Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  “Are you going somewhere with this?” Shoswitz checked his watch.

  Boldt raised his hand. “So let’s say you enjoy the torture aspect so much that the more women you do, the more you really drag the torture out. And once… no twice, you actually lose your victim. She gets away. Maybe you’re convinced she’s passed out, but she isn’t. Maybe part of the torture is letting her think you aren’t looking—teasing—and you give her a chance at escape.” Shoswitz was interested now. Boldt could feel it. “One of the women who gets away on you is Katherine DeHavelin. Only she’s quicker than you thought, and by the time you get her again, she has the tape off her mouth and is running through some woods. Maybe she’s screaming. And you kill her right there.”

  Shoswitz nodded. “I think you’ve got something going here, Lou.”

  “One of your other victims is a woman named Judith Fuller. Only Fuller gets completely away from you before you’ve even choked her down—maybe she fights back harder than the others, who knows? But the important thing is she gets away, her windpipe damaged and hemorrhaging.”

  “She dives into the sound,” Shoswitz said.

  Now Boldt nodded. “And before you catch up to her, she’s under. Gone. Drowned. You’ve lost this one completely.”

  “And you haven’t had time to tidy the job.”

  “Just the opposite. The job’s a mess. Remember, you’re close enough to the investigation to know how it’s being handled. You have to be or couldn’t possibly duplicate the kills well enough.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Remember, this is all essentially wild speculation. We only have a few pieces to put this thing together with, and they’re all circumstantial.”

  Shoswitz nodded. “It’s good work, Lou. I follow you. Stay with it.”

  “Okay, so what’s your problem now? You’ve botched this job, you haven’t had a chance to make it look like the work of the Cross Killer. In fact, maybe you’re worried that this body could lead the cops back to you. You need someone for the cops to easily identify this woman as. Again, you’re a cop yourself. You know what the sound does to a body. You know there’s a good chance it will be basically unrecognizable when it washes ashore. And it will wash ashore. Where, you can’t be sure. The chances of a body making it clear out to the ocean are next to none. So you hunt down a woman to take your victim’s place. She has to be a windsurfer because you know your victim’s going to come up wearing windsurf gear. You know what her face looked like, and you know her body type so you check out places where this time of year you can see body types—”

  “The water.”

  “Exactly. Lakes, the shore maybe. You locate Norvak. She’s perfect for your needs. Do you befriend her? Do you show her your badge out at her house and tell her you need to talk to her?”

  “Jesus.”

  “You kill her. You stuff her into a fifty-five-gallon drum, get some cement, and make her a steel coffin. You wait out most of the night. Before dawn the cement has set enough to move her. You roll the drum up into the back of her van. You take her sailboard and sails. But wait! You remember that the woman you lost was wearing a suit and a wetsuit. You need to balance the equation—Norvak can’t suddenly have an extra wetsuit and swimsuit.”

  “So you burn them.”

  “Burn them down to a lump of nothing. Mind you, we never would be onto any of this if we hadn’t connected the shoe prints. That was this guy’s one mistake. A different pair of shoes, and we would have never connected it.”

  “He drives her straight over to Carkeek,” Shoswitz said, “and dumps the body.”

  “Maybe. A cliff somewhere would more suit his purposes. Maybe even one of the islands. We’ll never find her, that’s for sure, and that’s all that matters. But he makes sure to leave the van where it will be found. He wipes it down and dumps the windsurf gear into the sound, assuming it will probably be found. Just like his victim, the chances of it getting out to sea are next to nil.

  “But he doesn’t know where the body is going to wash up. He doesn’t know we can trace that body back from Alki to a point off of Vashon. Phil, the body wasn’t anywhere near Carkeek. He didn’t know about the undercurrents.”

  Shoswitz sat in silence. The lights overhead buzzed. Down on the street a patrol car’s siren kicked on and faded slowly into the distance.

  “We have the teeth,” Shoswitz reminded. “I don’t buy this switching records thing.”

  “Two things I need from you,” Boldt said.

  “Surprise.”

  “Abe lifted a male thumbprint from a paper plate behind Norvak’s. If it is a cop, Phil, then his prints are in our files. I want to try for a match in our files.”

  “Oh, Christ, Lou. You know what that involves? This isn’t Quantico, you know. We’re talking hand-and-eye search, file by file. And to catch a single print, you’re talking veteran expert, someone like Jimmie.”

  “Okay, Jimmie then.”

  “And what, Robbery and Narco take a two-month vacation? How long do you think it will take? Four weeks, six weeks, twelve weeks?”

  “Someone else then. Not Jimmie.”

  “Take ’em even longer.”

  “‘No stone unturned.’ That’s what you handed me.”

  “Okay. Sold, to the man in the ratty coat. One of Jimmie’s assistants. But one, that’s all. And no mention of why. He reports directly to me. Bad morale I don’t need on top of everything else.” He paused. “So what’s number two?”

  “Get me into Judith Fuller’s apartment, Lieutenant. I’ve had Gaynes watching it and there’s been no action whatsoever. There may be answers to this thing inside there. All I need is a warrant. I bust in there my way, and we can’t use anything in court. The dental records could have been mixed up—Dixie told me it happens. And besides—I’ve already confirmed by X-rays of her elbow that Jane Doe is not Betsy Norvak. I’m waiting for a call now from Dixie. He’s going to look at it personally—but I guarantee there’s no arthritis in that elbow. That should be enough to get me my warrant.”

  “Okay, okay. You’ll have your warrant by morning. But don’t leave me in the dark on this. I want to know the score, right? What you’re implying here is that one of my men may be involved. I want to know what the fuck is going on, Lou.”

  “Will do.”

  Shoswitz stood and looked out at the empty office cubicles. “Gives me the creeps,” he said. “You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  34

  At ten minutes past eleven Dr. Ronald Dixon knocked on Boldt’s front door. Boldt had been waiting for a call. He turned down the radio and answered the door.

  Dixon stepped inside saying, “I called you a dozen times. Each time I get some all-night pharmacy.”

  “Phone company’s working on it.”

  “Nice place,” he said, not meaning it. Dixon had been over to dinner at Boldt’s house a few times and this place didn’t measure up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Things any better with Liz?”

  Boldt shrugged. “I miss her. I’ve got some beer in the box. Can I get you one?”

  “Beer? You?”

  “For my guests,” he explained.

  “Oh, I see. Been enjoying the bachelor life, have we?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “I’d love one.”

  Boldt brought him a Miller in an aluminum can.

  Dixon sat on the couch and patted it for feel. “Your porch smells like cat piss,” he said.

  “What’s a fellow to do?” Boldt asked.

  “Try tomato juice. Seriously. Buy a couple of quarts of generic tomato juice up at the Safeway there, and mop the corners with it. Hose it down. You’ll notice a big difference. Works just like it does for skunks.”

  “You didn’t stop by to talk about cat piss.”

  “Who says I didn’t? Has everything got to be business with you? We’re friends, remember?” The men sat looking at each other. Their wives were good fri
ends.

  “I remember,” Boldt said.

  “And since I don’t see your collection here, I’m assuming your offer of letting me borrow some was not based in truth.”

  “I’m moving it over here as soon as I have the time. The offer stands.”

  “Lou. Listen, Ginny and I talked about this. So Liz had a little fling? I mean, what marriage hasn’t been through that a couple of times? You’ve been a wreck lately. You look like hell. Everybody says so. Liz has told Ginny everything, and if you ask me, I think she wants another go of it. She’s not in love with anyone but you. You’ve been so buried in this damn case you haven’t given any of us the time of day. It’s not healthy. It’s not good for anyone. Give it another shot, Lou. You’re not the type of guy to be pigheaded about something. It’s not in your nature. You know that as well as I. So why be pigheaded about Liz? She’s your wife, for Christ’s sake. And you need her, buddy. One look at you says that much. So how ’bout a little effort on your part?”

  “You were going to look at Jane Doe for me.”

  “Lou.”

  “No promises, Dixie. We all handle this kind of thing in our own way. This is my way. This is how it has to be for me. At least for now. I go back now, nothing’s going to be any different. A lot’s riding on this case for me.”

  “Promotion? You think they base a promotion solely on case performance? You know better than that. What kind of leadership qualities does a man who can’t even wear an ironed shirt have? I don’t go along with that.”

  “My point is I’m too consumed to give Elizabeth any quality time. We’d be right back where we were, and that might wreck us for good.”

  “Ah! So there is some hope.”

  “Nothing’s over until it’s over. That includes marriages and investigations.”

  Dixon sampled the beer and smacked his lips. He was pale and his face oily. He appeared tired. “Why all the cloak and dagger on this?”

  “Because we may have a copycat on our hands.”

  “But still—”

  “And he may be in my department.”

  It silenced Dixon. He tried the beer again and kept the can in hand. “I thought you might say something like that. Then what I have to tell you is hardly going to make you sleep any better.”

  “No arthritis.”

  “No arthritis. Right. If Betsy Norvak’s elbow looked that bad, then she’s not Jane Doe, or more to the point, Jane Doe is not her. I went in and had a look. Clean as a whistle. Perfectly normal elbow.”

  “I thought so. And that will hold up in court, right?”

  “It should.”

  “One other thing I’d like you to do for me, Dixie, when you get the time.”

  “Tonight? I can hear it in your tone of voice. Lou…”

  “Whenever.”

  “What is it?” Dixon asked, resignation in his voice.

  “I’d like you to compare two of the neck bruises.”

  “We did them all.”

  “I don’t mean look them over, I mean compare. Really compare. Just the two of them against each other. Angles, amount of pressure. Anything you can give me.”

  “Who?”

  “DeHavelin and Jane Doe.”

  Dixon shook his head, “No chance, Lou. Jane Doe’s sponge cake. I can’t get shit off of her.”

  35

  On a cold Thursday morning, the twentieth of October, Shoswitz, Kramer, and Boldt sat down to discuss the case. The three men guzzled coffee and tugged on not-so-fresh donuts.

  “These things suck,” Shoswitz proclaimed, attempting to chew the rubber dough. “They hit bottom like a ton of rocks. Right?”

  “White flour clogs the system, Lieutenant,” Kramer announced merrily. “Try whole wheat.”

  “You’re awfully quiet this morning, Lou,” Shoswitz said.

  Lou Boldt nodded. “Up late,” he said.

  He and Daphne had been sidestepping each other in the hallways. He thought it strange that their feud had actually brought them closer. He thought about her almost constantly. He kept hearing her tell him how he was “an interest.” Her sulking bore that out. It was like a high-school infatuation. He knew it was time for an apology, but the situation had not presented itself—at least that’s what he kept telling himself. Only now, at thirty-nine years of age, was he beginning to realize that situations don’t present themselves, you make them happen. You create the way it is—isn’t that what she had said?

  “What do we have, Lou?”

  “Yeah, Lou, what do we have?” Kramer whined.

  “John,” Shoswitz chided.

  “Jesus, Lieutenant, I don’t hear shit around here. I find shit out from my fucking detectives. Fuckin’ LaMoia knows more about this case than I do. That’s not right.”

  Shoswitz flashed Boldt a look. He said, “Listen to me, John. We’re all on short fuses. We’ve all been stretched thin. Lou’s put in some tough hours. He’s done some fine police work. We all have. But let me make myself clear, here. This is a team. We don’t need infighting. We’ve got plenty to handle without being on each other’s cases. You got that?”

  “What the fuck, Lieutenant? LaMoia knows more.”

  “My fault,” Boldt said, attempting to calm Kramer, who seemed stunned by the comment.

  “Damn right.”

  “Sorry, John. I needed some legwork done. I’ve been using LaMoia for that. My fault.”

  “Okay?” Shoswitz asked.

  “Shit,” Kramer spit out and settled back. “Fucking perfect.”

  “Lou?” Shoswitz asked.

  “We have the match. LaMoia went back through Croy’s finances. Eight months ago she joined a video-rental club—paid a one-time membership fee by check. The chain is called Market Video. Six stores in all, mostly along Market and in the U section. Three stores within the BSU boundary. The chain owns four plain yellow vans. They offer free delivery and pickup within their neighborhoods. We’ve confirmed that six of the other women were members as well. The computer never picked up the connection. It may be because the women rented the videos days before they were killed. We may have missed it because the women paid cash. Or it could be they called in their orders—did everything by phone. The computers would have missed that, too.”

  “The computers, or you, Boldt,” Kramer criticized.

  “John!” Shoswitz chided. “So we have three stores,” he said. “Four vans. Any one of which could be the one spotted behind Croy’s house.”

  “And we have tire impressions from that one,” Kramer recalled.

  “True,” Boldt said, “but if we impound the vans we’ll tip our hand. Scare him off.”

  “That’s possible,” Kramer acknowledged.

  “We’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not necessarily one of those vans,” Boldt said. “The problem is, it could be someone in the store. It could even be a customer who hangs around waiting to spot a woman renting a porno video. We can’t be sure.”

  Kramer shifted uneasily in his chair, like he had a burr under his saddle. “So we need to put them under surveillance.”

  Boldt said, “I’m going to have LaMoia check the employee records of all six stores. Meanwhile I’d like to run three teams, one into each store. We use the girls from SA. One team assigned to each store. The woman signs up alone, we know his victims were members. We try different variations then: woman rents porno alone; woman and guy rent porno flick; woman calls in for a porno flick to be delivered. We’re looking for a guy that matches the BSU profile—behind the counter or out in the racks. If we spot a suspect we put him under surveillance.”

  “A setup!” Kramer objected.

  “Why not? Vice plants women undercover as hookers. We go after prostitution that way. Why should we let this guy get some innocent woman?” He pleaded his case to Shoswitz. “Maybe we can control where he hits. Besides, that’s not the point. The idea is to keep our eyes open for a guy matching the profile. We have nothing on this guy, Lieutenant. We all know that. At best we can put h
im near one of the crime scenes—Croy’s back fence. But we can’t even place him inside the house. We haven’t got squat. We need to find the bastard, follow him to his residence, search the place when he isn’t there, and hopefully build a case against him. A partial palm print isn’t going to take a jury ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ We have the courts to contend with. The Cross Killer could walk in here right now, and we couldn’t hold him for more than twenty-four hours with what we’ve got.”

  Boldt and Kramer exchanged glances.

  “I don’t know, Lou,” Shoswitz said.

  It pleased Kramer.

  “He must be connected to one of the three stores. Maybe even all three. Two of the three victims we’ve linked to the chain shopped different Market Videos. Working there would give the killer access to the addresses. Listen, what I’m suggesting is that we run these pairs. They give the stores the same home address, three apartments in a building we choose. We stake out the apartment and wait for the killer to put it under surveillance. We know he cases these places. It’s the only way he could possibly know the boyfriends aren’t there. If we go in there as cops and scare him off, we may never have anything more than a palm print. It’s women renting porn movies—that’s how he selects his victims. He picks them out at the video store. When he’s sure they’re alone, he delivers flowers to get their doors open. We know what he does after that: he tapes their eyes open, holds them up by their hair, and makes them watch another porn movie while he kills them. Wonderful thought, right? He tortures them. Stabs them. What the hell? Are we going to let it happen again? It won’t be long now until he hits again. And I, for one, can’t see just sitting back and letting it happen.”

  “Lou,” Shoswitz snapped, “don’t be an ass. That’s a shitty thing to say.” Again the men fell silent. “Your thoughts, John?”