And that was wrong.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Boldt stood before the bathroom mirror shaving when he heard Liz climb out of bed. Miles was still asleep. As he shaved, she slipped off her nightgown and pressed her warm, sleepy body against him.
“Honey?” he said cautiously.
“I have something for you.” She reached around him, grabbed a hair band, and put her hair back. She meant business. Elizabeth did not let her hair down before sex, but put it up instead. Reaching around him, she unfastened his pants.
“I’m going to cut myself,” he warned.
“Be careful,” she said, teasing his chest in a way she knew he liked.
“I have something for you,” she repeated. He dropped the plastic razor into the water and it splashed into the islands of shaving cream. She led him over to the counter, sat up on it, and wrapped her legs around him. “Come and get it,” she said.
Later, she leaned her head back against the wall, but refused to let him go. She was sweating and her eyes looked dreamy.
She allowed them to separate then, and her legs sank down, but she did not move until Boldt finished shaving—and then only once she had talked him into running the shower for her.
Drying her hair in the living room, a white terry-cloth robe cinched tightly around her waist, and watching her son, who was now awake, she said to Boldt, “They had a similar case in London,” which won his attention.
“Who did?”
“The London authorities. A kidnapping. Ransom by ATM machine. I told you I had something for you.”
“I thought you meant—”
“No,” she corrected. “That was for me.”
“Liz?”
“They paid out one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds over a ten-month period. If your case goes on for ten months, I figured we would end up divorced, so it was in my best interest to get to the bottom of this.” He moved closer to her. She smelled good. “From what I can tell, it was incredibly similar to what you’re facing. The guy moved from one ATM to another, one town to another, making withdrawals, and no matter how fast the police responded, he was always long gone.”
“That’s us exactly,” Boldt replied, anxiously awaiting whatever else she had to tell him. Elizabeth could not be rushed. She had her own timing—in everything.
“At one point, if I’m right about this, they had over two thousand police watching ATMs. They still couldn’t catch him. But there was a reason, of course: the average ATM transaction is only a matter of seconds. It’s what makes it such a clever way to collect a ransom demand.”
“And they found a way around that obstacle,” Boldt speculated, seeing that sparkle in her eye.
“Yes, they did. A couple of brilliant computer hackers were called in. They devised something they called ‘time traps’—software that slowed down the entire system.”
“We talked to the switching station here about doing just that, slowing down the network, but starting from scratch they claimed it could take months.”
“They’re right. It did take months. But it has already been done. All these networks, all these systems speak the same computer language—they have to in order to interface, in order for you to make a withdrawal from an ATM in Paris on your Seattle account. So it seems to me that whatever time-trap software they came up with should be easily adapted for use here. If not, right up in Redmond we have some of the brainiest software wizards in the world; they should be able to port it for you.”
“Time traps,” Boldt repeated.
“You slow down the system and buy yourself time to catch this guy. Another thing that occurred to me?” she asked rhetorically. “Are you aware that some ATMs can be instructed to ‘eat’ ATM cards? They use it to pull the counterfeit cards and bad accounts off the market.”
“We thought about that, too. But we want him to have the card. That card is how we catch him. But these time traps.”
“Go,” she said, anticipating his apology before he ever spoke it.
“You sure?”
“It’s my idea. Go.”
He grabbed his weapon and his badge wallet and literally ran to the back door. The last thing he heard from her was, “And catch the bastard! We could use a little peace around here.”
Boldt exchanged a dozen phone calls with his wife, each bringing him more encouragement. At twelve noon Pacific time—evening in London—in an amazing show of technology, the time-trap software was beamed by telephone company satellites via computer modem and downloaded by technicians at Ted Perch’s NetLinQ ATM switching station. The entire transfer took twenty-two minutes.
With an open phone line to London, NetLinQ technicians worked furiously to install the software, which crashed the first time on-line, freezing twelve hundred cash machines for over fifteen minutes. At 2:18 P.M., July 17, Perch authorized the activation of the software network-wide for a second time. And for seventeen minutes, it held.
The second crash involved a cluster of 120 First Interstate machines, which was later deemed something of a success. By five o’clock sharp, with 17 percent of NetLinQ’s directly controlled ATMs time-trap operational, the first effort was made to place a six-second drag in the transaction time. These intervals of delay were quickly tagged WOTs—for “window of time.” The six-second WOTs were placed between the customer entry of the PIN number and the appearance of the first transaction menu. Remarkably, the system held. For 279 cash machine customers, a brief but effective test pause had been created in their transaction, virtually unnoticed by any of them, but sending up a cheer at NetLinQ that was heard all the way to London.
Through a series of conversations, Boldt encouraged Perch to increase the number of machines that were time-trapped, but Perch was reluctant to risk a third crash in a single evening. “I would like to be working here tomorrow,” he teased Boldt. But Boldt hounded him. By 7:22, another commercial bank’s network had been added to the core group, leaving 27 percent of all ATMs in Washington State and western Oregon under the direct control of time-trap software.
Boldt spent the early evening at NetLinQ monitoring the effectiveness of the new software, and congratulating the crew for their efforts. The ransom account had never been hit before eight o’clock in the evening, leading Boldt and others to suspect Caulfield might be holding down a day job—although Ted Perch pointed out that late evening made sense for such hits. Many banks restocked their cash machines at the close of business; if an extortionist wished to avoid being seen by bank employees, then at the very least he or she would wait until after the close of business—as late as 6 P.M. at some branches.
The NetLinQ operations room was an impressive collection of high technology and reminded Boldt of what he had seen of telephone command centers. It was nearly pitch-black, the focus of the room being three enormous flat-screen color monitors that visually mapped all ATM traffic in the NetLinQ region. The floor descended toward these screens in three tiers, each housing rows of computers, some of which were attended. The far right-hand screen showed all those ATM locations under time-trap control. After pestering from Boldt, Perch reluctantly added another six-second WOT, this time between account authorization and delivery of cash.
NetLinQ’s public information office had earlier distributed a press release, announcing that due to system maintenance some “inconveniences” were to be expected. The eleven o’clock news had promised to run it.
For the sixth consecutive night, an ATM hit occurred shortly after 8 P.M. “It’s getting like clockwork,” Perch said, pointing out the flashing dot on the overhead screen. Clockwork was what Boldt hoped for—the more predictable and repetitious the withdrawals were, the increased chance of apprehending a suspect.
Perch announced, “Five seconds and counting.”
Boldt relayed news of the hit directly to SPD dispatch. “Location is N-sixteen. Repeat: En-one-six.”
“Ten seconds,” Perch tracked. He checked a computer screen. “This one is not under time-trap control,” h
e warned.
Boldt could imagine one of his plainclothes detectives throwing a car in gear and speeding toward the location. But with less than five seconds to close the gap, he did not see much hope.
He needed more people. He needed more of the machines time-trapped.
“Transaction complete,” Perch announced, dejected.
“Lieutenant?” Boldt barked hopefully into the telephone receiver.
Shoswitz said, “Surveillance is four blocks and closing.”
Boldt felt tempted to cross his fingers. He envisioned the unmarked car running traffic lights and braking loudly to a stop. To Perch, Boldt said, “We need better communication with the field.”
“Tell me about it,” Perch replied, frustrated and upset.
Shoswitz said through the phone, “Nothing. Repeat: No visual contact.”
Boldt relayed this to Perch, who cursed so loudly that he raised the attention of several of the NetLinQ employees.
An hour later there was a second hit, though this time on a machine not under software control. Surveillance failed to close within twelve blocks.
“We need more of the machines on the software,” Boldt complained.
“Don’t tell me my business, Sergeant. We can’t make any more headway until morning. We have two lags in usage: nine-thirty to eleven A.M. and two to five P.M. That’s as soon as we can hope to put more machines on-line.”
“We need them tonight!”
“The system will crash. And if it crashes while this person is online, then it could look intentional. Is that what you want?” he asked heatedly.
Reluctantly, Boldt sat back and watched a third and final hit take place. And for a third and final time that night, surveillance was nowhere close.
At a few minutes before midnight, he was summoned to the hotel room where Dr. Richard Clements was staying.
Boldt arrived depressed and exhausted.
Shoswitz and Daphne reached the Alexis before Boldt, and all were awaiting him when he arrived.
The suite was spacious, with paper Japanese sliding doors separating the bedroom from a sitting room that included a large glass conference table, two couches, a coffee table, several freestanding lamps, a fireplace, and a wet bar. The decor was granite, glass, and steel—ultra-modern—which was not to Boldt’s tastes, and yet here he found it to his liking.
CNN was muted on the television in the corner—Michael Kinsley with his coat off, interviewing an author—and Clements kept the remote within reach.
Clements was dressed casually in linen pants and an Italian-designed white Egyptian cotton shirt, with black loafers and no socks. He was drinking what looked like brandy out of a snifter the size of a fishbowl, and he carried a wad of chew neatly in his upper lip, leaving a bulge there as though he were trying to stop a nosebleed. He wore half-glasses, tortoiseshell imitation that rode on the bridge of his nose precariously. He sat at the glass conference table in a black leather-and-stainless steel captain’s chair, waving a two-hundred-dollar mechanical pencil in the air and punctuating his authoritative instructions.
“You sit there. And you there. No—there, please,” he advised Shoswitz. “Yes, thank you. The Armagnac is excellent, and seemingly endless, and comes highly recommended. Whatever your pleasure.” He looked them over.
Daphne and Boldt declined. Shoswitz requested a Miller Lite, an order that so disgusted Clements he referred him to the wet bar’s refrigerator, advising him to “use whatever’s there.”
Dr. Richard Clements began with a self-possessed arrogance that immediately offended all present: “Before we get into Twenty Questions, let me head off whatever possible by offering you my updated profile.” He rolled the liqueur around in his mouth, and Boldt had to wonder what a mixture of Armagnac and chew tasted like when spilled across one’s tongue. “It’s interesting: Behavior will always tell you more than a rap sheet. I am referring, of course, to the incident in Mr. Adler’s woods and the telephone call that immediately preceded it.
“It’s late, so I’ll try not to bore you. You are all aware of the stalking phase that a serial killer or rapist enters into prior to the attack. Any of a number of specific incidents may precede the stalking phase, including arson, the killing of house pets, voyeurism, and masturbation, but the stalking phase is unique in that it directly precedes the offense. We see it in the wild—a cat, even some packs, will stalk prior to the kill, even if the intended prey is wounded or incapacitated. Still, the stalk. What our Mr. Caulfield is doing is getting up close and personal with his intended prey, Mr. Adler. The fact that he has entered this phase is warning sign enough: It is drawing to a close. We are in the last act. The stalking phase can go on for days, weeks, even months or years, and we are still at odds to know exactly what precipitates the craving for completion of the act. Boredom? Rage? Sexuality? So different in every case.” He swilled more of the snifter’s contents and inhaled, apparently enormously satisfied with the results. His audience was too stunned to interrupt.
“And so we know that he has begun this final coda before the finale.” He waved the pencil in time to music within his head, and Boldt could see his lips close as he hummed silently along with it. “But unfortunately, we do not know the length of the piece. Point number one,” he said strongly, “Adler—or someone in that house,” he conditioned, “—is the target of his intentions.”
He excused himself to the bathroom, and apparently leaving an interior door open, urinated loudly enough that all could hear.
Shoswitz said in a forced whisper, “Is the air-conditioning on, or is it just him?”
Daphne, noticeably upset, reminded in an equally soft reply, “Like it or not, he’s one of the best there is.”
Boldt added, “And he knows it.”
“Point number two,” Clements began anew when he returned, “he is distracted by his own greed. He is withdrawing two or three thousand a day. He finds himself addicted to this easy money. He has a good thing going, so why not prolong it? All of that sounds so logical, does it not? Well, it’s bullshit, plain and simple. What we have is a theoretical conflict that I must admit weighs heavily upon me. On the one side, he has clearly entered the stalking phase; this includes a verbal threat to Adler over the phone, and a use of language, a reference to certain personally historical issues, that confirms a deeply profound sense of injustice. On the other side, he is running around milking ATMs. If this were a game show, the buzzer would have sounded: wrong answer. So which is the real Mr. Harold Caulfield? And to what extent can we predict his schizophrenia, so apparent in these conflicting personalities within him? Will the real Harry Caulfield please stand up? Revenge-motivated killer, or greed-driven extortionist?” He had lost the chew while in the bathroom, for the lump below his nose was gone, and he inflated his cheeks and lips, using the cognac like mouthwash.
“Point number three: There’s method to this madness. It appears increasingly obvious that a grievous wrong was done to person or persons with whom Mr. Caulfield had strong emotional ties, and upon whom he was otherwise financially and emotionally dependent. He appears to have a personal agenda to which he is committed, and I must say from past experience that we should prepare ourselves for the unexpected. Nothing that we can imagine for Mr. Caulfield is out of the question. Kill a hundred? Why not? A thousand? Same answer. Caulfield believes he is justified in this, and that makes him especially dangerous. Drive a truck full of explosives into a barracks of marines? Why not? Blow up the World Trade Center? Same answer.” He reached for the phone, and ordered another. Without asking the lieutenant, he also ordered a Miller Lite, though he pronounced it as if it were a disease. He met eyes with each of them individually and said patronizingly, “Okay, time for Twenty Questions.”
Stunning them all, Shoswitz said, “Twenty minutes ago, when Captain Rankin heard of Mackensie’s murder, he ordered us to pull all Adler products from the shelves by six A.M.. or the start of business tomorrow.”
Boldt felt the wind knocked out of h
im.
“Is this that bulldog I met? The one with the cheap suit and buzz cut?” Clements asked.
Boldt said, “Captain of Homicide.”
“If you are asking for a prediction of the effects on our Mr. Caulfield of such a decision, I can tell you this: He won’t like it. Pulling the Adler products will signal Caulfield that he has lost control of this—and control, after all, is what is and has been getting him high.” The man closed his eyes and his eyelids fluttered oddly, and he said softly, “Imagine the power he must feel! Dictating demands to a man of position like Owen Adler. Poisoning people with the medical community seemingly powerless to stop him. Withdrawing cash like it’s Christmas. That carries an awesome sense of power and control.” He opened his eyes, stood, and answered the door—before even Boldt with his keen sense of hearing heard any approach—and greeted the room service boy perfunctorily. A moment later he sat back down and began sloshing the liquor around his new fishbowl. “The loss of control, or even the perception of such a loss, will accelerate his timetable. He was unpredictable before; he is even less predictable now. I will chat-up your Captain Rankin.”
Boldt decided to reveal what he had mentioned to no one. He glanced at Daphne, then met eyes with Clements, and said, “Owen Adler will pull all the product if given half an excuse. He lobbied me to do just that and I dissuaded him.” Daphne looked horrified that she had not heard of this. “If he gets wind of Rankin’s request, he’ll bypass any of our concerns and get out. He wants out. He is staying with the game plan only because he fears making the wrong decision himself, and I convinced him that to go against the demands was the wrong decision.”
“By ‘get out,’ I presume this to mean pull the product, not conform with the ultimate demand and commit suicide.”
“That’s right,” Boldt agreed. “The killings have weakened him. He feels directly responsible.”
“Which is exactly as our Mr. Caulfield intends. Interesting.”
“What I’m hearing,” Shoswitz said, “is that if Rankin bypasses us and gets to Adler, we’re going to lose this anyway.”
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