That’s how they put it.”

  “Which infuriated the father of the second victim,” Shoswitz continued. “He read about the omnibus hearing—that’s the third and final hearing before trial in this state. He decided to effect his own brand of justice. Two weeks later, in the middle of September, he shot and killed Jergensen in that open courtroom. With Jergensen dead and the killings ceased, we were convinced the Cross Killer had died in that courtroom.”

  “Until yesterday,” Kline suggested.

  “Yes,” said Shoswitz. “Until then.”

  ***

  A little while later Kline was gone. Shoswitz went to the can. Boldt fetched fresh coffee. When the lieutenant returned Boldt asked, “So where do we stand? Do I get the same crew back?”

  Avoiding an answer, Shoswitz said, “You come in here, hand me a list including dog shit, Marlboros, blue nail polish, dates of yogurt cups, piss on a toilet, a paperback receipt, and another damn red fiber, and you ask me where we stand? I w
as about to ask you.”

  “The dog shit is from a neighbor’s terrier,” Boldt explained. “The Marlboros are an unknown. I need people for that. I found a blue nail-polish bottle in her bathroom, so that’s handled. Took the urine sample to the lab. They tell me you can’t get squat from dried urine unless the person is passing blood because of something wrong inside. They’re checking. But we do know it was a guy because it was on the rim. Bad aim,” he said, drawing no response from Shoswitz. “Abe has the paperback and the receipt. He’s dusting for prints. But, as you can see, pulling all the strings together on this is going to take one hell of a lot of manpower. I want to know where that paperback was purchased. I want to know which of her friends, if any, smoked Marlboros. Or do we have a peeper on our hands who likes to smoke while he watches? If we do, he’s been watching her for weeks, months maybe. A few of those butts were real old. Lots of questions, Phil, and they won’t get answered without a hell of a lot of help. You wanted my help with Kline. I need yours on this.”

  The lieutenant waved the sheet of paper in the air. They were back into business as usual, as if Kline had never been there. “We had a whole crew out there. Didn’t catch any of this shit. Am I right?”

  “I need more men.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “A fight.”

  “Not this time. Captain’s on our side. Like I said, he wants this thing cleaned up. We’re going to continue to take a lot of shit from the press until we have this wrapped. So we take what we need. We’re short on detectives. We both know that. I’m told we can borrow a couple of base runners—some girls from Special Assaults. We’ll use them for the door-to-door work.”

  Shoswitz paused in thought and then continued, “We do this the same way as before: everything goes through you guys and then through me. We take it nice and slow, Lou. No hurry. The press still has the BSU profile, of course. That’s going to screw things up if we bring in any suspects. I’m working out a deal with the FBI to help with security in that event. They’re cooperating, as always. BSU is willing to try and update the profile if we want them to. They haven’t tried since number three. What do you think?”