Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  Her face was stretched by gray duct tape, her eyes open in that dead stare that Lou Boldt had come to expect. He couldn’t look at the rest of her. It was worse now for Boldt, knowing the woman had been raped. Boldt lifted the sheet and covered the grotesque remains of her body. The sheet turned red. Boldt looked over at the television. Then he closed his eyes.

  “You all right?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Tired.”

  “When we finish up here, why don’t you take a few hours? We’ve all been up all night. If I don’t lie down for a few hours, I’m going to be useless.” He dragged a hand down his face.

  “I want the kid back,” Boldt said. He moved over to the television and touched the on-off button with his pen. The screen remained dark gray but the speaker hissed. “He had it switched to the VCR, not the cable. At least that’s consistent. That’s still part of his ritual.”

  “And we know where he works,” Shoswitz added.

  “We think we do. We can’t be sure. He could be just another customer. We can’t be sure of anything.” Boldt intended to say more, but the bubble exploded in his chest like a horrible case of indigestion and he felt as if he were choking. He stabbed the button on the set again and the screen went black, the hissing stopped. His ears were ringing from fatigue.

  “He drives the van. A customer couldn’t drive the van,” Shoswitz said.

  “He drives a van,” Boldt reminded. “We think. Until we cast the tires of every van operated by Market Video, we won’t know for sure.”

  “I think that time has come,” Shoswitz said. “It’s what, seven-fifty? I bet the place doesn’t open until ten, maybe eleven. We get a warrant and send I.D. over there ASAP. That takes what, another hour? They can ink them and photograph them in no time. We don’t want to scare him off, I agree, but he’ll never know if we get right on it.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me, Phil,” Boldt said, standing. “I can’t go along with the delicate approach any longer. Not now. I know we risk losing the court case if we move too fast, if we’re not careful. But if we move too slow, then we’re going to be seeing a lot more like her, I’m afraid,” he said, gesturing toward the red sheet. “Not to mention the boy. If we lose the boy, Phil—”

  “Hey, I’m with you. So we go ahead with the tires? You’re game?”

  “I’m game.”

  “Good.”

  “And I’ll personally run down the employees through DMV’s computers if LaMoia isn’t standing at my desk when we return. We have to move fast now, Phil. Real fast, or we’re going to lose the boy. I can feel it, damn it all. The boy’s alive, Phil. But for how long?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, Lou,” Shoswitz said, glancing toward the bed. “With a guy like this, I wouldn’t count on anything.”

  ***

  LaMoia was asleep, arms folded on Lou Boldt’s desk. He was snoring. Boldt tapped him lightly on the shoulder and LaMoia jumped.

  “Shit,” LaMoia said, rubbing his eyes, “bad dream.” He rose and offered Boldt the seat. Standing, he told Boldt enthusiastically, “If he works for Market Video, he has to be one of four guys. Only four guys are close to the BSU profile. Two of them are drivers.”

  Boldt picked up the sheet of paper LaMoia had left on his desk and read from it. “Where do we stand on this?”

  “Kramer and I have lined up four surveillance teams. It wasn’t easy, given the way the department is stretched so thin. We got good people. We can milk about six hours out of it. After that—it’ll take a miracle to put together four teams for a second shift. That is, unless you, Kramer, Shoswitz, and I pull singles. Something like that.”

  “Okay, okay. So what do we know about these guys?” he asked, lifting the paper from the desk.

  “Two of the four are University kids. I was able to check that out right away. Drew a blank on the other two. No priors. No sheets on any of them. I’m waiting a few more minutes to try the state agencies. Food stamps, institutions, that sort of thing. Kramer’s helping out, and he has a couple of skirts on it too. If the profile is right, then he’s been institutionalized. We should know which guy if we get lucky at all.”

  “Meanwhile we just tail the four, okay? We’re hoping this guy will lead us to Justin. But for God’s sake let’s not spook him. If we do, we’ll have a hostage situation, and that’ll mean that SWAT will handle it.” SPD’s Special Weapons and Tactics force had a miserable record in hostage situations. Department policy required SWAT to handle all such situations, and Boldt had no desire to have Justin Levitt end up like the last two hostages SWAT had attempted to rescue.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Sarge. I got to agree with you. So what do we do—get these guys under surveillance and kick their places when we know they’re well away?”

  “Getting the warrants may be a problem. We’ll need more than what we’ve got.”

  “We have the partial thumbprint lifted from the burned match you found behind Croy’s. We have the palm print. What if we dust the doorknobs, something like that? We get a possible match, we get the warrant and we kick the place.”

  Boldt nodded.

  “Or maybe we dust a car or something.”

  “That gets us into some gray areas. We’d have to run it through the ranks to make that fly. I don’t know, John.” The two men were quiet as they thought. The coffee he had had in Abrams’s office was full strength in Boldt’s system now, and he felt jumpy and hot. His heart was racing. He felt the skin on his face stretch tight as he puckered his lips and swallowed. “I’ve got it,” he said.

  “Go.”

  “I want you to put the teams out. That’s good. Let’s follow these guys. But carefully. Real carefully. Abe is comparing the tire prints as we speak. That may help us out. Meanwhile I want you to get inside all three stores before they open—before any employees are around. I want you to go in with the owner. You think you can arrange that?”

  “I can arrange anything, Sarge.” He said it in his most cocky voice.

  Boldt didn’t doubt it. With anyone else he would have winced at such a comment. Not with LaMoia.

  “What’s the story?” the detective asked.

  Boldt said, “The couple that he got last night—”

  “It wasn’t a single woman?”

  “The pattern’s blown. Completely blown. That’s what makes this so damned important. No telling what’s next. No way to know. Where was I?”

  “The couple…”

  “Their name is Fabiano. Richard Fabiano. Wife’s name was Glenda. What I want to know is whether or not they belonged to Market Video. Whether or not they rented a film—and when. Okay? Those places run sheets—they keep track of rentals. That’ll help us all around. If you make headway, then see if they had the film delivered, or what the story is. Let’s look for a connection to one of your four suspects. If we can tie the Fabianos to one of those guys, we’re ninety percent there. That’s good enough odds that I’d be willing to kick the guy’s place and look for Justin. Without something like that, then we’re blowing hot air.”

  “I’ll go call the guy. You want to tell Kramer the surveillance teams are a go, or should I?”

  “You do it.” Boldt had no desire to talk with Kramer.

  45

  The report from the state lab came in at half past ten. Boldt was into his third cup of coffee. He read it through and then copied it, placing one copy in Norvak’s file folder, the original in Fuller’s. He had trouble thinking about the copycat—his concern was for Justin Levitt.

  The test for steroids in the tissue sample from Jane Doe had turned up negative, further establishing that Jane Doe was not Betsy Norvak. It still puzzled Boldt that the copycat—a man who had to be close to the investigation—had apparently attempted to kill a woman on Vashon Island, a ferry ride away from the city, miles outside the Cross Killer’s suspected territory. Considering the degree of care taken in the earlier kills to perfectly duplicate the Cross Killings, the copycat had departed radically from t
he set “formula.” Why take such a risk? Boldt wondered. Connecting this to the empty desk drawer in Fuller’s apartment, and the hasty packing job meant to mislead police further, Boldt had to wonder what had prompted these additional risks. Was the copycat now killing spontaneously, too? Did Boldt have a second uncontrolled killer on his hands?

  The answer had to be with Fuller. Why had she rented a windsurfer in Seattle and then taken a ferry clear over to Vashon? He reached for the phone, to call Fuller’s L.A. bank and give them a nudge, but set the receiver back on the hook as Abrams said from behind, “We’ve got a match.”

  Boldt spun around in his chair, his hand absentmindedly replacing the receiver. It was not unusual for Abrams to pay a visit to his office—it was unthinkable. “Abe?” was all he could gasp out.

  “Vehicle three. They keep all the vans parked behind a store down near Ballard. The drivers report there around noon, and return around midnight. Number three was parked behind Croy’s and was parked behind the Levitt house. Perfect match. No question about it. We’ve got the photos to prove it.” He was grinning—something else equally strange for Chuck Abrams.

  Boldt nodded. “No question about the van?”

  “None. Number three in their fleet. That’ll make your job a little easier. Won’t it?”

  Boldt didn’t answer. He spun in his chair and picked up the phone.

  “You’re welcome,” Abrams said, gleefully.

  Boldt raised his hand and looked quickly over at his friend. “Any albums you want, for as long as you want. Standing offer.”

  Abrams hesitated for a moment. “Seriously?” he nearly whined.

  “Anytime. As long as you want.”

  “You son of a bitch,” he said enthusiastically as he left the office.

  Boldt placed a call for LaMoia. Radio dispatch paged him on his Motorola, and less than five minutes later LaMoia phoned in. He was as cheerful as Abrams, and Boldt suddenly found himself wondering if they all weren’t far too tired to be working effectively. Boldt filled him in, and asked that LaMoia check the previous night’s schedule to see who was driving van number three. He suggested he check the schedule for the night Croy was murdered as well. He was in the middle of explaining the need for haste when LaMoia cut him off.

  “It’s all the same video, Sarge.”

  “Come again?”

  “I looked up the Fabianos like you asked. They belong to the Forty-fifth Street store. That’s where I am now. They rented a movie called Hot Summer Knights, it’s a porno-horror picture. And get this… one of the chics gets laid by a guy who ices her and draws a cross on her chest with red lipstick.”

  Boldt sat in absolute silence. There was something about the icy casualness of LaMoia’s tone that made Boldt uncomfortable.

  LaMoia continued, “It’s supposed to be a real erotic flick. Only a couple of gross-out scenes. So anyway, I went back through their lists. Back to around the time of the other kills. I can probably find more, but I’ve already located two matches. Croy and Heuston rented Summer Knights a few days before they were iced. It’s got to be the connection.”

  “When did the Fabianos rent it?”

  “Here’s the kicker.” LaMoia was shouting he was so excited. “They rented it last night, and the film is here, Sarge. It had been left in the night drop-off box. The way I figure it…” he said tentatively, waiting to see if Boldt would cut him off. “In the past the killer put his victims under surveillance—we assume that, okay? So he ended up taking a couple of days to get his act together. By the time he did the actual kill, the video was back in the store, no one the wiser. But now he isn’t waiting. He isn’t setting it up the same way, isn’t scoping out the scene. He’s impulsive, okay? So after he does the Fabianos, he realizes they’re in no condition to return the flick. He’s fucked up. He has to cover his ass, has to get that thing back to the store, so he takes the flick with him and returns it himself, so it won’t be noticed missing, okay? The store must have some sort of policy for tapes that are late. He can’t afford a connection being made. Okay? So he takes care of it himself… uses the night drop-off box. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Have you touched it?” Boldt worried.

  “No.” LaMoia hesitated and then said in a whisper of a voice, “Christ, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  ***

  Boldt was impatiently awaiting LaMoia’s arrival when Shoswitz shouted at a run, “Lou, John, right now!” and ran toward the elevator.

  Boldt made it into the elevator two steps behind Kramer, just as the doors were closing.

  Shoswitz said, “Van three has taken off on us. We’re in pursuit.”

  “Who the hell authorized that?” Boldt wondered.

  “I did,” Shoswitz said firmly. “It’s raining like hell out, Lou, and traffic is a mess and the guy is on Aurora doing about eighty. You want me to let him run?”

  “This could be a big mistake, Phil. There’s a boy’s life on the line here.”

  The elevator opened and the men ran toward the parked vehicles. “I’m going in mine,” Boldt yelled.

  Shoswitz and Kramer drove together.

  The rain began to beat against the windshield. Boldt couldn’t see the front of his car. He entered a kind of time warp. So many months had gone into this investigation that it seemed impossible they could be within minutes of apprehending the killer. The rain fell harder and the darkness increased because of the dense cloud cover. A location was barked over the radio and Boldt followed Shoswitz’s car into traffic. The wipers slapped rhythmically. Boldt had often imagined how the arrest would go down. Typical of fantasies, what was now happening didn’t fit at all. Somewhere, a few blocks ahead, was a speeding yellow van, a possible killer behind the wheel. Boldt had always pictured the arrest in a house—a home—the killer poised over one of his victims, about to kill. And in the fantasy Boldt pulled the trigger, killing the man.

  He thought it ironic that after all their efforts to gather the necessary evidence to arrest the killer, after thousands of hours of police work, by breaking the speed limit the killer was essentially handing himself over to the police.

  He knew they were taking a huge risk. If everything didn’t go exactly right from here on out, they might never convict this man of anything more than speeding. But with Justin Levitt’s life on the line, and the possibility of losing the van in heavy traffic, they were left no choice.

  He wondered where the boy was at this moment, how great his fear must be, how hopeless his condition. Anger steeped into him. If the papers hadn’t run a front-page story on Justin Levitt seeing the killer’s face, Douglas and Nancy Levitt might still be alive. And someone had leaked that information to the press. Someone in his office. And that person belonged behind bars as much as the Cross Killer did. Hopefully Kramer was doing a better job tracking down the leaks than usual—it was the one area in which he had more contacts than the rest of them.

  Boldt wondered what would happen to Justin if they now caught the killer and the man refused to acknowledge the kidnapping. Would the boy starve to death somewhere?

  For the next seven minutes (which seemed more like several hours to Lou Boldt), the radio popped frantically as the attempt to pull the van over developed into a high-speed chase over on Aurora. Boldt followed Shoswitz, who constantly adjusted his route as the patrol cars tightened their net. Boldt found himself speeding, siren screaming, following Shoswitz by only a few yards.

  ***

  Two roadblocks were established by SPD to keep the van out of downtown, where a speeding vehicle represented too great a threat to public safety. The van was forced off the elevated highway at the Kingdome. The driver made a last-minute attempt to avoid the second roadblock and met a highway support column head-on.

  Two patrolmen were just prying open the van’s rear doors as Boldt came to a stop. Another two doused the engine with fire extinguishers. It wasn’t raining under the protection of the highway, but a heavy, cold mist swirled through the air, cutting
through Boldt’s sport coat. He pulled it tight as he, Shoswitz, and Kramer climbed up into the back of the van.

  “He’s alive, Lieutenant,” one of the two advance patrolmen told them. “But not by much.” Shoswitz and Boldt moved aside in the tight quarters and Shoswitz told the patrolmen to get out and keep everyone else out until an ambulance arrived. He took a long-neck flashlight from a patrolman’s hands. Dozens of video cassettes were spilled about the back of the van.

  “And not a word to anyone,” Shoswitz admonished. The patrolmen left.

  The space was tight for all three men. Boldt hung back. He had seen enough blood lately. The body was hunched forward awkwardly. Shoswitz searched the man’s bloodstained neck for a pulse. He nodded. “Almost no pulse,” he said. The driver’s wallet was halfway out of his back pocket. Shoswitz removed it and opened it up. He shined the flashlight down and sorted through some papers before coming across the driver’s license and photo. “Herman Wykoff,” he read.

  “He’s too big,” Boldt said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “This guy’s too big, and he’s not wearing sneakers.”

  “He ran from us, Lou? What the hell do you want?”

  “He’s not right,” Boldt said nervously.

  “He looks right to me,” Kramer said.

  “Shine the light over here,” Boldt demanded. He picked up one of the video tapes. The label was crooked and poorly printed. “Here’s your reason for the chase,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” Shoswitz was obviously displeased with Boldt’s attitude.

  “Lou…” Kramer chided.

  “Bootleg videos. That’s why he ran from us. We’ve got the wrong guy, Phil.”

  “Lou!” Shoswitz shouted, obviously confused.

  “One step at a time, right, Lieutenant?” Kramer asked.

  “Piss on it,” Boldt complained. He hurried from the van. He had to push his way through the crowd of police and the curious. Some flash guns erupted in his face and several reporters called out his name followed by questions. The flashguns disoriented him and he raised his hands to shield his eyes, blindly stumbling toward his car.