Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “Tape?”

  “Ah! It might explain why she didn’t scream and alert the neighbors, mightn’t it?”

  “We haven’t seen that before, have we?” Boldt asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. But to be quite honest, we never looked for it either. One swipe of alcohol across the mouth and we’d never pick it up. I’ll check with my assistants. We use alcohol to clean up the cadaver before autopsy.”

  “If he does clean them up, it opens up another possibility,” Boldt suggested.

  “What’s that?”

  “She may have torn the tape off during her escape. He may have used it on the others but removed it more carefully. Perhaps he kills them in a fit of rage and then changes personalities entirely and cleans them up. We can’t rule out anything.”

  ***

  Following the work by the I.D. technician, Doc Dixon, impatient to bag the body and return to his office, suggested that two of his men be admitted to the area to hand-carry the body bag to the vehicles. Boldt agreed but wanted no others in the crime area until he had a chance to walk the site once more.

  Starting at the back of the house, Boldt retraced the victim’s steps. He edged his way around the area of the puddle where the I.D. technician was still busy with the plaster cast, and continued toward Doc Dixon, now thirty yards ahead.

  He found the piece of gray tape stuck to a bare branch of a bush. Boldt knelt down and examined it. It meant her mouth had been taped shut, and she had removed it herself. “Dixie!” he called out to study the effect of yelling in the thick woods. “Dixie!” he tried again, more loudly. He heard the doctor’s faint reply and realized sound carried poorly here. So perhaps she had screamed. Perhaps her final call for help had gone unheard.

  A few minutes later Dixon helped Boldt secure the sticky piece of tape in a clear plastic evidence bag. They returned to the victim. At the request of the I.D. technician, Dixon had placed paper bags around her hands and had taped them at her wrists, containing any fiber or trace evidence that might contribute to the investigation. With fresh paper bags at the end of her arms she appeared even more tragic and helpless. Boldt apologized to her under his breath. It was an indecent way to die, an indecent way to leave this world: zipped tightly inside a black plastic bag. A songbird sang. To the bird, he thought, this day was no different from any other. It was a nice day, in fact. The overcast sky was clearing to the southwest. Boldt wondered if the songbird had witnessed this woman being murdered.

  And then he realized that he didn’t even know her name. So it’s come to that, he thought miserably. She’s become just another number. Number ten.

  11

  On the following Monday morning, October tenth, Lou Boldt was called into Shoswitz’s office. Outside it was forty-eight degrees under partly cloudy skies, intermittent rain in the forecast. He tucked in his wrinkled shirt and straightened his tie. It was knotted improperly, the tail hanging longer than the front. He told the lieutenant, “I’ve started to think of them as numbers. Before I knew Katherine DeHavelin’s name I was thinking of her as number ten.”

  “These things happen,” said Shoswitz, spinning his chair to face the seated Boldt. “I talked to a coach once. He used to think of all his players in terms of hitting percentages. Never called them by name, he called them two-eleven, or whatever they were hitting. I’ve begun seeing this thing in terms of budget. As the monkey said while pissing into the cash register, ‘This is running into money.’”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard.”

  “I don’t need the extra pressure, Phil.”

  “None of us do. I’m getting it from up above, so I’m passing it on to you. Fair is fair. We’re using too much personnel on this. We’d be better off if we could generate some good publicity. Right? The public is more forgiving of big budgets when we keep them informed of our progress.”

  “You know as well as I—”

  “Save it, Lou. This isn’t up for discussion. We’ve reached a point where we need to leak a thing or two. We have to show them we’re getting somewhere. The public is scared to death by this thing. It’s getting out of hand. John is buddies with the press. I’m putting him on it.”

  “Getting? This thing’s been out of hand since April. We’re doing everything we can.”

  “That’s what we have to keep telling them.”

  “So tell Public Information to dream something up. That’s their job.”

  “I want to give them the footprint information. We know the guy is around a hundred and sixty pounds. Giving up that can’t hurt us at all.”

  “No way!” Boldt demanded. “We give them that and the subject will toss the shoes. Those shoes could be a major part of our case. Absolutely not.”

  “Then what?”

  Boldt tried to think, but Shoswitz’s demanding tone and the added pressure worked against him. He had not slept well for the past few nights, kept awake by an angry stomach and a heavy conscience. Sleep meant dreams, and the dreams weren’t worth it. His dreams were of killing the Cross Killer. He tried to think: what was insignificant enough to feed the public but not jeopardize the investigation? “I don’t see a whole hell of a lot.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “I know you won’t like this, but I say we continue as we have been. We’ve picked up a lot of information this last week. It’s a new investigation. If nothing else we’ve gained a whole new set of questions that need to be answered. Little by little our man seems to be slipping up. Christ, we may have a witness in that boy.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No. Not yet. Later today. Daphne didn’t think it prudent to try to speak to him in front of the parents. I agreed.”

  “And what about Katherine DeHavelin, our number ten? What do we know?”

  “It’s not a perfect fit, Phil. If nothing else supports my suggestion to keep a lid on this, I think DeHavelin does. Only a few of us know the profiles of the victims, right? If the press had it, the killer—or killers—might be more careful. In DeHavelin’s case there was no clear boyfriend in the picture, and she happened to live with two other women who were away for the weekend. That goes against everything we know about the others.”

  “Killers?”

  “I haven’t ruled out a copycat killing on Kate DeHavelin.”

  “Oh come on, Lou. We both read Dixie’s report. This one is identical!”

  “Not true. There’s the tape on the mouth, the fact that she got away somehow, and the lack of bruising on the wrists. No red fibers, don’t forget. I don’t go along with that.”

  “I sure hope you don’t tell that to the press. That’s all we need!”

  “If you give anything to the press, it’s with my objections. I’m going to put that in a memo, Phil. It’ll undermine the investigation.”

  Shoswitz looked at Boldt skeptically. “Jesus, Lou.”

  “I protect my investigation.”

  “I’m glad to hear you call it your investigation,” Shoswitz said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m serious. I’ve been trying to make that point all along. That’s the most encouraging thing I’ve heard you say in weeks. Just do me a favor. Stop coming to work looking like you slept in a chair. It doesn’t help anything. Even the captain commented on it.”

  From behind them came the sound of a throat clearing.

  They both glanced toward the entrance to Shoswitz’s small office area. Kramer, his face flushed, his lips drawn white, said, “I thought it was our investigation, or did I miss something?”

  Boldt looked over at Shoswitz and scrunched his eyes. The lieutenant bit his lip and tried to think of something to say.

  “You bastards,” Kramer said, and stormed off.

  12

  The schoolyard also reminded Lou Boldt of his early days in Yakima. It reminded him of a beer-drinking father always down at the shop working behind the counter of the Volvo/White Truck servi
ce and parts shop. It reminded him of the sweet cinnamon smell of his mother’s kitchen. It reminded him of the long walk home down roads straight as arrows—quiet roads with good people inside the houses, people who knew and trusted each other, people who looked out for one another.

  Behind him the bell rang, and the first children—or were they young adults?—began to stream from the doors. That bell echoed back thirty years and shook Boldt’s inner core. So much had changed since then. And yet, so little. The faces he saw were no different from the faces of his friends back when. He was transported back in time for a brief, fleeting moment—a passing instant during which he experienced the heedless joy and freedom of youth.

  Justin Levitt recognized Boldt immediately. He made no attempt to look away or avoid him. He walked over and thrust out his hand, which Boldt shook.

  “Thanks for not telling my parents,” the boy said.

  “No problem.”

  “My mom’s waiting.”

  “Let’s talk a minute.”

  The boy nodded.

  Boldt immediately launched into what Daphne might have called phase two. “I remember one time I dropped a quarter in the bathhouse out at the town pool. It fell through the cracks in the floorboards and I crawled underneath the bathhouse to get my quarter back. In those days it was a lot of money. On my hands and knees, on my way over to get the quarter, I found myself beneath Tina Chutland’s booth. She was older than I was, she had all the stuff, you know—man!—and she happened to be undressing as I passed beneath her family’s dressing room. I could have stopped looking and moved on, but I didn’t. I stayed there, right below her, and watched every minute of it. She stripped clear down to nothing and I could have tickled her bare feet with my fingertips I was so close. She took her time getting into her suit, spreading suntan oil all over her first. I mean all over.” He paused and then added, “That wasn’t the end of it. I left that quarter down there, and I kept my eye on Tina Chutland from then on, and whenever she went to that bathhouse locker, I went after my quarter. Me and a buddy of mine spent most of that summer getting to know Tina Chutland real well. Even now, I could tell you every mole on her body. After a while the thrill wore off and we finally gave it up. What I’m trying to say is, there’s nothing unusual about guys trying to sneak looks at naked women. It’s been going on for a million years, maybe longer. You don’t want to make a lifetime habit of it… but few of us do,” he smiled genuinely. “It’s the kind of thing you outgrow after a while. That’s what you were using the telescope for, isn’t it, Justin? You had a perfect view of Cheryl Croy’s bed-room. I went back and checked.”

  The boy was bright red and studying the dirt at his feet. He swallowed once and nodded faintly. He choked out, “It just kind of happened by accident.”

  Boldt felt a warm rush of relief. He placed his hand on the boy’s back and walked him over to a bench where they sat down overlooking the school’s playing fields. The grass was still as green as summer, the sky still as threatening as it had been earlier in the day.

  “I never saw her undress or anything like that,” he said in a voice that was unconvincing. “Mr. Chambers said I could be part of the Neighborhood Watch, and that stupid telescope was worthless on the stars with all the city lights, and the clouds and everything. I could see clear down to the north end of the lake, could even see the bike path. I didn’t think up using the telescope. I saw a movie where this guy watched a women undress using a telescope, and I don’t know, it just gave me the idea, so I started checking out houses at night and seeing if I could see anything.”

  “And you saw Cheryl Croy.”

  “That lady over there. Yeah. Didn’t see her undress or anything, I swear. I saw a lot of things in a lot of houses. People leave their curtains open a crack and with that telescope I could see a lot of things. None of them dirty. Just people eating dinner and watching TV and things.”

  “Tell me about the night she was killed.”

  Justin Levitt blushed. He started to talk but stopped himself.

  Boldt wanted to wrap his arm around the boy. He said, “The truth never hurts, Justin. It’s good to get it out. You don’t need to make anything up.”

  Boldt could feel the boy relive it. “I did see her that night. Nothing dirty. I just saw her, that’s all.” Boldt didn’t hear the conviction in the boy’s voice he had hoped for. He looked at Justin quizzically, the boy staring out at the field. “I didn’t dare say anything. You don’t know my mom. She’d freak out if she knew about any of this.”

  “You saw him, didn’t you, Justin? You saw the killer.”

  “I didn’t know!” The boy swung his head around. He was in tears. “I swear to God I didn’t know. I would have called the police, I swear I would have.”

  “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  He shook his head. “No. Don’t you get it? If I had called…”

  Boldt moved his arm toward the boy and cut himself off, resting it on the back of the bench instead. He found it hard to swallow. Come on, boy, he felt like saying, get it out in the open.

  “I didn’t know what to do. How was I supposed to explain it?”

  “What did you see, Justin? Did you see him?”

  “My God!” Mrs. Levitt thundered on a fast approach, “I don’t believe this!”

  “Oh shit,” the boy said, standing.

  Boldt rose too.

  “You have a lot of nerve, Lieu—”

  “Get out of here, Mom,” Justin Levitt hollered, stopping his mother dead in her tracks. “Wait for me in the car.”

  Mrs. Levitt’s jaw dropped.

  “I’m talking to Mr. Boldt. I’ll be done in a minute. This is private, Mom. Private. You’re always talking about respecting my privacy, so how about it?”

  “Justin?” She was appalled, the rejection clearly overwhelming, but when he didn’t answer her, when he stood there waiting, she finally rose to the challenge and turned away, surprising Boldt.

  “I’ll explain later,” the boy shouted at her receding back, regret filling his voice. “Shit,” he hissed again, loud enough only for Boldt to hear. “I did see him,” he said, to Boldt, quickly looking back toward his mother. His voice hovered between a boy’s and a man’s. “He came in through her backyard carrying something. I couldn’t see what it was. He went around front and I lost him. She was up in her room,” he said uncomfortably. “She had her snack,” he said without realizing his choice of words indicated a familiarity with Croy he was trying to sidestep. “I think she must have heard the doorbell or something…” He paused.

  Go on, Boldt willed.

  “…because she left the room. She wasn’t gone long. I should have known,” he said, looking into Boldt’s eyes. “I knew what her boyfriend looked like. I didn’t see this guy—not his face—but I knew it wasn’t him. And I didn’t realize what was going on until a few days later when you guys found her.”

  “She returned to the bedroom?”

  “I think they both did. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “She fell down onto the bed, and then the curtain closed. That’s all I saw, honest.”

  Boldt was silent for a long time. Some birds landed on the roof of the school. Lights in a few of the classrooms went off.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” Justin said.

  “You didn’t lie. You waited to tell me, that’s all. What made you change your mind, Justin?”

  “Not that shit about the bathhouse. Was that true?” he asked, wiping away tears.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” The boy forced a grin.

  Boldt maintained his work face.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know why. You have a job to do, right? That’s what you told me the other night. I thought about that. If I had done something that night”—his face tightened—“she would still be alive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He burst out crying. “You don’t know what that feels like.” He reached toward Boldt, but then balled up
on himself, sucking his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

  Boldt reached out reluctantly and stroked Justin Levitt’s back. He looked up. In the far distance Mrs. Levitt was standing, watching. “Let it go, son.” That word came painfully for him. “If it helps any, I know exactly how you feel.” Justin shook his head, still bent over, still sobbing. “You see, if I had done my job right the first time, you never would have seen that man that night. It never would have happened, because I would have caught him. But I didn’t. And I’ll tell you something. As much as that bugs me, there’s nothing I can do about it. You and I are in the same boat: we wish like hell we could do it all over again, but we can’t, can we?”

  The boy stopped sobbing and slowly sat up. “No, I guess not,” he said.

  “We’re all tested in strange ways, son.”

  The boy nodded.

  “I can’t tell you that what you did was right. You’ll have to think about that. But I can tell you this—there’s no way to change it now, and thanks to you we may catch this guy after all. You may come out of this thing a hero, Justin.”

  “I don’t want to be a hero.”

  “That makes two of us, but sometimes we’re stuck with it.”

  “If I had called…”

  “Listen, you had no way to know, okay? Don’t be so hard on yourself. There are a hell of a lot of ‘ifs’ in life, Justin. No shit,” he said, trying to grab the boy’s attention and succeeding. “But very few of them are worth a damn. Let it go. I think you know what I’m trying to say.”

  The boy nodded and dragged his sleeve across his eyes.

  “I’m going to need your help, son. I’m going to ask you the same questions a hundred times. You’re going to hate me by the end of this. About the only thing good about it is that we’ll probably keep you out of school for a couple of days.” The boy was amused. “We may even fly a guy all the way out from Washington, D.C., just to talk with you.”