Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “Based on what I’ve just seen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll write it up and give it to Daphne. Let her make the call. If she sees something new, something worthwhile, maybe it’s worth a try.”

  “You don’t look so good. Am I right?”

  “That’s the second time you said that, Lieutenant. Am I supposed to look so good?”

  “Lou, you thought that scene out front was a mob scene? You ain’t seen nothing.” Boldt had been accosted by the press as he had arrived. “Most of them were waiting for you at the garage entrance. The press corps is huge on this one. Bigger than before! They’re going to crawl all over us. Especially you. Count on it. A lousy physical appearance isn’t going to help anything. You look like someone ran you over. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.”

  “You sure?”

  “I hear you!”

  “You look like you could use some sleep.”

  “Phil…”

  “Just so I get my point across. There’s been a lot of pressure on us from the Mayor’s office to change the team. I’m sure you understand that. Personally, I think it’s a stupid idea. We’ve come this far and it’s worked out okay. We rearrange things, we have to start all over. That’s absurd. At the same time—”

  “I get the point.”

  “Right. Good. As long as I’ve made myself clear.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “So what’s next, besides running this stuff down?” Shoswitz waved the sheet of paper again.

  “We get a couple guys moving on that stuff. I have a talk with Daphne. I go back to Croy’s tonight and try again.”

  “The captain is thinking about using that psychic.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “The man helped out in California.”

  “They raise psychics in California as a cash crop. He had the home-field advantage,” he said, using an analogy he thought Shoswitz could understand.

  “Just warning you.”

  “God, no. Fight that one, will you please? Talk about a circus. What about the FBI’s help?”

  “Same legal problems exist as before: until we have a state-line violation or something like that, they have to remain as advisers.”

  “Crazy system sometimes.”

  “Can be. Get a haircut too,” Shoswitz said.

  “Which one?” Boldt asked sarcastically, thinking it funny. Lou Boldt only knew old jokes.

  ***

  “Hi there,” Boldt said, knocking on the open door. Come in, we’re open, was painted on a wooden placard that a small ceramic Charlie Brown held in plain view from the corner of her desk. “Hi there, yourself,” she said. Daphne Matthews looked like a human version of a Kentucky thoroughbred, which was exactly what she was: well-bred, aristocratic, and naturally healthy. She had the disposition of a patron saint and the charm of a Southern girl, a trait inherited along with her dark coloring from her maternal grandmother, who had been born and bred bluegrass. Daphne had an easy way with people, which accounted in part for her success as a clinical psychologist and an extremely full social calendar. “Shut the door if you want,” she added, seeing his worn look. She stood up and caught the door before he closed it. They were standing quite close, though she didn’t seem to notice. She asked, “How about a cup of tea? You look like you need it.”

  He knew better than to ask for coffee. Daphne didn’t approve of coffee, despite the fact that her breakfast tea contained more caffeine. “Sure,” he said. “No—”

  “…cream.”

  “Right.”

  “Sit. Please. I have something just in from Quantico that will interest you.”

  “You must be a mind reader,” he said down the hall after her. She raised a hand over her shoulder in acknowledgment and moved gracefully and powerfully toward the lounge. When he looked away from her he noticed Kramer, across the office area at a desk, staring him down with obvious disapproval. Kramer went back to work, the damage already done. His expression was not lost on Boldt. What’s a happily married man like you… the man’s eyes said. “Shut up,” Boldt hissed, only to be overheard and misunderstood by a passing secretary.

  “Jeez,” she snapped, “same to you,” looking back at him curiously and hurrying on.

  He apologized to her—evidently unheard—and returned to the warm, spotless office. He felt comfortable here.

  There were rumors about Daphne Matthews, like there were rumors about everyone who worked on the force. It wasn’t enough to be a cop, or to work for the department—people seemed to believe your motivations for becoming a cop were their business, as if this was an elected position. Some were third-generation cops. Some were like Boldt—college cops—men and women attracted to the profession by courses or professors. And then there were the people who generated dramatic rumors, some eventually proven out, some never uncovered, some becoming legends that circulated through the hallways long after a cop had retired.

  The rumors Boldt had heard about Daphne were remarkably varied, as rumors often are. One said that her interest in psychology had resulted from her younger brother being beaten badly by a group of blacks, and that, in turn, he had shot and killed a black. This rumor was proven false when a look through her records revealed that Daphne didn’t have a younger brother. Another, the most cruel, insinuated that Daphne had once had a lesbian lover who had later flipped out after being jilted. There had been an era, Boldt recalled, several years past now, when gay rumors got the most lip service. At one point or another, everybody in the department had been accused of being gay. He didn’t know Daphne’s sexual preference, but he knew she was about the most feminine woman in the entire department, and he knew she dated many different men, and he assumed this to be the cause of the rumors. Interdepartment jealousies were the cause of more rumors than anything else. Just when someone started to excel, a rumor would surface that would shed doubt on him or her. And these doubts, however unfounded, would linger in even the most well-intentioned mind for weeks and months to come.

  Daphne, being witty, womanly, and charming, and the only member of the force who could act autonomously, was the target of many rumors. Especially those generated by a few envious women.

  She never spoke of why she had chosen public service over a private career that would easily be five to ten times more lucrative—and it was her reticence that gave rise to so many unfounded rumors. Privacy has its cost in any fraternity.

  She shut the door upon her return. Because of Kramer’s suspicious look, Boldt considered asking her to leave it open, but didn’t. She placed the mug of tea in front of him, pulled a folder from one of her many file cabinets, and took the chair next to him, crossing her fine athletic legs. Her hosiery whistled. She smelled sweet and tropical. She maintained an upright spine and fine posture that emphasized her full figure; she did this without seeming pompous or vain. “How’s Lou Boldt accepting all this?”

  “He’s not doing too well.”

  “When I heard… You were the first person I thought of.”

  “You and half the city it would seem.”

  “I don’t mean like that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You blame yourself?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” He looked her in the eyes over the rim of the cup and added, “I take that back. Wouldn’t most people?” he rephrased, drawing a quick grin from her.

  “What makes you so special?” she asked somewhat harshly.

  He was taken aback. He leaned away from her, nearly spilling tea and adding another stain to his tie. He reached down and inspected it to make sure it was unsoiled.

  She continued, “What makes you think you should have foreseen what no one else foresaw? Are you filled with some prescience or divination you haven’t informed us of?”

  “Point taken.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, studying him.

  “Don’t start in with me, Daffy, okay? Truce.”

  “Okay.” They sat in a calculated s
ilence for a moment as each sipped their tea. She continued to look over at him with her penetrating eyes. He avoided her, choosing to look at Charlie Brown instead.

  “What’s this about Quantico?” he asked.

  She opened the folder. “When I heard about Croy’s murder I telexed BSU and asked for anything they could give us on our suspect’s past other than the profile information we received earlier. They wired me this, along with all sorts of qualifying statements. You’ll notice how they point out this shouldn’t apply to the investigation, et cetera, et cetera, and that it’s a result of a recent limited study with no qualified control group. They surveyed thirty-five inmates deemed clinically insane. Ten of them were lust murderers. You can understand their concern given these small numbers. Still, it’s ground we haven’t covered before, and I thought you might be interested in knowing where a man like this might have come from. It may not help any right now, but when you catch him, I think it’s important you consider this kind of information.”

  “You don’t miss a trick,” he grinned, noting her use of “when,” not “if.”

  “We’ve covered some of this before—you and I.” She looked at him briefly, and for a moment something passed between them that had nothing to do with police work. She’d been flirting with him—he thought—for quite some time. And now that he thought about it, Kramer was right: it had been heating up lately.

  “Like we talked about, he’s quiet. Isolated. His preexisting—before crime—personality would be schizoid. He’s given to preoccupations like study. He was, or is, a bookworm. He spent much of his adolescence reading either political or religious material or both—Nazism perhaps. He had or has adolescent sexual tension depending on how old he actually turns out to be, probably has unusual attitudes about pornography and prostitution. These concerns are troublesome to him. And here’s the new ground,” she said, looking up for a brief moment, serious and pensive. “His mother may have done unusual things to him. She may have dressed him in dresses as a young child, allowed his curls to grow too long—”

  “They’re working with the transvestite theme,” he interjected.

  “To my knowledge no one has run that by them. No, in fact, they’re working only with evidence and death-scene reports.” She seemed bothered by his interruption.

  “Jesus.”

  “They’re specialists,” she reminded.

  “I’d say so.”

  “His father might have been alcoholic—a drunk says it better. The father would be employed, but move from job to job. Verbally abusive, cold and distant from the young, sensitive boy that was emerging. His mother may have interested him in some girlish pursuit, or other, in order to ‘sophisticate’ him. Sewing perhaps. Ironing. Flower arranging. Cooking. Things like that. Knowingly or unknowingly this gave him a problem establishing a sexual identity. He can’t identify with his father, who is an obnoxious, half-absent drunk, and yet he can’t fully identify with the somewhat seductive mother, reinforcing his feminine traits.” She continued to read. “He probably went through a Peeping Tom phase—voyeurism. But each time he would venture out, he would return and do something punitive to himself: burn himself with an iron—”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Something like that.” She paused, traced across the page with her long red nail and continued, “A lot of guilt and tension developed around his sexual behavior. Similarly he may have gone through a stage of stealing his mother’s underclothing and wearing them or violating them.” Again, she looked up. “This may carry over into his souvenir collecting, may help to explain why he takes a piece of clothing from each victim.” Boldt nodded, clearly uncomfortable. He didn’t want to know anything more about this man. He didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but he found himself inclined to. He knew this was one of Daphne’s intentions. In her professional opinion, which she shared with him constantly, this man was himself a victim, a man with an illness, rather than an animal. Boldt saw her efforts as twofold: one, to convince him he would catch the killer; two, to remind—to instill in him—that once caught, the Cross Killer should be treated as a sick man, not a calculating killer. Both of these thoughts remained with Boldt as he asked, “Is there more?”

  “If we accept this as his past, then it’s likely he misperceived an early sexual encounter. He thought a girl was interested in him, but she and the others turned out to pity him. This would have happened sometime in his early twenties. Five or six years ago. It’s been building up in him ever since. He may have tried a homosexual relationship since then. Perhaps immediately before the killings began. As we’ve discussed, he’s become an insomniac. He’s back to reading all the time—probably the more obscure sections of the Bible. He’s hearing voices, misinterpreting reality. I might add, he may perceive himself as a kind of fundamental Christian. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. His is a fantasy world, and he probably thinks the voices he hears are from Christ himself. Perhaps that’s why he marks them with a cross. Something triggers the need to kill. Until we know more… Are you all right?”

  He couldn’t hear her clearly.

  “Lou?”

  He raised a hand and laid his head back. He didn’t like hearing this stuff. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s that damn tea.” He exhaled heavily.

  “Anxiety attack?”

  “Caffeine,” he insisted.

  “I’m a friend, remember?”

  “You’re a head doctor,” he reminded. “It’s nothing.”

  “You can talk to me, Lou. You know you can. What’s wrong?”

  “Drop it!” he shouted, hurting her. “Thanks for the report.”

  “Lou?”

  He rose out of the chair, refusing to look at her, and headed for the door. Daphne called to him again. He wouldn’t turn around. He said to the wall, “I’ll draw up a full report on Croy and leave it up to you whether it’s worth yet another try by the BSU people. Sound okay?” She didn’t answer him. She waited him out and he finally turned around, forced to face her. “Okay?” he repeated, looking quickly away. What’s a happily married man… chimed through his head.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Wonderful. Leave it open.”

  He pushed open the door, checked his watch, and hurried from her office. “Almost noon. Got an appointment,” he said. He spotted Shoswitz ahead and reached for his comb. Tightened his tie.

  4

  Technically lunch hour fell under private time. He parked the unmarked car across the street from the Rainier Bank Tower, and turned on his KJZZ jazz station, avoiding news radio at all costs. The departmental radio occasionally growled intestinally from beneath the dash, the dispatcher’s unfailing monotone summoning patrol cars by number. Boldt devoured two Turns like candy.

  The Rainier Bank Tower appeared to rise from an inverted pyramid. Perched atop a meager support, it seemed delicately balanced and vulnerable, as if a strong gust of wind might topple it. The effect was disconcerting to Boldt. No doubt the winner of several architectural awards, he thought.

  The woman came out a few minutes later, wearing her tan raincoat over a lavender dress, and walking briskly in shiny black heels. She had none of that haughty passive gait that accompanies many women of the business community. He waited briefly and then locked up the car, following behind and across the street on foot. He proceeded slowly, allowing her to gain distance on him.

  They continued this way, she in the lead across the street, for a few short downhill blocks, until she found her way to the Four Seasons Olympic. She went in through the hotel’s side entrance. Boldt crossed the street, approaching cautiously, and pushed through the heavy doors slowly, inspecting the lobby before entering. She disappeared up the flight of stairs and was gone.

  The Four Seasons lobby was a throwback to the grand hotels: towering marble columns, lots of brass and luxurious carpeting. Boldt approached the concierge, withdrew his badge, and placed it in view. “A woman in a raincoat and lavender dress just entered. You couldn’t have missed her.”


  The man, soft-featured and in his mid-thirties, looked Boldt in the eye silently.

  Boldt said, “I’d like to know when she leaves the hotel. A gratuity is involved.”

  “Official business?” the man wondered.

  “I’ll be in your Garden Lounge,” he answered, retrieving his badge. He padded silently around the corner and into the magnificent lounge. The room was like a giant greenhouse. Flowers, plants, and mature trees abounded. It was split-level, and in the far corner, an unattended concert grand as black and polished as Chinese enamel begged Boldt to play. The waitress was refreshingly young, polite, and courteous. When he ordered a tall milk, she made not the slightest indication of surprise or disappointment as some waitresses did. She thanked him, placed a logo-embossed napkin before him, and hurried away. A few minutes later she returned with the cold, cold milk. He drank it ungraciously without pausing, and wiped away the resulting mustache. A couple chatted in the far corner. Quite old and quite happy, they seemed. He hoped he might end up the same. The thought brought images of Cheryl Croy’s frightened face to mind. In color. His stomach turned. He chewed down two more Turns.

  He was anxious to read the autopsy protocol to see if there was anything different about Croy. Doc Dixon was one of the best medical examiners in the country. Like Boldt, he had taken a personal interest in the Cross Killings. As in any homicide investigation, the Medical Examiner’s role was as important as the investigating officer’s. Not only did the Medical Examiner’s office pursue its own investigation of a crime scene, secure and identify physical evidence, but pathologists and their assistants often served as chief witnesses for the prosecution.

  Any and all evidence in a homicide case had to be collected in a certain way, reported and categorized in a certain way, stored, presented, and filed with the courts in a certain way, or it became inadmissible. Even if it was the proverbial “smoking gun,” a piece of evidence was useless to the prosecution if not handled properly. This, along with the hundreds and hundreds of regulations governing investigations, made the job of homicide detective all the more difficult. It was one thing to reach the point of finally arresting a suspect, something else entirely to see him ever reach jail. One minuscule mistake by the police in their investigation could negate reams of damning evidence. Boldt had no intention of allowing that to happen with this case.