The radio traffic in Boldt’s headset heated up as Billy orchestrated the vehicular handoffs. No one car stayed with the target vehicle for more than six blocks or two miles of highway. On the screen, the blue triangles representing the agents’ location transmitters clustered in and around an area where Billy kept manually moving a white flashing dot indicating the suspect.
The white dot left I-5. Billy announced, “Suspect is coming to a stop.”
Boldt listened in on the continuous dialogue between dispatcher and field agents. He closed his eyes and tried to picture a sidewalk ATM on a not-too-busy street, the approach of a petite woman wearing a motorcycle helmet in the faint glow of the streetlights, and the swarm of police that now surrounded her and would continue to monitor her every moment. She was, as of that moment, public property. Cornelia Uli would be stripped down to her moles and birthmarks if necessary—all in due time. For the moment, under the duress of a nervous stomach, he sat back, consulting a printout listing the various field agents and assignments, and listened to his team at work under the unusual calm of the FBI dispatcher.
DISPATCH: Twenty-six … Give us a walk-by visual.
TWENTY-SIX: Twenty-six. Confirm. Walk-by visual.
DISPATCH: Affirmative. Walk-by, please.
TWENTY-SIX: Roger.
A few anxious seconds passed.
TWENTY-SIX: Affirmative, suspect is standing at the machine.
Boldt consulted the deployment printout. Number 26—James Flynn—was dressed as a pizza delivery man tonight. Carrying his pizzas, he was passing the ATM, glancing briefly at the mark, never breaking stride. No wide eyes of recognition, no probing stare. Professional. Sure.
Lucille Guillard announced, “We have a hit.”
A hit flashed on the wall map, surrounded by a sea of blue triangles.
Boldt instructed the dispatcher. “Can we kill the Datsun on the run?”
Billy held up a finger and talked rapidly into this mouthpiece.
DISPATCH: Tech Services mobile: Request a car kill on the suspect’s vehicle. Copy?
TECH SERVICES VAN: Car kill. Affirmative. One minute, please.
Boldt and Billy met eyes. The dispatcher looked completely relaxed.
TECH SERVICES VAN: Suspect’s vehicle is parked one-and-one-half blocks north—repeat, north—of the ATM location. Looks good for a kill, Billy.
Guillard announced, “Fifteen seconds have elapsed. Twenty seconds left.”
Boldt told Guillard, “Extend the time trap. Give us a few seconds longer.”
Boldt asked Billy, “Can they do it in thirty seconds or less?”
“Extending to forty-five seconds,” Guillard confirmed. “We should not go beyond this, Sergeant.”
TECH SERVICES VAN: Thirty seconds is an affirmative. Deploy?
Billy glanced at Boldt, who hit the transmit button and said sharply, “Go!”
DISPATCH: Forty-four. Keep us alert to any change in suspect’s position.
FORTY-FIVE: Roger, Dispatch. Will do.
TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: I’m going in.
Boldt could picture the man hurrying down a quiet street to one of many parked cars. In his pocket would be an oil-filter wrench.
TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Dispatch? Problem. I have a couple out for a stroll. I’m aborting this pass.
Guillard counted off, “Ten seconds to go.”
DISPATCH: Time’s a-wasting.
TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative. Making another pass.
Guillard announced, “Five seconds.”
DISPATCH: Five seconds until transaction is complete.
TECH SERVICES OPERATIVE: Affirmative, Dispatch. Five seconds. Making a second pass…. All clear. I’m going under the car.
Sheila Locke said, “Tech has live video for us. Coming on-screen.”
All eyes riveted to the screen, now divided, showing two black-and-white images. On the left was a wavy telephoto image of the helmeted woman standing at the ATM. On the right of a split screen, the Tech Services man in eerie night-sight video slid under the parked Datsun and disappeared. Boldt caught himself white-knuckling the chair.
How the FBI personnel managed this live video was beyond him. But he did not question it. Tech Services in every department was famous for performing miracles.
“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced.
The video followed this woman as she left the ATM and rounded the corner heading toward her car. Once a good distance away, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair.
DISPATCH: Tech operative. Suspect on her way. Do you copy?
There was no response from the operative, whose feet could be seen on the screen sticking out from under the suspect’s car.
Billy calmly reported to Boldt, “He’s not responding. Must be radio interference.”
The suspect was now less than a half-block away and closing quickly. “Get him out of there!” Boldt ordered.
DISPATCH: Tech Services? Request an interrupt. Repeat: Physical interrupt requested on the car kill.
TECH SERVICES: Roger, Dispatch.
On the screen, a woman dressed casually in blue jeans and a T-shirt hurried out of the van, moving quickly down the street toward the car. She made no effort to look in the direction of the suspect, now but a few yards away and coming up the sidewalk.
As the Tech Services woman came alongside the suspect’s vehicle, she flung her purse to the pavement, intentionally spilling its contents.
Boldt watched the overhead screen, hearing only the hum of the computers, Billy’s soft mumble, and the endless tapping of the computer keyboards. The woman field agent threw her head under the vehicle and said something as the suspect rounded the final corner, now only two cars away. The Tech Services man scrambled out, came to his knees, and immediately began helping her to clean up the contents of her spilled purse.
Cornelia Uli approached the driver’s door and encountered them both. The field agent laughed and shook her head at Uli as if embarrassed to have spilled her purse. She said something, as did the Tech Services man. The last of the purse contents were collected as Uli unlocked the Datsun’s trunk and set the helmet inside. She acted as casually about possessing a motorcycle helmet while driving a car as the two field agents did about collecting the items from the spilled purse. Their job completed, the field agents made no sudden moves, no panic. Together they headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the van and the camera that recorded them.
The Datsun pulled away from the curb and drove off.
“Stay with her,” Boldt ordered Billy. He was thinking: These next few minutes are critical.
There were two ways that Boldt could play this woman whom he considered Caulfield’s accomplice, and he had already made the choice. The first, and most conservative, was to keep his distance and sit on her. Obtain the necessary warrants and tap her phone, perhaps even install video surveillance in her residence, record her every move, her every spoken word, and hope for the contact with Caulfield. The second—and the method he had elected to follow—was the more aggressive: to force a problem onto her and hope that in her moment of panic, she turned to Caulfield for help, either identifying his location, or luring him to her.
He felt powerless not being in the field with the others, and he sensed that by staying behind and coordinating the effort, he had crossed the imaginary line to desk jockey—and did not care for it one bit. Following the radio traffic in the headphones, he pictured the cars swapping responsibility for surveillance of the Datsun. He rejoiced with the others as the stream of leaking oil was spotted behind the vehicle, and he alerted Locke to open a line to U.S. West; they were going to need a listing of all pay-phone locations.
Three minutes later the Datsun pulled over, stopped dead in the middle of a strip of fast-food, quick lube, and car lots. One surveillance car pulled past and into the parking lot of a burger joint. Two others stopped fifty yards short, and divided to either side of the road.
“Billy, wha
t’s the address?” Boldt asked hurriedly.
The dispatcher checked with the field agents and reported back.
Boldt signaled Locke like a conductor, and she repeated the address to the Ma Bell supervisor she had on the line. Within seconds, her pen was moving rapidly. She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Boldt, who scanned it quickly and passed it to Billy, asking him to put them up on the screen. A minute later, six pink stars with a T in the middle appeared on the electronic map.
Over the course of the next few minutes, reports streamed in that the suspect was repeatedly attempting to start her car. During this time, Sheila Locke determined the physical locations of the pay phones according to their addresses: Two were behind the suspect in a McDonald’s and a Burger King, respectively; one was across and up the street in a strip mall; one each in a pair of competing gas stations nearly half a mile in front of her, near the interstate; and one in a booth adjacent to a bus stop not a hundred yards ahead.
Boldt instructed the trailing Tech Services van to set up with a view of both the Datsun and this bus-stop pay phone. Three minutes later, NetLinQ’s center screen showed a grainy black-and-white telephoto image of the sad-looking Datsun pulled awkwardly onto the shoulder of soft grass.
“Suspect is moving,” announced a male voice in the headset.
Boldt and Billy met eyes. Billy’s earlier doubt that had been present when Boldt elected to follow rather than apprehend was now gone, replaced instead by a confidence that bordered on admiration.
On the screen, the woman climbed out of the car, clearly disgusted. She looked both ways, trying to decide where to find a phone. Boldt silently urged her to head back toward the fast-food chains; he did not want her seeing the bus stop. But as if hearing him and going against his wishes, she elected to walk in the direction her car was headed.
Trying to consider every possibility, Boldt advised Locke, “Get in touch with the local bus service and find out their schedule. Any bus due at that stop in the next ten minutes we want detoured. Tell them we’ll want an empty bus on standby ten blocks back. And get the chopper back here. I may want a lift.” She scribbled all of this down. “And let’s see how many taxi companies cover that area. We’ll want our people in as the cabbies. And no patrol cars,” he emphasized. “I don’t want to see a patrol within ten blocks of that area.”
For the next several minutes, Locke and Billy occupied themselves with Boldt’s requests. Field agents were deployed to two area cab companies and the bus company. The regularly scheduled bus was diverted, the driver telling her passengers that an accident blocked the road ahead and thereby required a detour.
The camera followed Cornelia Uli, who was by no means a fast walker. Nervous, or perhaps just worried about her car, she continually checked over her shoulder, island-hopping from one parking lot to the next in search of a pay phone.
Overhead, Boldt heard the mechanical thunder of the helicopter.
“It’s going to be the bus stop,” Boldt predicted.
“Chopper’s down,” Locke announced.
Boldt said to her, “Tell the phone company which phone we think it’s going to be and that we need a realtime report on whatever numbers she calls.”
“Got it.”
To Billy he said, “I want seven passengers and a driver on our bus. Mix it up. More of our people on the stops along the route, with everyone keeping a strict eye out for Caulfield. We’re going to have to allow civilians onto the bus, in case Caulfield sends a go-between, so I want to make it real clear: No cowboy theatrics. We consider her armed, but any civilians are our first priority. If she calls for a stop near her place on Airport Way, that’s our cue to take her. I don’t want her getting inside her place before we do. Got it?” He added, “And give me someone at the bus stop now. Right away. I want to hear what’s said, if at all possible.”
Billy had to work quickly, though his motions conserved energy and his voice never indicated the slightest degree of excitement.
Sheila Locke turned and told the sergeant that the phone company was all set.
On the screen Boldt saw the suspect cross one final parking lot and quicken her step as she spotted a pay phone. In the distance of the same frame, a young woman approached the bus stop. Boldt asked, “Is she ours?”
Billy nodded.
Boldt thought to himself, These people are amazing.
He asked Locke, “Do we have an open line to the phone company?” She nodded confirmation.
The suspect stepped up to the phone and seconds later was dialing.
Boldt sat half off his chair, his attention split between the giant television projection on the wall and the back of Sheila Locke’s head.
For these few seconds, the room went absolutely silent save for the hum of the equipment, everyone hanging on this phone call.
The agent on foot arrived at the bus stop late. The suspect dialed, waited, and hung up. There was no way to tell from the camera’s angle and distance if she ever spoke.
“What the hell?” Boldt let slip. Both Billy’s and Boldt’s attention focused on Sheila Locke, who thanked someone, asked this person to “stand by, please,” and turned to tell Boldt, “It’s a business number. They’re searching.” Boldt wished there were a way to effect a line interrupt and to listen in on whatever conversation took place, well aware of the technological ease with which such an interrupt could be accomplished. But he was equally aware that any such interrupt required warrants and legal red tape that, where pay phones were concerned, took a minimum of several hours to accomplish. The same system established to protect a person’s rights limited Boldt’s ability to carry out his job.
Locke touched her finger to her earphone, listened, and then told Boldt, “It’s a paging service. She would have keyed in a personal identification code, but the phone company’s software doesn’t trap any numbers dialed following line connection.”
Boldt felt crushed by this news. Over his headphones, a woman’s voice spoke incredibly softly: “The phone’s ringing. Whoever she paged is calling her back.” He could hear the ringing of the phone. It was the field agent at the bus stop, a few short yards from the suspect.
“Sergeant?” It was Billy. He directed Boldt’s attention to the screen.
Cornelia Uli answered the phone.
Boldt said to Locke, “Get in touch with the—”
“Paging company,” Locke interrupted. “Already on it.”
Billy said, “Turn up your headphones, Sergeant. We’re going to try something here.”
Boldt adjusted the knob. He heard a raspy, steady breathing loudly in the headphones, and then in the background he picked up a woman’s voice bitching about the “stupid car.” In a pause, Billy explained quickly, “That background noise is the agent’s breathing. We have a thirty-DB boost on her condenser.” The suspect mentioned the bus stop. She paused. She said “okay” twice, and left the phone dangling as she approached the bus stop. There was a tremendously loud click in the phones, prompting Boldt to jettison his headset. It tumbled into his lap. Grinning, Billy said, “That was the agent turning off her mike.” He added, “But we should thank her. If she had spoken she might have made us deaf.”
“I’m going out there,” Boldt announced. “Can you communicate with the chopper?”
Billy said in that unnaturally calm voice of his, “Sergeant, Tech Services can do anything.”
The chopper ride was brief, and a little terrifying at night. They stayed low, and the buildings swept beneath them with ridiculous speed, toylike in appearance. Boldt was left off in a school soccer field, seven blocks from the waiting bus, so that there would be no sound of a chopper anywhere near the suspect. He was met there by a field agent by the name of Nathan Jones, whom he recognized as King County Police. “We’re all ready for you,” the agent announced, showing Boldt into the car and racing down the streets, oblivious to any of the traffic signs.
As they approached the bus, it looked ominous to Boldt. It was parked alongs
ide the road, its interior lights shining yellow. As he stepped aboard, there were seven people sitting in the various seats. He introduced himself, studied them briefly, and asked two to exchange seats and two to sit together. If she looked closely, Cornelia Uli might notice a similarity in age and appearance among several of them. Only one of them looked over fifty: another KCP detective Boldt knew casually, though he could not remember his name. “We’re going to give her a lot of room,” he announced. “If she signals early, then you”—he pointed to one of the three women—“will get off at the same stop. Don’t follow too closely, but keep us advised. Remember,” he said, addressing all of them, “we’ll have support all around us, in every direction. My information is that she’ll have to switch lines to head toward town. I think we can safely afford for four of us—me, and you three—to make that switch with her. We are going to make every attempt to have that be a dummy bus as well. Our people will be coming onto the bus at various stops. You two will disembark at the third and fifth stop, respectively. If we go the distance. If she holds off and stays on until the five-hundred block of Airport Way, when she stands, we take her. We do it fast and without fanfare, and she does not get off this bus. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Roll,” he said, grabbing for a handhold as the bus door closed and the vehicle started off down the road.
They rounded a corner. Two of the agents were reading papers, another a paperback. Two stared blankly out the window. Boldt tried to settle himself. He leaned against the window and relaxed, feigning an exhausted man taking a nap—at any other time, something that would have required very little acting.
He had abandoned his radio earpiece, stuffing it down inside his collar. The bus and all its occupants, except for the driver, were now isolated from Billy the dispatcher, Sheila Locke, Phil Shoswitz back at the department, and all the support vehicles in place and ready to assist them. They passed the disabled Datsun, the heads of several of the passengers craning to see it, and the bus slowed as it approached the stop.
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