“We may be able to confirm that the Jane Doe body is not Norvak’s by the steroids, or dental records. But go on,” he encouraged.
“So maybe someone killed Norvak and tried to make it look like an accident.”
“There’s another possibility you’re overlooking,” Boldt told her. “Think it through.”
Her brow tightened and he nearly apologized for his tone of voice when she cut him off by saying quickly, “Or… I suppose the attempt could be to conceal a different murder. The body closely matches Norvak’s. Norvak’s accident seems plausible enough. Under normal circumstances, we would have simply assumed that Jane Doe is Norvak but she could be someone else—perhaps Judith Fuller.”
Boldt smiled at her, confirming she had done well.
“But why?” he asked, testing. “Why go to the trouble of killing Norvak, and disposing of her body, when you could just as easily dispose of the other body—Fuller’s, if that’s who it is.”
“I’ll keep time,” Melnor said, charging through the door, showing off the stopwatch he had retrieved as well. “Seven shots left, so we’ll go every two days. If you have the time, it would be best if we ran a few tests before wasting the film.”
“Fine. Of course. Rutledge said that as the body entered Colvos it would probably have decayed more quickly because of warmer water temperatures—”
Melnor interrupted, “I’m all set for that.” He pointed to three different-colored balls of wax no bigger than BBs. “I have a neutral density, a rising, and a floating. That should about do it. Where would you like to start?”
“Two weeks is about the time period. You’re more familiar with the model than we are. Where do you think it would enter in order to reach Alki two weeks later?”
Melnor studied the model. He used several experiments with the dye before committing himself. “I think this is a good place to start.” He dropped the darkest ball into the East Passage and clicked the stopwatch. They all three watched intently as the ball undulated in corresponding motions with the tide generator. As predicted, the net gain was in a southerly direction. It edged around the southern tip of the island, hitting bottom.
Boldt asked, “Is that where the ASARCO plant would be?”
Melnor nodded, eyes on the ball. “Just about.” He checked his watch. “Five days,” he said. As the ball bumped once again into the rising shelf at Point Defiance, Melnor dropped the dark red ball in and said, “I won’t go after the other yet, because it would disturb the model.” The red ball edged slowly to the surface, drifting quickly north up Colvos Passage. By the time it reached the topmost western corner of Vashon, Melnor announced, “Eight days,” and switched to the white ball that floated, better duplicating the density of the body at the time. This ball seemed confused as it vacillated in the surface currents. It tried to move into the clockwise motion again and Melnor had to move it by nudging it with his eyedropper. He explained, “I put in the floater too quickly. But this will give us an idea.” The ball missed Alki Point by a matter of centimeters.
“Nine days,” Melnor stated. “Too short. We’ll try again.”
He ran the twenty-minute test twice more, the last time with Boldt photographing the progress every few minutes. The closest they could come to a point of entry was an area just south of Piner Point, off Maury Island, which connected to the east of Vashon. Piner Point was nearly directly across from where the ASARCO smelter had once operated.
They thanked the man profusely. Melnor offered to help anytime and provided Bobbie with a business card where he could be reached. He also provided them with the name and number of the current chief of staff for the Coast Guard.
Photos in hand, Boldt walked silently back to the car, Bobbie at his side. He was thinking about the concept of tidal currents—layers of water moving in opposing directions at different speeds. Like hidden meanings, these currents could easily deceive. He thought that his own life was filled with such unseen currents; he was torn in a dozen directions at once by a dozen different elements—work, love, friendship, health, responsibility—all moving simultaneously, all determining the direction he would go.
“What do you think?” Bobbie finally asked, disturbed by his silence.
They were in the car, Boldt driving. “Makes sense to me,” he said.
She looked at him curiously. “I mean, do you mind?”
“I’m sorry…”
“Weren’t you listening?”
“I guess not.” He tried to pay attention now; he had to force himself to concentrate because her question had been one often asked by Elizabeth. He didn’t intentionally “not listen,” he just simply didn’t hear all the time, too easily absorbed in his own thoughts.
“I asked if it was all right if I got off at six tonight instead of working overtime.”
“You have another date?”
“None of your business,” she replied harshly.
“No, it isn’t.” He backed off the gas and turned on some jazz.
29
John LaMoia was waiting in Lou Boldt’s office cubicle, nervously tapping a pencil.
“What is it, John?” the sergeant asked, checking a list of telephone messages. Among the stack of pink phone-call slips were two from Daphne, one from Abrams, and one from Doctor McClure, Norvak’s orthopedist. An appointment with the doctor had been arranged for an hour from now.
LaMoia jumped up from the chair. “The computer kicked out the overlapping stores, Sergeant. We went back four days prior to the kills, like you said to do. We fed the computer all the stores the victims had shopped—this according to receipts we found—checking accounts and interviews. Of the dozens of possibilities we had it search for stores that at least three of the women had shopped.”
“Okay.”
“We’ve got eighteen stores, Sarge. Six gas stations, four supermarkets, three department stores, and one each of a beauty salon, a downtown parking facility, a toy store, a car wash, and a bakery.”
“Eighteen is better than a few hundred thousand, eh, John?” Boldt added. “What about the flowers?”
“That list is together, but it’s huge.”
“Narrow it down to the radius.”
“It is. It’s still huge; they sell silk flowers everywhere.”
“Of the eighteen stores, we’ll start with the ones closest to stores that sell red silk roses. The proximity of the stores may play a role in this.”
“Christ, we can’t stake out eighteen, Sarge.”
“I know that,” Boldt said. “Hang on a second. Hear me out. He may drive a yellow van. Targeting the vans is a possibility if the killer happens to be an employee at one of these places. Let’s say we have eighteen stores; each store has between five and, what, twenty-five employees?”
“Something like that.”
“So we’re looking at between ninety and, say, five hundred employees.”
“It’s a hell of a lot.”
“Figure half, maybe more are female. That knocks it down to between fifty and two hundred and fifty.”
“Still too big.”
“So without letting on what we’re after, we get a current list of employees. We involve only the highest manager or owner, keep curiosity to a minimum.”
LaMoia caught up with his thinking. “And we run the employee lists through DMV, looking for an owner of a pale-colored van.” He sat forward enthusiastically. “Shit, how many can there be?”
“Not many,” Boldt said. “Our killer may not have worked in one of the stores, but if he did, I’d say we’ve got him. How soon can we put this together, John? I’d like to get right on it.”
“You’ll run it by the lieutenant?”
“I’ll talk to Shoswitz. You lay out a plan to best use our manpower. Talk to Kramer. He’ll help with scheduling.”
“Oh, come on.”
Boldt said forcefully, “Work with Kramer, John. That’s how it has got to be. I don’t like it either.”
“A couple of days,” LaMoia guessed, ans
wering his earlier question. “If we could get ten or fifteen detectives, it would go faster.”
“I doubt I can get half that, but I’ll try.”
“Couple of days isn’t too long to wait. Not after all this time.” A rare bit of optimism from LaMoia.
“Tell that to his next victim.”
LaMoia shrugged.
***
Boldt was on his way out, but the call stopped him. It was Doc Dixon. In his affable voice the man said, “Lou. Do we have any reason to hold on to Norvak?”
“Jane Doe,” Lou Boldt corrected.
“I spoke to Royce. He claims your young detective just called and went on and on with him about tidal currents and contradictions. She says you don’t think it’s Norvak. Is that true?”
“I’m still looking into it.”
“Well listen, we talked about this. She’s a rookie detective, Lou. You know how that goes. I got a full house, down here. You hear about the fire?”
“No.”
“I’ve got seven new check-ins because of a fire over in the Madrona district. I’ve got a positive I.D. on your mermaid, Lou. I’d just as soon get her moving.”
“Positive?”
“As near as we’re going to get. Those dental X-rays are a good match.”
“But they’re only partials. Molars, I thought.”
“But they’re perfect, Lou. Royce and I just went over them a second time. I’ve got to do my job.”
Boldt closed his eyes and attempted to control his voice. Doc Dixon had a job to do, and from his point of view the corpse was Betsy Norvak. Boldt needed to make it sound as professional as possible, but it wasn’t easy for him. He couldn’t keep the fatigue and his own personal involvement out of his voice. “It’s true, about the tidal currents, I mean. It was my idea. I know it’s nothing hard, Ron, but it supports our suspicions. I have an appointment with her doctor in a few minutes. That may give me some more ammunition. I’m also waiting for a call from the lab on that tissue sample.”
“Lou…”
“Give me until the end of the day, will you? Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“I need the space, Lou. I’ve got to have something to justify the space. The end of the day, okay? She won’t be lost and gone forever, you know. We’ll just get her moving—let a funeral home hold her for a week or so. I can ask the family to delay—something like that.”
“Have you notified the family?” Boldt wondered, horrified.
“Not yet. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t notify the family, Dixie. I can’t explain it, but I think you’d be making a mistake.”
“You’ve got the rest of the day, okay? I’ll see what I can do about extending it.” He hesitated. “Hey, what about those pieces of paper I found? Any help to you?”
“Try this. Two pieces of women’s clothing dry-cleaned. One had torn buttonholes, the other two stains. The only name we could pull was Johnson. No help there—no female Johnsons missing that we know of. What it comes down to is why would some woman go windsurfing with two dry-cleaning receipts that don’t belong to her, stuck between her wetsuit and swimsuit? She’s trying to tell me something, Dixie, but I’m not getting it.”
“Stay with it, Lou. I’ll try to make room for her. Maybe I’ll be able to come up with a less-deluxe accommodation.”
“Appreciate it.” Boldt thanked him, hung up, and chewed down two Turns. What he really wanted was a yogurt smoothie.
30
Doctor McClure’s waiting room contained a dozen blue padded chairs. Low white Formica tables between them held back issues of dog-eared magazines. The receptionist was dressed in beige slacks and a tight sweater. She was chewing gum and working furiously on the computer keyboard.
McClure saw Boldt in his office. Despite its small size, it tried hard to project the scholarly image a doctor deserves. Boldt had great respect for the medical profession and McClure was no exception. He was about Boldt’s age, with graying curly hair and a natural smile.
“You wanted to know about Betsy Norvak.” Soft-spoken.
“She was your patient?”
“Was?”
“Is.”
“Is there something I should know, Sergeant? This isn’t a medically related case, is it?”
“No.”
“Nothing that in any way might involve malpractice?”
“No.”
“Thank God for that. You understand my concern, I’m sure.”
Boldt knew the good doctor paid more for insurance than Boldt earned in a year. “Yes.”
“And how can I help you?”
“Her companion—a Mr. Montrose—mentioned a bad arm. We found a sling in her bathroom. It looked well used.”
“Worn-out is probably more like it. Yes, that’s right.”
“Tennis elbow?” Boldt wondered.
McClure smiled. “Windsurfer elbow?” He seemed to tease. “We can’t say what caused the arthritis. My bet is a number of factors contributed, but the windsurfing certainly didn’t help matters.”
Boldt asked about her condition as of two weeks ago and McClure described it as advanced something-or-other-it is. He suggested there was no way she could have windsurfed without extreme pain. The doctor pointed to a working model of the bones in an arm and directed Boldt’s attention to it. He pointed at the elbow, rattled off some long medical terms, and bent the arm a few times.
“Would you recognize the elbow?” Boldt asked.
“Possibly. Not by sight as easily as by X-ray. Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”
“How’s that? About the X-ray, I mean.”
“We hadn’t operated yet. I’m scheduled to perform orthoscopic surgery”—he checked the file—“in about three weeks. Exploratory really, to see how bad the arthritis is.”
“You mentioned X-rays.”
“That’s right. She has some calcium buildup in the joint. The question is whether to try and scrape it off or not. Sometimes that works quite well. Sometimes not.”
“But you can see the calcium in the X-rays?”
“Of course.”
“And you have X-rays of her elbow?”
“On file. Certainly.”
Boldt sat forward anxiously. “Could I borrow those for a few hours, sir?”
“I’d like to help, Detective. But I couldn’t allow that without Ms. Norvak’s permission, I’m afraid. That, or a court order. I’d be happy to cooperate if we can put it together properly.”
Dixon’s confirmation that the dental X-rays matched began to sink in and Boldt felt further depressed. The discrepancies in the case had been building nicely—the dental X-rays had pulled the wind from his sails. An hour earlier he would have put money on the fact that Jane Doe wasn’t Norvak. Now…
Boldt wondered: “What if I brought you an X-ray of a woman’s elbow and asked you to compare it with that of Norvak’s? Could you do that for me?”
“That’s acceptable to me. I have no problems with that.”
“Can you make time for me?”
“We can pull her X-rays in a matter of minutes. Happy to help.”
Already up and out of his chair, Boldt nodded.
“Have you had that looked at?” McClure asked, pointing toward Boldt’s forehead. “That doesn’t look very good.”
He didn’t get an answer.
31
Doctor Dixon was in the middle of his third consecutive autopsy when Boldt arrived. Boldt entered the large, brightly lit room, his visitor’s pass clipped to his lapel, and kept his eyes off the table. Burn victims were the worst. Dixon worked efficiently, a fire detective looking on. Dixon spoke into a voice-activated tape-recording system as he proceeded. When he saw Boldt, he asked his assistant to continue with an incision and handed him the knife. He went over to Boldt and spoke in a soft voice to avoid inadvertently tripping the tape system. Boldt was used to this precaution. He’d been here plenty of times before.
“I’d shake your hand, but you know…” He h
eld up his blood-smeared gloved hand.
Boldt felt his ulcer complain. “I need to ask a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“I’d like an X-ray of Norvak’s right elbow. I think we can settle this thing once and for all.”
“Come on, Lou. We’ve already confirmed.”
“Arthritis. Norvak had arthritis in her right elbow. There’s some kind of deposit that shows up on X-ray.”
Dixon nodded. Then he bit his lip. “Royce can get you the X-rays, but you don’t need them. I went over them thoroughly. There’s no arthritis in either elbow. Something’s wrong here.”
“You’re positive about the arthritis?”
“Absolutely. And the teeth, too. One of us is wrong, Lou. Maybe we screwed something up. It happens in a place this size.”
“I think I should run the X-rays by her doctor.”
He nodded. “Talk to Royce. He, or one of the girls can pull her file. Just bring ’em back, will you please? And sign ’em out. Let’s keep the damned paperwork straight. Okay?”
“Would you mind taking another look at her?”
“How’s that?”
“Another look at her elbow. If we get you on the stand, I want more than an X-ray.” He added, “Today, if possible.”
“Lou, I’m knee-deep in burn victims. Two more after this. I’ll be here till nine o’clock as it is. Besides, I’ve already done her.”
“I’ll give you access to my entire collection for a month. You can tape ’em all.”
Dixon seemed to ponder this for a moment. Stunned. Like Boldt, he too was a jazz fan. Boldt prized his record collection, which included dozens of impossible-to-find albums. He forbade any borrowing. The opening up of his collection to a friend was tantamount to the opening of King Tut’s tomb.
“A month?” Dixon asked incredulously. “That blow to your head must have dislodged something,” he said, pointing.
“It’ll give you time to tape them all.”
“No arguments. You’ll forgive me. I’m in shock. Just what the hell is so important?”
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