Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “Our second killer. The man in the Rockports wants us to think DeHavelin was done by the Cross Killer.”

  Dixon looked skeptical. “Don’t put down Rockports, Lou. I wear them.” He pointed. “Damn comfortable.”

  It caused Boldt to hesitate. Then he said, “You and I agreed it was possible someone else did Kate DeHavelin. A copycat. Don’t back out on me now, Dixie. DeHavelin’s not the first one that’s bugged us.”

  “I said it was highly unlikely, Lou. There’s a difference.”

  “But possible.”

  Dixon shrugged. “If you put me on the stand, I’d have to say the kills were identical. That’s how close they are.”

  Boldt considered this a moment and said, “That may be the copycat’s game. Still, you agree, it’s possible. That’s the only word I need to hear.”

  Dixon shrugged again. “I’ll look over Jane Doe again, Lou. A whole month,” he reminded him. “The full collection.”

  “By tonight,” Boldt restated.

  “It’ll be late.”

  “My phone’s been screwing up. If you don’t get me, drive it over. Thirty-five-thirty and a half, Interlake North. I’ll wait up.”

  “Got it.”

  Boldt glanced over accidentally at the charred body. “That’s really awful,” he said.

  “Depends on how you look at it,” Dixon said with a wry smile.

  ***

  Boldt was told that James Royce was cleaning a body. Boldt refused to enter the room. He’d seen enough for a lifetime. He didn’t understand how anyone could get used to this job. You either had to be numb or sick. Or both.

  Royce snapped off his gloves and threw them into the trash. His white jacket was filthy and his handsome face looked exhausted. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. “Jesus, what a day.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You’re my saving grace, Sergeant.”

  Boldt asked for Norvak’s X-rays.

  Royce inquired cautiously, “You heard that we confirmed her earlier?”

  Boldt grunted. “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

  Royce led Boldt down a hall and into a file room. He pulled Norvak’s large folder of X-rays from a drawer, and handed it to the detective.

  “One other thing,” Boldt said as they left the room.

  “What’s that?”

  “There was some mud on Jane Doe when she came in.”

  “Sure was. I cleaned her up.”

  “How about her swimsuit? Dixie told me you’d hold it for us.”

  Royce furrowed his brow. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Thanks. Have it sent over to the state lab, would you please?”

  “What should I tell them?”

  “I’ll call ahead. Don’t worry about it.”

  The two shook hands. Royce’s was still clammy, the skin soft, from being inside the latex gloves for hours. The strange texture and temperature gave Boldt an odd sensation in his bowels.

  After leaving his visitor’s tag at the reception desk, Boldt headed straight to the John. A few minutes later he realized it wasn’t Royce’s handshake. It was the ulcer.

  32

  Boldt didn’t like the waiting. It did nothing to improve his mood. He was waiting for the tissue samples from the lab that might show traces of steroids. He was waiting for Dixon’s confirmation of what he already knew—the Jane Doe corpse did not have Betsy Norvak’s arthritic elbow. Now he wanted more: he wanted Judith Fuller’s apartment number; he wanted LaMoia’s efforts to yield something; he wanted I.D.’s report on Norvak’s minivan; the lab’s spectrograph of the burned clothing; he wanted to prove to the others what he already knew: Kate DeHavelin and possibly some of the other Cross Killer victims—and perhaps Betsy Norvak—were the work of a second man. Someone close to the investigation who was taking advantage of the sensational nature of the Cross Killings. A copycat.

  In an effort to quell his impatience, he turned his attention to paperwork. Stacked neatly on his desk were two dozen manila folders, each thick with reports and computer fanfold paper. Boldt read through the most recent, which included LaMoia’s lists of stores and the various items bought by the victims. He scanned the thick computer printout listing the scores of shops that sold red silk roses. The task before them was enormous and time seemed to be working against them.

  He put these folders aside and opened the file on Kate DeHavelin. He didn’t want to look at the photos. He was sick of the photos. He studied I.D.’s report on the plaster cast and was again reminded that the footprints found at Cheryl Croy’s and those found at Kate DeHavelin’s were made by two different men—and again he was reminded of his waiting. His stomach cramped and he had to close his eyes to relax.

  Eyes closed, he saw Cheryl Croy’s bloodstained bedroom. The vision was dreamlike, monotone colors, fuzzy edges. He tried his best to re-create the incident, as he had done dozens of times. He located the tape of Justin Levitt’s hypnosis session and placed it in the machine, donning the lightweight headphones. As the boy spoke, Boldt could see the parted curtains, could picture Justin behind the telescope. Croy hears a knock on her door. She shuts off the television and quickly slips on her nightgown. “Nothing good on tonight,” Justin says. Boldt backs up the tape and listens to this again. And again. It had struck him oddly at the time and it stayed with him now as he pictured the faceless Cross Killer handing Croy a bouquet of red silk roses and forcing his way inside, forcing her upstairs and into her bedroom. He throws her onto the bed and pulls the curtain. “…blue light on the curtains…” Boldt stops the machine and rewinds. “…blue light on the curtains…” “…blue light on the curtains.”

  “Nothing good on tonight…” He leafed through Croy’s folder and found a Xerox of the VICAP report, thumbing several pages until reaching the inventory of the death scene. His finger slid down the list and stopped. He skidded the folder from the second murder atop this and dug once again into the stack, seeking the VICAP report. He located the death-scene inventory and his fingertip raced down the typed columns of items.

  “Nothing good on tonight.”

  As common as a home stereo.

  Too easily overlooked.

  The word just above his dirty fingernail read, “VCR.”

  ***

  The Levitts were just finishing dinner in front of “Wheel of Fortune.” Boldt hadn’t realized how late it was. They were pleasant enough to him, but when he asked if he could speak with Justin, the mother sent her son up to his room and asked for a few words with Boldt.

  When the boy was out of earshot, she asked, “Did you see tonight’s paper?”

  Boldt had not. He told her so. Mr. Levitt stood by passively. He was the passenger in this marriage; she was the driver.

  “They’re claiming Justin knows what the killer looks like, calling him the only material witness. He didn’t see the man’s face, Mr. Boldt, we both know that. All this press, these claims that he does know, is upsetting to him. Why’d you people do this? He thinks he’s supposed to know something he doesn’t know. We’ve tried to explain why the press does what it does, but I don’t think we got through. He feels like he’s letting us all down. I really think it’s time he got back to being a boy. We’re thinking of taking him out of school. He has an uncle in Idaho. We’ve been thinking about sending him over there until Thanksgiving, until this all settles down somewhat. My husband’s brother teaches school over there and he thinks he can arrange something.”

  “If there’s a trial… anything like that, of course he’d be available on short notice,” Douglas Levitt added. “It’s just too much for a boy his age. Nancy would go over and stay with him,” he said, motioning toward his wife. It was the first time Boldt had heard her name. “I’d make it on as many weekends as I could. We think he’d be better off out of the city.”

  “That’s up to you,” Boldt said. “There’s nothing I can do about that. Oh, I suppose there is… But I’m not going to do anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” He added, “
We would like to try hypnosis one more time.”

  Levitt glanced at his wife. “We’ve decided against that,” he acknowledged, “in light of what it’s doing to Justin.”

  Boldt was in no mood to argue. “However you want it. We can’t force you. May I speak with the boy a minute? It’s extremely important.”

  Mrs. Levitt nodded her approval.

  As he reached the stairs, Mrs. Levitt asked, “Mr. Boldt? He’s not in any kind of danger, is he? I mean all this press?”

  “My lieutenant thinks the press is your biggest concern.”

  Mr. Levitt nodded, put an arm around his wife, and squeezed.

  ***

  Justin Levitt was sitting on his bed. “She tell you about the paper? I swear to God I didn’t see the guy’s face. That’s bullshit.”

  It was strange for Boldt to hear a boy this age swear. He wondered if he would have tolerated such language from his own son. He thought not. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll do anything to sell newspapers.”

  “Assholes.”

  “I agree.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Justin, what I have to say, what I have to ask you… I’m not saying you lied to me. I’m not accusing you of anything. I want you to understand how grateful I am, we all are, for your being so helpful. But I need to ask you some tough questions. And I need the truth, Justin. Anything said is strictly between you and me. Okay?”

  Justin’s face tightened. He finally nodded.

  “You told me you could see her television from here, right?” The boy nodded apprehensively. “And what was she watching that night?”

  “I told you. That radio channel.”

  “I mean the night she was killed.”

  “The radio channel. I already told you.”

  Boldt considered this a moment and then said, “Tell me about once they were in the room.”

  Justin Levitt sighed, clearly fed up with the repetitive questioning. “She entered the room in front of him. She fell onto the bed. That’s all.”

  “The curtains.”

  “He pulled the curtains.”

  “The lights.”

  “He shut off the lights. Jeez!”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. I told you. Nothing.”

  “You told me you saw blue light.”

  The boy looked surprised. He thought about this. “So what?”

  “Light from the television?” Boldt questioned.

  The boy didn’t answer. He looked puzzled.

  Boldt left a long pause before finally asking, “Did she ever watch dirty movies?”

  The boy blushed. “No way.”

  “Justin?”

  “Maybe.”

  “With her boyfriend?” Boldt recalled Marquette explaining their last night together had been spent “watching tube.”

  “Maybe.” He was extremely quiet.

  “Was she watching one that night?”

  “No!”

  “Justin.”

  “No! I swear. The radio channel.”

  “You said she turned off the TV.”

  “That’s right. She heard the guy at the door, I suppose.”

  “Did she turn it off at the set?”

  “No. I told you. The remote control.”

  “From the bed?”

  “Yeah. From the bed. She turned it off. Same as always. Then she got up, crossed in front of the window, and went into the bathroom. I told you all this.”

  “Did she watch dirty movies, Justin? I have to know. Did you ever see her watching dirty movies?”

  He blushed again.

  “Tell me the truth, damn it,” Boldt said harshly. “A woman’s been murdered!” He was close to the boy now, hanging on his answer. He said softly, “You could see her TV from here. You could see the movies, too. Isn’t that right?”

  “My mom will kill me.”

  Boldt shook his head. “Come on. Come on!”

  Justin looked up at Boldt with sad eyes. He nodded extremely slowly. “She and her boyfriend, they did it on the bed while the movies were going. I watched.” He swallowed. “Not very often, you know. I didn’t see them that many times.”

  Boldt had not anticipated that the boy might have seen them in the act as well. No wonder he had been reluctant to mention it.

  “When was the last time… the last time they watched one of those movies?”

  “That weekend. Friday night, I think. Her boyfriend came over. I wouldn’t have watched if they had pulled the curtains all the way. I couldn’t have! They never pulled the curtains all the way. It’s not my fault. They always left them open a crack.”

  “A crusader,” Boldt whispered.

  “What’s that?” Justin Levitt asked, bringing Boldt back to the room.

  He said, “I’m going to need your help again.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Boldt stepped forward and hugged the boy to his chest. “That’s all I ask, son. That’s all any of us can ask.”

  33

  “What’s this all about, Lou?” Shoswitz set down his flight bag. His first baseman’s glove and blue aluminum bat were sticking out through the open zipper. He looked silly in his softball uniform and yellow cap. Number 9. “Top half of the second inning and my god-damned beeper goes off. What’s going on?”

  Boldt had ten folders open on his desk, their contents somewhat scattered. He knew Shoswitz loved a good game of softball, despite his bad elbow. It had not been all that long ago that he himself had taken time for sports and such things. But not lately. Lately, it seemed that work was all he knew, and he wondered how he had allowed it to come to this. No wonder Elizabeth had found someone else.

  A shift change had occurred forty minutes earlier and the office cubicles were mostly empty. Shoswitz rolled up a chair. “No rest for the wicked, right?”

  “The connection is porno films. Justin Levitt confirmed it. Video rentals. That’s how he chooses his victims. I’ve made some calls. I only reached four of the boyfriends, but they all admitted that they had watched porno flicks with their girlfriends. And in every case it was the woman who belonged to the video store. It’s just the kind of private thing a person would find a way to leave out of a police report. And if the killer took time to place the women under surveillance, then the movie could have been rented days prior to the killing—not an easy connection for the boyfriend to make. It’s the pattern we’ve been missing. I’ve gone through this shit,” he said, lifting one of the folders. “As far as I can tell, seven of the ten victims owned VCRs. Three of the others didn’t. Right now we’re concentrating on the four we know rented videos.”

  “Who’s on it?”

  “LaMoia.”

  “Good. What’s he doing?”

  “He’s going to get the name of the video store or stores from the boyfriends. If they don’t know, he’ll go back through the victims’ finances. Once we’ve got the stores, we’ll get employee lists and cross-check them with DMV for yellow vans. We’re moving as quickly as possible, but we’ve got to be real careful, Phil. We’re close now. As close as we’ve been. One mistake and we could lose this guy in court.”

  “Agreed.” Shoswitz thought for a moment. “You, me, and Kramer, my office tomorrow morning. I want to know the count on this, and I mean play by play—with color commentary. We work as a team. Right? Teamwork. Right?”

  “Sure. There’s something else I need from you, Phil. I need a warrant to search Judith Fuller’s apartment.”

  “You’re not going to try and sell me this copycat crap again, are you?”

  “Did I miss something? I thought after Jergensen we all agreed we’d chase any lead—any lead at all. Are we going to let a thing like—”

  “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

  Boldt handed Shoswitz a pink phone-call memo. Shoswitz read it over. “So? This only tells us what we already knew. Norvak had a windsurfing accident. It’s not all that rare.”

  “What that says is that the sailboard the Coast Guard found
off Whidbey is registered under warranty to Norvak. It says nothing about an accident. Try this one.” Boldt handed him Abrams’s report.

  “I already saw this.”

  “Then you know I.D. found traces of both rust and Portland cement in the back of Norvak’s minivan. They also confirmed that the large spill of chemical by the stack of fenceposts in back of her garage was Penta. And, using the minivan’s mirrors, they estimate the last person to drive that thing was just shy of six feet. Norvak was five-seven, tops.”

  “Lou? You need another rest? You pulling for some time off or something? Make some sense.”

  “I want a search warrant for Judith Fuller’s apartment. And I’m not going to get it without your help.”

  “We’ve been over this, Lou. We have a match of dental records on Norvak. The woman who washed ashore at Alki is Norvak, not Fuller.”

  “But we don’t have a match on the arthritic elbow. Even Dixie admitted they screw up the paperwork now and then.”

  “Give me a break, would ya?”

  “Lieutenant, we have a bathing suit and a wetsuit dipped in Penta and set afire. We have a missing fifty-five-gallon drum.” Seeing Shoswitz’s disbelief, Boldt nodded. “That’s right, we do. The lawn man said there had been three drums out back. You know how expensive Penta is. No one in their right mind would dump twenty gallons. You’d pour it into another drum at least. Save it. But somebody dumped it. Somebody burned a Danskin and a wetsuit. Norvak never wore the two together. This thing isn’t totally assembled yet, but the pieces are coming into place.”

  Shoswitz rubbed his elbow. He waited a moment and then said, “Well, are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to be psychic?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  “Let’s say for a moment that you’re a man close to the Cross Killer investigation. Close enough to know the details.”

  “Go on.”

  “And you’re also homicidal.” Boldt waited for a comment from Shoswitz, but he had the lieutenant’s attention now. “And you see a way to kill some women and have the murders blamed on the Cross Killer. Only you’re more into the actual act of killing than the Cross Killer. A copycat could very well enjoy torturing his victims. This, according to Daphne, not me. He takes his time. He tapes their mouths shut so they can’t scream and he strangles them like the Cross Killer does because he knows enough to do the job right. But he tortures them. Instead of a quick death, the copycat’s victims are forced to endure an extremely slow death.”