An hour and ten minutes later the video recorder was shut off and the two men adjourned to Dixon’s office for ‘‘the postgame show.’’
An assistant was left behind to sew her up and ‘‘get her back in the cooler.’’
t
Despite the use of surgical gloves, Dixon used a jeweler’s screwdriver to clean under each fingernail. Some things never changed. On his desk were laid out a number of sealed plastic bags from the autopsy.
‘‘You’re an obsessive-compulsive,’’ Boldt said.
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‘‘Yeah? Well catch this.’’ Dixon flicked a discolored spec toward Boldt, but missed. ‘‘The gloves rip more often than not.’’
‘‘A lovely thought. Ihope you disinfect your floors.’’
‘‘Only when it starts to smell.’’
‘‘I’m never bringing the kids down here again.’’
‘‘Autopsy day care,’’ Dixon said with a smile. ‘‘Another Boldt concept that never quite caught on.’’
Boldt asked, ‘‘Any surprises in your prelim?’’
Dixon studied from some of the notes his assistant had kept during the autopsy and then set the papers back down on his desk. He began the process of cataloguing the samples laid out before him. ‘‘Technically, she died as a result of pneumonia caused by pulmonary infection. To you, she drowned in her own mucus—not unlike what we saw in the three victims from that container.’’
‘‘Okay. You’ve won my attention.’’
‘‘Couple things set her apart. One is that she’d been violently raped. We picked up semen samples, vaginally and in the esophagus. We’ll run DNA. The other is a skin irritation. I’ll get back to that. Of primary importance to you is the unusual hemorrhaging in both the intestines and lungs. That’s your bridge between the container victims and this woman. Microscopically, the kidneys show inflammatory changes and infectious changes, but Ikeep coming back to the intestines, because that’s what sets these women apart from other flurelated deaths. It’s the same etiology as your container victims, Lou. In my lingo, this cause of death is not unlike the earlier cases we saw. Right now, your best shot would be to make a case for depraved indifference.’’
‘‘We can connect her to the container victims,’’ Boldt stated hopefully.
‘‘Circumstantially. Our samples will go to CDC in Atlanta who already have similar samples from the container vics. Two to three weeks, minimum.’’
‘‘That’s too long,’’ Boldt complained. ‘‘I’ve got the three dead in the container, two possible suspects murdered, and a journalist missing for over a week now.’’
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‘‘You do, or LaMoia does?’’
‘‘I’m his errand boy.’’
‘‘Uh-huh.’’
‘‘It’s his case,’’ Boldt stated to deaf ears. He asked, ‘‘Was she in this same container?’’
‘‘It’s the same etiology,’’ he repeated, ‘‘but unlikely the same container. This one had been frozen.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘We see this often enough with cruise ships. Someone dies out at sea. Captain orders her into the deep freeze. What he doesn’t realize is that the fridge would be a hell of a lot easier on us. When you defrost frozen tissue it decomposes quickly, the cells actually break as they thaw. Looks different. Behaves differently.’’
‘‘Frozen?’’
‘‘That’s what I’m saying.’’
‘‘For how long?’’
‘‘No way to know.’’
‘‘Guesses?’’
‘‘A couple weeks to a month or more. If we took it out past six weeks we’d be likely to see more freezer burn than this.’’ He added,
‘‘That’s only opinion, Lou.’’
‘‘That rash?’’ Boldt asked.
‘‘No, not freezer burn. It’s chemical or allergy. Stay tuned.’’
‘‘So she was here well ahead of the container,’’ Boldt said.
‘‘In my opinion, yes.’’
‘‘But died of a similar illness.’’
‘‘In my opinion, yes.’’ Dixon suggested, ‘‘They could all come from the same village, something like that.’’
‘‘Ineed that freezer. Ineed the location of wherever that container was headed. We’re thinking sweatshop. The fabric inside the container—’’
‘‘Ican support that with two needle marks on this one’s fingers.’’
‘‘ Not a cruise ship.’’
‘‘If it’s a sweatshop, Lou, then it’s near a wharf, the fishing docks, something like that.’’
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‘‘Why do you say that?’’ Boldt asked.
‘‘Or inside an old cannery,’’ Dixon continued. ‘‘The canneries all had freezers.’’
‘‘You found something on her, didn’t you?’’ Boldt said expectantly. He knew the man well. Like the lab’s Bernie Lofgrin, Dixon held the best for last. ‘‘What the hell’s going on, Dixon?’’
‘‘Not going on,’’ Dixon corrected, ‘‘coming off. Her feet were covered with them. Got to be either a cannery or a ship.’’
‘‘Her . . . feet . . . were . . . covered . . . with . . . what?’’ Boldt asked.
Dixon searched through the half dozen plastic bags and held one up for Boldt to see. ‘‘Fish scales,’’ he said. ‘‘Her feet were covered in fish scales.’’
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Stevieandthemobilenewscrewenteredthroughthefrontdoorsof the Greenwood LSO, cameras rolling, lights glaring, and parted the sea of those waiting in line.
She had left the graveyard only hours earlier, relieved that the body wasn’t Melissa’s but pained and haunted by the sight of that poor girl lying down there in the mud, all breath gone from her body. Such finality drove Stevie to take immediate action, her grief and terror overtaking her. Any fate could have befallen Melissa—death, captivity, white slavery. It had been over a week. A lifetime? The combination of the dead body in the grave and Melissa’s sparse but haunting narration of the videos pushed Stevie beyond any professional capacity to handle her situation. Guilt ridden and obsessed with finding the woman, she succumbed to her spent emotions and heightened anxiety. At first bit by bit, this internal decay now crossed a threshold that left her in a constant state of panic.
Typically the public would never tolerate an individual cutting into the line, might even respond violently, but add the possibility of a TV appearance and smiles appeared on their otherwise impatient faces.
‘‘Ms. Gwen Klein!’’ Stevie shouted out, her voice commanding such authority that her target froze behind the teller window. It took Klein a moment, at which point she headed for an Employees Only door behind the counter.
‘‘Ms. Klein! You are KSTV’s state employee of the week!’’ Stevie glanced to her left, toward the managing supervisor’s office and the man in the button-down shirt and tie who occupied the doorway. 135
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‘‘Gwen!’’ the supervisor shouted. He nodded toward her teller window, indicating for her to return.
Klein stopped, looking first to the supervisor and then to the waiting room with its seventy citizens and McNeal with her team. She had a weighty decision to make.
If the woman ran, Stevie was prepared
to turn her interview hostile. She too held her breath. ‘‘Let’s hear it for Ms. Klein,’’ Stevie prodded.
The room broke into applause.
The supervisor once again indicated the teller window. Klein, distraught and churning, offered Stevie a mean-spirited look and returned to her window where Stevie and her crew waited. The supervisor licked his fingers and spit-combed a few strands of hair off his shining forehead.
Klein and Stevie stepped face to face.
‘‘Ms. Klein,’’ Stevie began in a voice of seeming adulation for her subject. ‘‘Gwen! It has come to the attention of this reporter, and KSTV viewers and staff, that you approach your job not only with diligence, but with enthusiasm, joy and efficiency.’’ She paused just long enough for her gallery to sparsely applaud. ‘‘In a world that moves too fast for most of us, and a job where the lines move too slowly . . .’’ another pause for the requisite laughter ‘‘. . . you are an inspiration to all of us. KSTV would like to present you with . . .’’
she vamped for an appropriate-sounding gift, since nothing had been arranged, ‘‘dinner for two at the Palomino restaurant in City Center, and two tickets to the musical Rent, now playing at the Fifth Avenue Theater.’’ The crowd lit up with applause. ‘‘Here is our IOU, which you can redeem—later on,’’ she emphasized, ‘‘at the KSTV studios.’’
She slipped a folded three-by-five card across the stone countertop. Klein made the mistake of opening the card.
On it was written: I know about the car wash. Klein paled.
Stevie said, ‘‘Can you share with our viewers the secret to keeping your customers so satisfied, so impressed with you as a person?’’
‘‘Iahh . . . No . . . No . . .’’
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‘‘Well . . . Thank you, Gwen Klein, for setting such a fine example. KSTV hopes you enjoy the gift.’’ She signaled the cameraman and the lights faded and the camera went off his shoulder, and the small crowd dispersed as people regained their places in line. Stevie leaned across the counter and whispered through a faked smile, ‘‘I’ll air this footage unless you meet with me.’’
‘‘Ican’t.’’
‘‘I’ll be expecting a call.’’ Stevie stepped away from the window. Klein glanced once again at the three-by-five card, all blood gone from her face.
The cameraman, gathering his gear, asked skeptically, ‘‘Since when do we feature an Employee of the Week?’’
‘‘Since now,’’ Stevie said, hurrying toward the door, her public gawking from a distance.
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Boldt and LaMoia walked a couple blocks to the Public Library and took a seat on a recently added bench out front. They took a moment to scan the area around them, alert for anyone eavesdropping. Boldt nodded his okay. He felt badly about the need for secrecy, about the games within games, but LaMoia had started this, and for the moment Boldt did not see a way out.
LaMoia spoke softly, looking straight ahead. ‘‘Iwas tempted to put Gaynes on her, so we didn’t miss anything.’’
‘‘Forget it! You know this is suicide if anyone finds out,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We’ll be chalking tires. We can get away with me filling in for you, just as long as no one gets wise as to what you’re up to.’’
‘‘She watched a house up on 118th Northwest last night until two A.M. Name of Klein. Late morning Ifollow her from Hilltop back to the station. She and a film crew take off to an LSO on Greenwood a half hour later. This interesting you yet?’’
‘‘I’m not comfortable with any of this.’’
‘‘It wasn’t your idea!’’ LaMoia reminded.
‘‘Maybe that’s why I’m not comfortable with it.’’
‘‘So Icheck the name on the house she’s watching against state payroll. What else connects the two, right?’’ He said sarcastically,
‘‘She’s bringing a film crew in to renew her license, Isuppose.’’ He lost the attitude and said, ‘‘There’s an LSO employee name of Gwendolyn Klein. The connection has got to be driver’s licenses.’’ He pointed out, ‘‘Illegals need documents.’’
‘‘If it proves good, we’ll have to find some other way to connect the dots,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘If McNeal ever found out we had her 138
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under surveillance and that we stole her sources . . . she’d not only have us in court, but we’d lose our suspect.’’
‘‘You worry too much,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘What about a random credit check on a handful of LSO workers that just happens to turn up Klein. She has got to have some unexplained money in her pockets if she’s good for this. ’’
‘‘But what made us run the check of LSO employees in the first place?’’ Boldt asked.
‘‘Isee what you mean.’’
‘‘It has to be a believable trail. Then we never mention McNeal.’’
Boldt asked, ‘‘What about Coughlie? Maybe his people already have suspicions that there’s documentation coming out of the LSOs. Something like that could make the connection for us.’’
‘‘Not a good idea. Iwouldn’t go there. He paid her a visit first thing this morning.’’
‘‘ Before we found the body at Hilltop?’’
‘‘Right. Was with McNeal for the better part of an hour.’’
‘‘She has been busy.’’
‘‘We gotta figure they’re working together somehow.’’
‘‘Information exchange,’’ Boldt suggested. ‘‘He promises her an exclusive to the story as long as there’s a two-way flow of information.’’
‘‘And they’re cutting us out?’’ an exasperated LaMoia cried out. He added, ‘‘Ihate that shit!’’
‘‘Just because he got to her first?’’ Boldt teased.
‘‘Exactly!’’ LaMoia added, ‘‘But he didn’t think to put her under surveillance.’’
‘‘Let’s hope not anyway.’’
LaMoia grimaced.
‘‘What if we asked Daphne to try to open her up for us?’’ Boldt suggested. ‘‘She seeds some doubts about Coughlie’s integrity, offers exclusivity with us?’’
‘‘End run the feds? That would be sweet! You want me to pull the surveillance? Is that what I’m hearing?’’
‘‘You’re hearing me concerned about the police getting caught for
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having the press under surveillance. It’s dangerous for all concerned, John. We’ve been over this.’’
‘‘McNeal is withholding key information to this case. She admitted that to my face. If she wasn’t press—’’
‘‘She is press. If we want her sources we go to court, not surveillance.’’
‘‘We gonna do this dance again?’’ LaMoia whined. ‘‘We go to court, it’ll be Christmas. This missing woman, and our case along with it, will be long gone. We’re protecting McNeal,’’ LaMoia reminded.
‘‘Her associate went missing with this same information. We believe those videotapes—and remember, Isaw her leave the apartment with them—are pertinent to the case. We’ve got our bases covered on this, Sarge.’’
‘‘We’ve got Klein. Maybe we should stop while we’re still ahead.’’
‘‘But we aren’t ahead,’’ LaMoia reminded. ‘‘We’re still playing catch up.’’
‘‘Well let’s play catch-up at a distance. Shall we? And let’s close the gap as quickly as possible. This thing makes me nervous.’’
‘‘It’s a way of life for you. If you weren’t worried I’d be worried. Boldt said, ‘‘That would be a first.’’
They studied the area once more before breaking up and leaving the bench. They walked in opposite directions without ever having talked about a plan. It seemed symbolic to Boldt—LaMoia, two years into his sergeant’s stripes, was increasingly difficult to control.
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Stevie was applying the last touches of blush when her name was called over KSTV’s public address system. She called reception as requested, one eye fixed on herself in the large mirror surrounded by dazzlingly bright lights that mimicked the brightness of the set. Her guest was identified as Daphne Matthews—Seattle Police. The woman from the cemetery who had tried to protect her. An intern delivered the woman to Makeup. Without the raincoat and hood, Matthews came off as quite pretty. Dark features on olive skin. Her presence put Stevie on guard. She was conditioned not to trust the cops.
t
Daphne had a job to do. She lived for the fieldwork the way Boldt did, and the fact that he had asked her to do this made it all the more important to her to succeed. He still had this effect on her, this unintentional yet underhanded control that for years she had fought to overcome. Struggled, was more like it. She could point her life this way or that, redirecting it as far away from him as possible—her onagain, off-again engagement to Owen Adler the most overt example—
but inevitably her emotions returned to him. Comfort. Home. She saw in his eyes that these feelings were reciprocated, though it went unmentioned between them. No hot glances. No teasing. Those days were behind them. He with his family and his wife, as passionate a father and husband as one could ask for; she, like a sailboat without its keel, pointing strongly into the wind but endlessly sideslipping and losing her course.
It was some kind of horrific joke, the way she tried to throw it 141
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away only to have it come boomeranging back at her. Those emotions for him. The desire that wormed hot like an infection deeply within her. If she heard his voice, she turned to look. If his name was spoken, she listened in—all the while wearing the mask of indifference. She understood that she had to move on. She believed it. But accomplishing it was something altogether different. All the education in the world could not explain this to her. Nothing seemed to help. And so when he asked her to see McNeal for him, she responded immediately like a child eager to please the teacher—and she hated herself for it.
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