Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “You offering me a forced vacation, Lieutenant? You want me off the case?”

  “Lou.”

  “You son of a bitch—”

  “Lou! I’m not taking you off the case. Jesus H.” He stared at Boldt. “What the hell’s going on? Is it Liz? You want to talk about it?”

  “No!” He held up his hand to stop Shoswitz. White spittle had collected at either side of his mouth. His eyes were badly bloodshot from fatigue. “Sure, we’ve got to be methodical in our pursuit. Systematic. But it isn’t going fast enough. We’ve got to try harder, Phil. We have to go after every damn lead like it’s the last one we’ll ever get. We need a complete change of attitude on this!” he hollered.

  Shoswitz was not the kind of man who liked to be told what he needed. He collected himself and then said, “Get some rest, Lou. Go home and get some rest. Take tomorrow off. Believe it or not, we’ll get along fine without you. Anything breaks, we’ll give you a call.”

  “A call!” He barked out a laugh. “Lot a good that’ll do,” he said under his breath. He had lost control of himself, and for a brief moment he understood this and tried to correct it, but the combination of total fatigue and the emotional upheaval brought on by Elizabeth’s visit overwhelmed him. He rose from the chair and glared at Shoswitz. “After everything I’ve given this,” he said, feeling insulted and betrayed. An overpowering headache descended on him, swelling inside his head, heating up his eyes, pounding rhythmically in his ears. He pinched his temples. He wanted to scream. For once he wanted to let out a tremendous scream. He found it hard to breathe, that familiar balloon swelling inside his chest.

  He was on the street now, walking down First Avenue past the bars with thumping rock music emanating from their dark entrances. He pressed his back against a cold brick wall, sweating despite the chill in the air, and watched the cars lumber past. The headache still remained, though the anxiety attack had passed.

  For a minute, he was disoriented. Then he realized where he was: only two blocks from the seedy hotel he had been using as home for the past week. He’d been walking home, that was all—though the thought of home recalled images of Elizabeth, and this instilled in him the disquieting realization that he was alone, utterly alone, for the first time in years. He heard himself begin to pant, and felt his throat constrict, then swallowed it away, not allowing himself to cry. He wouldn’t cry here.

  A few minutes later he entered the hotel’s dingy hallway, passed the registration desk manned by a young Asian with poor teeth and distrustful eyes, and reached the tiny elevator. The hallway smelled like Pine-Sol. Wonderful place you chose, he told himself. All the amenities of a refugee dormitory. And all this for thirty-two dollars a night. What a country!

  The clock radio was permanently fixed to the chest of drawers, as was the television. Lou Boldt tuned in his jazz station and sat down on the bed. He pulled off his socks and washed them in the corner sink with the complimentary bar of Ivory. He removed his shirt and tie and then washed the armpits of the shirt and hung it on a hanger, along with his socks, above the radiator by the window. No wonder it looks as though I’ve been sleeping in my clothes, he thought. He slung his coat and tie over the tired chair and climbed into bed, utterly exhausted.

  But he did not sleep.

  He stared at the pulsating neon-orange light bouncing off the curtains, listened to a wailing tenor sax, and wondered where the Cross Killer was at this very moment.

  And what he was doing.

  14

  When Lou Boldt awakened that Tuesday morning, he realized Shoswitz was right. He also knew the man well enough to know he would take whatever steps were necessary to maintain control of the investigation. If that included removing Boldt from the case, then Shoswitz would do it. He changed back into the shirt that he had left hanging over the radiator to dry, collected his things, and checked out of the dreary hotel. He walked back up to the office, hanging bag in hand, signed out his car, and drove home, knowing full well Elizabeth would be at work. Once there, he took a long hot shower, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes. He spent an hour and a half with the classifieds and the telephone searching for a rental and ended up with a list of three possibilities. As he packed up three suitcases of clothes, he was surprised to feel no self-pity or sorrow. He knew this was something that had to be done. They both needed time to think. Going through the motions now only served to fuel his self-confidence. Things suddenly seemed brighter.

  He took some spare checks and his address book and wrote Elizabeth a short, curt note, explaining that their separation had officially begun. He made it neither sentimental nor accusatory; he simply stated that they were on their own now, that they both knew how to reach each other, and that if and when a talk seemed in order he was willing to participate. He signed the note and pocketed the pen.

  The second rental he looked at seemed fine. It was a small two-bedroom house—more than he needed—furnished, slightly overpriced, but what wasn’t? The landlord agreed to wave the security deposit because Boldt was a cop, believing Boldt’s presence might reduce the incidence of crime, which was quite high in most parts of the city. The phone company promised to give him a line within the week. He hung up a dozen shirts and stored five pairs of shoes in a closet and then consumed an hour wandering around the two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen, pulling out drawers, opening and shutting closet doors, and familiarizing himself with his new environs. He finally came to rest on the edge of the firm double bed, patting it absentmindedly, finding himself a bit more depressed than he had hoped.

  He drove across town and spent forty minutes straightening out the post office on forwarding his mail and then shopped at the local grocery store on his way home, buying mostly staples and spending more money than he had intended.

  Back “home” he inspected himself in the mirror, feeling and looking like a new man. He took a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. Interlake North, his new address, ran perpendicular to the canal. He walked along the canal, alone, and felt the temptation of self-pity nag at him. A heavy front of storm clouds blew in off the sound quickly, bringing with it a cool drizzle.

  He returned home at a clip and spent the early evening trying to figure out what to do with himself. At six-thirty he did the only thing that made any sense: he called Daphne and asked her out.

  ***

  They met down by the waterfront where a dozen ferry companies shuttle thousands of people out to the islands and where tourists collect to sightsee and shop. She looked real good to him and he told her so.

  “You look a whole lot better, Lou. Shoswitz told me he was worried about you.” There was still the faint, light lilt of a Southern accent hidden behind her words. Its musical nature charmed him. Her chestnut hair, caught by the offshore breeze, blew across her face, momentarily obstructing her vision, and she finger-combed it back behind her ear, pink from the chill.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just going through some changes, that’s all.”

  “Such as?”

  He noted that she made no attempt to tease him, and he felt himself relax some. He wasn’t emotionally prepared for an evening of verbal fencing. He didn’t intend to tell her about Elizabeth; it would make this look all wrong. “We’ve made some headway on the case. Can’t be sure it’s worth anything, but it seems to be.”

  “You did well with the boy.”

  He nodded. “We lucked out there.”

  “It wasn’t luck and you know it.”

  A long silence. He felt the truth bubbling up to the surface, and he could neither suppress it nor contain it. His inability to stop it had something to do with Daphne. She had what amounted to a spell over him, some kind of emotional magnet that reached down inside of him and drew things out. “I left Elizabeth, Daffy. As of this moment we’re officially separated. I wanted some company and you were the first person who came to mind.” He looked over at her. “But not like that. I don’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay, Lou.” She hun
g her head and they walked in silence for some distance. Hordes of people streamed past as they approached the market and then they found themselves out of the crowds. The sun was down, a final stain of color lingering over the sound, and it was growing colder.

  “I’m supposed to say ‘I’m sorry,’ Lou. But that would be less than honest.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I didn’t want it to influence things. I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  “And what’s the wrong impression?”

  “Don’t go getting professional on me. I don’t know how to play those games. You know very well what I mean.”

  “Answer the question.”

  He looked down into her eyes. There was a silent depth that drew him in, like the darkness of a well. If I drop a penny in there, will I hear it land? “We’re friends, right?”

  “We’re more than friends, Lou, and you know it. We were friends once. But that was a long, long time ago. We’re beyond that now. We have been for some time.” She stopped him and took him by the shoulders. The surge of pedestrians parted around them like river water around a rock. Her grasp was firm yet tender. She looked intently at him and for a moment he thought she might kiss him and he wondered what that would be like. He didn’t think he was ready for that. “I’m really glad you called. I’m nervous, and I’m even a little frightened, because you and I have been playing games with each other for a while now. I’m being anything but professional at the moment. One thing you learn in my line of work is to leave the office behind you. If I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t last long. I don’t mind talking about the case. Not now. But when we get to dinner I think I’d like to shut that door, if that’s good with you. I’d like to spend some time with Lou Boldt—just me and you, you know? The detective-psychologist thing works better in the office.” She released him and placed her smooth, warm hand on his cheek and said, “How are you holding up under all of this?”

  He nodded, not wanting her to take her hand away, which she did. Her touch changed his attitude completely. It had been weeks since he had felt anyone touch him, many long months since he had experienced any form of physical tenderness. A wave of comforting relief passed through him, coinciding with the lazy slap of water on the seawall below them, and he suddenly felt purged of his anxieties. In that instant he knew she was his answer. She could get him going again. “Okay, I guess,” he replied. “It’s nice to see you outside the office, Daffy. You know that?” He closed his eyes and inhaled loudly through his nose, the cold, damp breeze stinging his face and lungs, lifting his hair wildly. He exhaled in a long, controlled sigh.

  “Of course I do,” she said, taking him by the elbow and guiding him along.

  They walked this way for a few minutes. A street musician played “Mister Bojangles” on an out-of-tune harmonica.

  “Let me ask you this,” he said as they continued along, “before we get to dinner,” and winked. “What are the odds the killer would tape the mouth of one victim, but not the others?”

  “It might be dictated by circumstance. I suppose you’re referring to the Kate DeHavelin case. She was found outside, indicating the possibility that she attempted to escape. It creates an entirely different set of circumstances.”

  “That aside.”

  “That aside? I would say unlikely. He has a set, established ritual that means something to him. It gives him purpose. He believes he’s doing this for someone—something—probably God, probably in response to voices he hears. Nonetheless, it is an established ritual. We’ve seen the same evidence enough to know that, though we don’t yet fully understand all the elements or his rationalization. More than likely he goes in and out of conscious thought when he’s with his victims. He’s controlled yet spontaneous, well planned yet impulsive. Even given this irrationality, I believe it’s unlikely he would deviate from his ritual. In all probability the ritual is the only thing holding him together. If his ritual goes bad, Lou, he may come apart on us.”

  “What if I’m dealing with a copycat? And what if that copycat’s one of us?”

  She stopped. Again the tourists streamed around them. She stared into his eyes intensely. “You want to ask that again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “One of us?” Shaken.

  “Dixie says he would have to be. He knows too much.”

  She clutched her arms tightly to herself, as if suddenly colder. They began walking again. She stared straight ahead now. It was a long minute before she said, “How certain are you?”

  “Three of the victims have been handled just slightly differently, Daffy. There’s not much hard evidence, but I feel it. And I think Dixie does too.”

  “Jesus,” she said, the full weight of the implication sinking in. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a good job.”

  “I’m not. I’ve only discussed it with Dixie. No one else. Unfortunately,” he said, pausing briefly, “I have to consider all possibilities. That’s part of the job.” He waited a minute before saying, “You’re our people expert. If I’m looking for someone inside our department, then I’m better off knowing as much as I can about him.”

  “Okay. I’m listening,” she said in her best Dr. Matthews voice.

  “What would motivate him? What makes him tick?”

  She thought long and hard before telling him, “More than likely, you’re talking about a psychopathic personality if you’re talking about a copycat. He’s a premeditated killer, most likely killing for the challenge—for the fun of it. Psychopaths are complex individuals. It’s impossible to lump them together and make some kind of gross statement.”

  “But if you had to… what motivates him?”

  “A copycat could be motivated by anything from some kind of personal thrill—real or imagined—to the challenge involved.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it could be he simply gets a rush from attempting perfect duplication of the crime. If he is a cop, then it could be a kind of game. He may be challenging you to notice a difference between the various murders.”

  “Then it could be aimed at me personally?” Boldt asked.

  “It could be. But it could be almost anything. What are you driving at?”

  “Just thinking out loud, that’s all. I have to consider all the possibilities.”

  “So you said.” She glanced over at him with a furrowed brow. “I don’t like the thought of any of this. I don’t think I’d like having your job.”

  “That makes us even.” He glanced over at her. Perfect profile. Slightly upturned nose. Just right. Thoroughly thoroughbred. “What you’re saying is that someone could be putting me through the psychological ringer, duplicating the kills while at the same time working by my side.”

  “It’s a horrible thought.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “Yes.” She waited a second before saying, “There’s something else, isn’t there, Lou?”

  “Yes there is.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I suppose I must want to.”

  “You don’t have to. Only if you want to.”

  He had been avoiding this. It had been lurking back there, always just out of reach. Nagging at him. But he had had no desire to face it. It was bad enough just acknowledging it. “It’s Jergensen,” he told her.

  She said nothing.

  He spoke more softly. “Kramer and I talked about it a little, and it’s been bothering me ever since. The thing is, I’ve had to deal with a lot of different pressures, a lot of different things on this job… but the whole Jergensen thing stays with me.”

  “I’m listening,” she said in that soothing, slightly Southern voice of hers.

  “But the thing of it is… What’s really bugging me is that we let ourselves be swayed. We went along with public sentiment.” They had walked a good distance and now he turned and waited for a light.

  She studi
ed him with her milk-chocolate eyes. Daphne said, “Okay.”

  He glared at her, “But it’s not okay.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he asked incredulously as the light changed and they crossed. “Why?” he repeated, looking away. “Don’t you understand? Jergensen was innocent.”

  “Was he?”

  “He wasn’t the killer.”

  “But was he innocent?”

  “You’re talking semantics.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, he probably wasn’t innocent.”

  “And could you have stopped it? Could one person have stopped it?”

  He took her elbow and steered her around some construction, following behind her. When he was alongside he said, “That’s what I keep asking myself. That’s it exactly. I wasn’t convinced. We had no hard evidence. None. But I wanted it over as badly as anyone. I shouldn’t have slowed down. My inaction got a man killed. Can’t you see that?”

  “So, it’s your fault Jergensen was killed? Your fault alone?”

  “I’m not saying that, dammit! I know it’s not that simple—”

  “It’s not,” she said, interrupting, “it’s only as complicated, it’s only as involved as you want to make it. There are those in my profession who maintain that everything is made-up. We can choose to create whatever we want out of things. What do you think of that?”

  “I think that’s too simplistic. There’s plenty that’s beyond our control. If it’s all made up, then why can’t I just solve the murders, if that’s what I want?”