“The same. They were all identical.”
“We’ve already determined they were not identical, Jimmy.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“You don’t like the name Jimmy? It’s a nice name.”
Boldt heard the chair slide back. “If that’s all…”
“Did your mother call you Jimmy?”
“What?!”
“Did she?”
“What do you know about my mother? What the hell’s going on here anyway?”
“You know where the killer made the mistake with Jane Doe? Aren’t you interested in that, James?”
“What do you want with me?”
Boldt was standing. The static was worse and he was losing the conversation, and it made him nervous. She was pushing too hard. She was trying too hard, and Boldt felt her control of the conversation slipping.
“What is it?” Dixon asked as Boldt stood. Boldt turned up the volume and pressed the earpiece hard into his ear.
Daphne shouted, “I need your help! Why do you think I’m here? You think I like this place? You were the first to see the bodies. Little things can tell us so much. I need your help, James, if we’re ever going to catch this copycat. And we must catch him. We have to stop him, you and I, don’t we, James?”
“Yes,” Royce said, suddenly more calm. “Yes, it would be good to stop him.”
“And you’ll help me stop him, won’t you?”
“I… I’d like to.”
“You can help us identify any inconsistencies in the kills. We know four of the kills were done by another man. And though he may think he did a perfect job, we know he didn’t.”
“They were perfect,” Royce insisted, again softly. “They looked absolutely perfect to me. I’ll tell you that.”
“No, not perfect. The copycat let DeHavelin get away because he tried to torture her a bit too slowly. And he left his prints at Betsy Norvak’s house. And he didn’t burn Norvak’s clothes thoroughly enough. And he didn’t know enough about Puget Sound. James, by just discussing the condition of the bodies—going over the details—you can help me to determine what the suspect might have been thinking when he killed them. You see, in order to prosecute we have to determine which women our suspect did kill and what mental condition he was in when he committed the murders. That’s very important. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Who’s that?” His voice sounded panicked but muted.
“Looks like the press,” she said. “The parking lot is filled with them,” she overemphasized, trying to alert Boldt. “Must be something going on upstairs.”
“Why are the cops moving them out?” he wondered, his voice suddenly more clear, and Boldt realized he had been looking out the window and was now once again facing Daphne. “Oh Christ,” he said. “You? You’re a cop. Right?”
“James,” she called out.
Boldt heard the struggle, her blouse rip, and the microphone go dead. Doctor Dixon had heard the cars. He opened the curtains and Boldt saw dozens of reporters through the high window. Someone had leaked news of this to the press. He rushed through the door, heading quickly to the prep room.
He burst through the door. A girl, no older than five, lay dead on the table, a green cloth covering her to her chin. She stared at the ceiling. Boldt froze at the sight, unable to pull his eyes away. Then he jumped toward the far door, withdrew his gun, and yanked the door open.
The room was empty, the radio transmitter and a piece of Daphne’s blouse scattered on the floor.
He ran into the next room, where a secretary stared at him with an ashen face. Unable to speak, this woman pointed toward an open door down a back hallway. At the far end of the long hall, Boldt saw a door open briefly. Two silhouetted figures. Then the door closed, returning the hallway to darkness.
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He was faced with choosing one of two options: he could use the small walkie-talkie clipped to his belt to inform Shoswitz that Daphne had been taken hostage (Shoswitz would then be obliged to pass the information on to Special Weapons and Tactics); or, he could go after them alone. In this brief moment of indecision he determined that the outside crew’s reception of Daphne’s transmitter must have been so intermittent that they had yet to discover she had been taken hostage. If they had suspected any trouble they would have already contacted Boldt by walkie-talkie, which meant they didn’t know—a situation that couldn’t, and wouldn’t last long. He had to act quickly.
Duty demanded he inform his lieutenant of the situation; but his head—and his heart—dictated he ignore duty. He distrusted the SWAT team’s ability to handle a crisis situation, despite their training. Boldt wasn’t about to risk adding Daphne to their list of failures.
As he entered the basement corridor, he understood full well that he was violating procedure by not calling in, that he would ultimately be held responsible for his decision and, no doubt, for the outcome of the hostage situation.
Weapon drawn, Boldt ran down the long corridor past cardboard boxes and storage rooms.
He yanked open the door at the end of the hallway and moved through swiftly, eyes darting about frantically, alert for the slightest movement. This door accessed a fire stairway leading up to the ground floor of the medical center.
A man came hurrying down the stairs, eyes wide. He avoided Boldt and continued his descent without a word. Boldt rounded the landing, crouched, gun trained toward the next level, and then stood and ran as fast as his bad knee would carry him.
At this next level, which was actually the ground floor of the medical center, he paused, out of breath. Had Royce continued to climb the stairs, or had he entered the hospital at this level? His answer came when two people casually rounded the flight of stairs above him, no alarm showing on their faces. Boldt shoved his weapon back into its holster, tugged on the stiff door, and hurried into the hospital.
He spotted them immediately: Royce was holding her tightly, walking her at a fast pace. Her blouse was torn open and hanging from her. People were gawking in fear and hurrying past.
The detective flattened himself into a doorway to keep from being seen. The hallway was crowded, the people in confusion. Royce continued to glance back over his shoulder as he forced Daphne along. In an effort to disguise himself, Boldt pulled off his sport jacket and folded it up, holding it pressed into his waist to cover his holstered weapon. Face to the floor, he stepped out into the corridor, where others had stopped to watch Royce. Shoulders slumped and sagging, Boldt moved down the hall. He kept his eyes trained on the scuffed toes of his shoes—shoes he had meant to have shined for the past several weeks. He looked up only twice.
The first time, Royce was looking away from Boldt, steering Daphne clear of an orderly, shouting loudly, demanding the black man allow them past.
The second time, they were gone.
Lou Boldt knew there was precious little keeping Royce from injuring or even killing Daphne. Hopefully he perceived her as protection from the police, a deterrent. If this perception failed, there was no telling what he might do. The SWAT solution might have been confrontation. But for the moment Boldt decided against any such confrontation. Royce had too many options in this environment, too many potential hostages.
When Boldt reached the next four-way intersection, he saw them down the hall to the right, moving quickly. A stack of plastic directory arrows were screwed to the wall; the one marked EMERGENCY pointed toward Royce and Daphne. Boldt tucked his head down low again and continued on. This hallway was much less trafficked, and after only a few seconds Boldt realized he was essentially alone with them. If there was to be a confrontation, perhaps now was the best time.
He looked up: Royce was dragging her along at a run, his neck straining to keep an eye on Boldt. He had spotted him.
Boldt broke into a limping run.
“Stay back,” Royce thundered, but Boldt continued to hurry. They were almost to the doors….
Royce spun Daphne around, the scalpel appearing from n
owhere, held it to her throat, the shiny metal glinting in the bright overhead light. The man pushed blindly back through two swinging doors. As the doors closed behind them, Daphne looked briefly into Boldt’s eyes.
To his surprise, she showed little sign of fear. Instead, he saw in her face a devastating disappointment.
“Back!” he heard Royce shout.
Boldt pushed through the doors and found himself in the emergency room’s reception area. Royce held Daphne at one of the doors to the outside, everyone in the room staring at him. A few turned their heads toward Boldt as he came through the doors, gun drawn.
Seeing him, Daphne made her move. She twisted and kicked backward, simultaneously driving her elbow into Royce’s abdomen. It was a well-executed move, and had Royce not been so physically fit it might have worked well. But as it was, it did nothing to free her. Royce choked her down in a headlock, his forearm across her windpipe, and stepped back, pulling her with him. The automatic doors swished open. He dragged her outside, the scalpel dancing dangerously close to her neck.
Boldt froze as Royce lifted the scalpel to her face, a move that subdued her quickly. He yanked open the passenger door to one of three waiting ambulances. Boldt watched silently through the marred glass as several EMTs moved away from the vehicle at Royce’s insistence. He shoved Daphne into the brightly painted van and thrust her across to the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut behind him, sticking the blade under her jaw.
The van’s engine started up. Its tailpipe coughed out a single gray gasp. It sped away. Although the two entrances to the Medical Examiner’s department were well guarded by unmarked patrols, no provision had been made for Royce escaping through the seldom-used basement corridor and up into the connecting medical center. As a result, there was no patrol car to stop the ambulance or give chase. The emergency room was located on the complete opposite end of the huge block-long facility. The ambulance turned right out the drive and was gone, Daphne at the wheel.
The last thing Boldt saw was Royce’s smooth, slick face, distorted and pressed up flat against the glass of the side window.
The man was grinning proudly.
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Boldt was not prepared to turn Daphne’s life over to a departmental effort. Boldt wanted to pursue the ambulance, but he had no desire to bring the entire force into it, especially the SWAT team. He hurried around the west side of the massive medical center. His car was parked across the street, on the other side of the small parking lot outside the Medical Examiner’s department. His only hope of not being seen would be to stay close to the building, edging his way toward the parking lot, then lower his head and cut a straight line for his car. He moved carefully along a row of thick shrubs, realizing that with every passing second he was losing the ambulance.
Voices directly ahead of him, on the other side of a large cedar tree. Boldt heard the words, “Thanks, John,” from a voice he recognized only too well. Marty Hanfield, a local crime reporter. He rounded the tree and there stood Hanfield, shaking hands with John Kramer. Kramer saw Boldt, knew he was caught, and immediately panicked, shouting, “He’s been blackmailing me, Lou.”
“What?” Hanfield said. “That’s an outright lie!”
“You bastard,” Boldt hissed, thinking of the Levitts, Jergensen, and now Daffy.
He recalled Kramer blushing while speaking on the telephone earlier, and suddenly Boldt knew how the press had been tipped off. This realization was followed by a succession of others. Who tried harder to shift blame than the person responsible for the act in the first place? Who on the force had a thing about media and press coverage? Who had tried to make Daphne the scapegoat for the Jergensen affair? Who saw control of the media as power, and power as the key to advancement on the force?
It had been Sergeant John Kramer who had leaked the BSU profile to the press several months earlier. That leak had cost Jergensen his life, and the force a huge embarrassment. Kramer had also alerted the press to Justin Levitt’s involvement. He had gotten the Levitts killed, the boy kidnapped, and now Daphne….
Boldt approached Kramer and stopped face-to-face with the man, ignoring Hanfield, who stood by. He reeled back his clenched fist and struck hard, putting his full body weight behind the punch and swinging through as if striking for the back of the man’s head. The blow lifted Kramer off his feet and deposited him on his butt, jaw dislodged, mouth bleeding badly. He kicked him in the ribs, and turned to face the reporter, who shied away. Boldt backed him into the tree and hit him repeatedly in the gut until the man slumped to the ground. He turned and ran to his car. He heard Shoswitz shout his name but ignored it.
He jumped into his car, turned the key, and put it in gear, honking people out of his way as he cleared the area. In his rearview mirror he saw Shoswitz waving at a run. A crowd had gathered around Kramer and the reporter on the far side of the building. Lou Boldt reached under the dash and switched off his police radio. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and turned this off as well.
He didn’t use his light or siren; he couldn’t risk giving himself away. He was two blocks down Broadway, stopped behind traffic at a red light. Royce would certainly not head to his apartment on North Seventy-seventh. Then where? The light turned green but Lou Boldt didn’t notice until someone honked from behind. The sounding of the car horn was nearly perfectly timed with the loud, haunting echo of a ship’s horn reverberating through the city streets. He drove ahead slowly, his attention drawn to his throbbing hand and swelling fingers.
He sifted through the details of the investigation. Where would James Royce take his hostage? Or would he kill her as he had killed Judith Fuller? With the hollow sound of the ship’s horn still ringing in his head, it occurred to Lou Boldt where James Royce—the copycat—would take her. He turned right—out of traffic—and sped downtown.
***
Three blocks from the Vashon Ferry pier, Boldt came across the abandoned ambulance. It was parked in front of a photo store. He double-parked and checked inside the vehicle. Empty.
Boldt left his car double-parked, blocking the rear of the ambulance, and hurried toward the pier. If Royce had any sense at all, he would take her high atop the ferry and would use this vantage point to examine the huge parking lot, eyes alert for any sign of the police.
For this reason Boldt stopped at a streetside vendor and paid five dollars for an umbrella. Its canopy was black nylon, its fragile frame hollow-stemmed aluminum. A slight breeze would spring it. He opened the umbrella and pulled it down low over his head, assuring that no one—even at street level—could identify him. He paid for his ticket and boarded the ferry, which was scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes. Oil-stained water slapped at the pilings. The wet air smelled of gasoline and salt. He climbed the narrow steel stairway to the main deck. He scanned the occupied seats of the expansive inside cabin, the many rows of brightly colored formed-fiberglass chairs and tables, looking for Royce and Daphne—or worse, Royce alone. Not spotting them, he walked out onto the deck that encircled the ship. Here he was able to open his umbrella again. He hid beneath its shelter and walked the perimeter slowly, a curious tourist perhaps, seemingly undisturbed by the harsh, inclement weather. In fact, he was worried the stiff wind would destroy his cover. Rain drummed against the tight fabric. He rounded the bow, one of only a handful of people brave enough—foolish enough—to remain outside.
The last of the automobiles was just boarding. The vessel would depart at any moment. Only a scant few minutes remained before there would be no turning back and he would be unable to disembark—trapped on a ferry to Vashon Island while Royce remained somewhere back in the city. He had been so certain—it seemed to make so much sense that Royce would flee to Vashon, where he had a boat, no doubt, a cabin perhaps. To the same place where Judith Fuller had found him, and was killed for it. But suddenly his certainty waned and he thought himself an idiot for thinking he could second-guess an insane killer. How good had he been at second-guessing the behavior of Mil
o Lange?
Then he spotted her.
He saw only her legs, but it was enough. The sharply defined calves disappeared up the stairway to his left, which led to the uppermost deck. Only a glimpse. Just a glimpse, but enough to know. He knew those legs. He pulled himself under the overhang, where anyone up top would not be able to see him. Heart pounding as quickly and as loudly as the rain on the deck. Mind whirring like the ship’s engines. Did he dare follow them to the uppermost level? Could he hope to hide from them? He thought not. With only a few people outside, he would be spotted immediately. And yet, he had not actually seen her. Only a pair of legs. It was hardly enough to base decisions on, even though in his heart he knew it was her.
What to do?
Rain hammered more strongly onto the deck for a few short seconds, and then let up just as quickly. A drizzle now. In the distance the cloud cover broke and a beam of bright sunshine poured though, illuminating a passing freighter in the shipping lanes. Boldt found himself hoping it would continue to rain. He needed an excuse to remain hidden beneath the umbrella.
The retreating rain left him little choice. He had to get a look at the woman now; he needed the protection of the umbrella while he still had it. He took two steps and found himself ascending the steel stairs toward the upper deck, peering out from below the umbrella’s edge.
As he reached the middle of the stairs he saw the woman’s shoes. Daphne’s shoes? he wondered. Why couldn’t he remember? Then her calves. Her knees. The hem of her skirt. Daphne’s skirt? He doubted himself—he couldn’t remember what she had been wearing. Another step up. Her waist. A hand—a male hand gripping her waist firmly, and he thought it must be them! Dare he take another step higher? His feet moved independently of his thoughts. Up he went. Daphne? For the life of him he couldn’t remember what she had been wearing. The woman’s arms were crossed tightly against the cold wind. Then he saw the gold ring on her hand and his heart sank. He raised the umbrella quickly to see her face.
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