Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  He snapped his head to the left. An overgrown lot with a partially burned, boarded-up house still standing. Behind it, closest to Boldt, stood a ramshackle garage—a shack of weathered wood. He ran through the tall, wet weeds to the door of the shack and stopped, winded.

  Holding the front door shut was a recently added padlock. No more than a few months old, Boldt thought.

  Lou Boldt had never considered himself a cop capable of an investigative “sixth sense” as some cops were purported to have. And yet he experienced just such a sensation now, standing in the pouring rain, soaking wet, cold, facing this door.

  He believed the boy was inside. He knew it.

  But was he alive?

  ***

  He would reflect later that he was overcome with emotion at the time. And he knew emotion had no place in good police work. But good police work was not Lou Boldt’s priority at that moment. Justin Levitt was his priority. The boy. The child. And that’s why he kicked in the door without waiting for a search warrant.

  The clasps tore from the decayed wood and the door blew open from his efforts. It was dark inside and the roof was leaking, contained in several locations by rusted coffee cans.

  Boldt felt the blood drumming at his temples, and the all-too-familiar knot in his chest. This was his domain. And if the other room had been the home of Jesus, this was the home of the Devil. Fast-food litter crowded the floor and the tops of crates Lange had rigged as a table. There was no bed, only a ratty, stained mattress in the corner. At the foot of the bed were several pieces of bloodstained clothing in clumps. The sight of the pieces of clothing returned the vivid photographic images of the various victims’ faces fresh to Boldt’s mind. Women screaming out to him with paralyzed eyes, stockings and handkerchiefs binding their necks. He felt short of breath. Nauseated. The stench was overpowering. The missing pieces of clothing! he thought. On the table, next to a Burger King bag, was a bloodstained serrated kitchen knife. Another lay in the dust on the floor. Boldt stepped forward and tugged open the black wool blanket that hung as a wall.

  Pushed into the dark corner, his ankles and wrists wired together, Boldt saw the dull white eyes of Justin Levitt staring back at him.

  The boy was alive!

  53

  Boldt rode in the ambulance with the boy. He experienced the pain of the victim: Justin Levitt was without family now, alone and left with only horrified memories of confinement at the hands of the man who had killed his parents. The boy had begun to cry as Boldt had unwired him, and the detective took this as a good sign. Justin had thrown his arms tightly around Lou Boldt’s neck and had not let go. Initially, the paramedics had attempted to pry him away from Boldt, but the sergeant quickly convinced them that he should go along. Now the two of them were riding in the back of the ambulance, Justin strapped into a stretcher, uncomfortable with the restraint required by law, and Boldt at his side, one hand holding the boy’s, the other stroking the boy’s forehead. The boy sobered periodically, and except for his smell and the dirt smudges on his face, appeared all right—at least physically.

  Once at the emergency room, he was taken away by a nurse, refusing to leave Boldt at first, then acquiescing after an encouraging word by the detective. Boldt summoned Daphne by phone. Less than twenty minutes later the two of them sat speechless in orange vinyl chairs, awaiting some word on the boy.

  Time dragged on. In an awkward moment of consoling, Daphne reached over and took Boldt’s hand. She had soft hands, but they were cold with fear for the boy. Boldt returned her hands to her lap—and with that came a message. Daphne’s expression turned grave, and then she smiled somewhat pitifully and said, “It’s all right, Lou. I understand.” The two of them sat silently for another twenty minutes until finally an extremely young doctor arrived to consult them. Daphne introduced herself professionally and the two bantered in psychiatric jargon until Boldt stopped them. “Speak English, would you please?”

  The doctor said they would keep him a day or two for observation, that the boy seemed to be handling the events remarkably well. He had not suffered physically at all. By all accounts, Justin Levitt was coming along fine. He had not witnessed the actual killing of his parents, had not seen the bodies. He had been too frightened to open his eyes after the struggle in his bedroom with Lange, and had been led from the house with his eyes shut. He knew his parents were dead—had been murdered—and seemed to be taking it as well as possible. “As well as any of us would,” was how the doctor put it.

  The boy was dressed in hospital pajamas. He said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Boldt returned.

  “I hear you got him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Boldt felt a frog in his throat. He could not recall having ever been thanked for solving a murder case. It seemed odd to him, now that he thought about it. He had been congratulated plenty of times, but never thanked. Suddenly the hospital room, the familiar smell, triggered that same image of his waiting for his wife to come through those doors after the abortion. He wondered if he would ever be free of the guilt. Is guilt something that chains itself to you and never lets go? he thought.

  “My uncle’s coming,” the boy announced.

  “That’s fine,” Boldt said, experiencing a degree of jealousy. Yes, he thought, jealousy.

  “I suppose he’ll take me back to Idaho.”

  Boldt nodded.

  “He killed my parents,” the boy told Boldt matter-of-factly. “Do you suppose my parents are in heaven?”

  Boldt lowered the stainless-steel bar and sat down on the bed. “What do you think?”

  “I think they are.”

  “So do I.”

  “I think they’re probably happy that he didn’t kill me, too.”

  Boldt nodded. His eyes were stinging. He didn’t want to cry in front of the boy. Especially not the boy. He tried to get a word out, but it caught in his throat and he felt his fatigue and his emotions get the better of him. He looked down into the calm and gentle eyes and felt his throat swell with sorrow.

  “It’s all right,” the boy said sympathetically, in an understanding tone only a child can convey. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Boldt. You’re the one who got him.”

  Big Lou Boldt rocked forward, pressing his heavy head against Justin Levitt’s shoulder. The boy sat up to meet him, and hugged him strongly, his IV following his movements. Boldt shook violently as he felt himself in the young boy’s arms. God, it felt incredible.

  “I’m scared,” Justin Levitt blurted out behind his own tears. “I’m scared of being alone.”

  Boldt placed his large hand on the back of the young man’s head, and threaded his fingers into his hair. He pressed their cheeks together—the boy’s, soft and warm; his own, rough and in need of a shave. He closed his eyes and for a moment could believe that this was his boy, his son, that he was a father, and he understood that there was nothing as important as this to him, nothing as moving or as meaningful. He smiled broadly through his tears, and the boy must have felt him smile for the boy began to chuckle and soon Boldt was chuckling too. And then, still clasped in each other’s arms, the two began to laugh, neither fully knowing why—and they leaned back, away from each other, meeting eyes and throwing their arms around each other again and playfully squeezing the laughter away until it was gone altogether.

  When Boldt left an hour later, Justin Levitt was fast asleep.

  54

  Thirty minutes later Boldt found himself right back at his desk. He was attracted to it like bugs to floodlights.

  The detailed interview with Lange had convinced him a copycat had indeed been responsible for four of the kills, Saviria, Jordan, DeHavelin, and Kniffen, and Boldt feared that with Lange arrested and charged, they might lose the copycat completely. If the copycat was indeed a cop, then he knew their energies would focus on him next.

  He only stayed at his desk a few minutes. The parking tickets he had discovered in Judith Fuller’s car continued to nag
at him. He pocketed them and went down to dispatch, where a number of radio-telephone operators sat in front of panels that looked like something from NASA launch center. A variety of detailed maps of the city hung on the walls. Boldt searched the addresses on the tickets and, cross-referencing them with the maps, pinpointed the exact locations where Fuller had been ticketed. One was on Pill Hill near the school. The other two were on North Seventy-seventh Street and North Seventy-eighth. Pill Hill was filled with medical clinics, hospitals, libraries, and the college. He cross-referenced these locations against the approximate locations for the two dry-cleaning establishments. He saw no correlation. He returned to his desk and phoned Judith Fuller’s Los Angeles bank.

  The manager of Wells Fargo in Simi Valley was extremely pleasant. He agreed to share account information with Boldt, as long as that information was kept confidential, and out of the press.

  Recent deposits into Judith Fuller’s checking account included a fifty-dollar check from Irene Longet, Lincoln, Nebraska; a three hundred-dollar check drawn from the UCLA extension-course account; and six, all paid in large amounts, from The Los Angeles Times.

  Boldt phoned the Times twice and spoke with seven different people before finally connecting with an editor named Tom Moriarty.

  “Sure, I know Judy, Detective. She’s one of my strongest stringers.”

  “A reporter?”

  “Of course a reporter. She’s an investigative journalist. Free-lance.”

  “Free-lance?”

  “She comes in with an idea. If I buy the idea, I cover her expenses and pay for a first draft. Not like the stringer where I typically make the assignments. Judy’s an independent. Very independent.”

  “Have you heard from her lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. I usually get a call every couple of weeks screaming at me for more up-front money. Haven’t heard from her in nearly a month. I figured she was into the piece and getting ready to deliver. What’s this about, anyway?”

  “Can you tell me what she’s been working on?”

  “You say you’re with the Seattle Police Department?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Extension?”

  Boldt gave it to him.

  “I’ll call you right back, Sergeant. Sit tight.”

  Boldt hung up. He didn’t like to be told to sit tight. It was a curious expression.

  The phone rang. He picked it up. Moriarty said, “We get a lot of competition in this business. Your competition will try about anything to find out what your hot features are. Sorry for the delay, but I had to confirm that there was a Lou Boldt on the Seattle police, and that you were he. Now I’m convinced. You wanted to know what Judy is working on. I would appreciate it if you don’t go broadcasting this. I have several hundred into expenses on this. It’s more than worth it as long as we maintain our jump. We lose our jump and we’ve just pissed away several hundred and Judy’s fee.”

  “I understand.”

  “Let me pull her file so I can give you any details you need. Hold the phone.” Boldt could hear Moriarty rummage through his files. Then the man’s voice said, “The idea she proposed involved a string of serial killings.” Boldt listened more carefully. Moriarty paused while he evidently read from the file. “I don’t mean a string, like a string. I mean one string in one city, another string in another city. Judy maintains she’s found a connection between the different killings.”

  “Let me guess,” Boldt said. “Denver and Tucson?”

  “Right on the money, Sergeant. Are you familiar with those cases?”

  “No, I’m not. Can you help me out?”

  “Just that a number of women were murdered in each city last year.”

  “And the killer got away?”

  “No, actually. A man was arrested and convicted in each case. However, in both cases—I’ve got the clippings right here—each murderer claimed he had not killed all the women blamed on him. That’s what caught Judy’s attention in the first place. She has this theory that there was, in fact, another killer working these same areas. As soon as the real murderer was arrested, this other guy would move on to another city where a serial killing was baffling police.”

  “Seattle…” Boldt said.

  “On the money. She went from Denver straight to Seattle. I okayed that. She sent me clippings to support it. She checked papers around the time the Denver police caught the guy—the real killer—and found all sorts of headlines about your Cross Killer up there. That was the middle of May. I hear you guys got the guy, by the way. Congratulations.”

  Boldt thanked him. “Do you have her notes? Anything that might help me with this?”

  “No. Nothing. Why not talk to Judy? I can give you her number if you haven’t got it.”

  “I’ve got it,” Boldt said.

  “What’s this about? You want me to call Judy?”

  “I can’t explain right now, Mr. Moriarty.”

  “Would my readers have any interest in it?”

  “I’m afraid they might.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Boldt regretted the comment. “No notes. No more details?”

  “Listen, all Judy gives me is Xerox copies often thousand receipts. I send her checks. She sends me receipts. She’s a damned good writer, Sergeant. If you see her, tell her I’m waiting on that article.”

  “One other thing, Mr. Moriarty?”

  “Sure.”

  “Was Judith a windsurfer?”

  “Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Any way to find out?”

  “You could ask her, right? That seems like the most direct approach,” he said somewhat condescendingly.

  “Thanks for your help.” Boldt hung up.

  ***

  “I want to brainstorm this copycat thing with somebody.”

  “Jesus, Lou. I gotta ton of paperwork to catch up on,” Shoswitz complained. “Your paperwork.”

  “Please?”

  “Grab a seat,” Shoswitz said.

  Boldt sat down. He explained his conversation with Moriarty.

  When Boldt finished, Shoswitz asked, “You suppose she was investigating the man who belongs to those Rockports?”

  “Has to be, doesn’t it?”

  “Makes sense. So what do you suggest?”

  “The first thing I would do is have records use the computers to search the entire force for anyone living on Boren, North Seventy-seventh, or Seventy-eighth. Those are where Fuller picked up those parking tickets. She could have been on a stakeout of her own.”

  “One of our men.”

  “Exactly.”

  Shoswitz, uncomfortable with the thought, reeled irritably. “Let’s think backward—review the play-by-play, will you?”

  “She’s investigating the possibility of a copycat. Incidently, I’ve got a call in to Tucson and Denver. Good luck on a Saturday. Anyway, let’s say Fuller makes some connection to someone. She has a lead, but nothing concrete.”

  “I’d like that lead,” Shoswitz said.

  “It was probably in her top drawer. Long gone now, I’m afraid.” Boldt picked up where he had left off. “So she thinks she knows who the guy is. Maybe she put him under surveillance. Maybe she follows him.”

  “And it leads her to a place on Vashon,” Shoswitz said.

  “We had better include Vashon and Maury Island in our computer search, Phil. That could very well be it.”

  “I interrupted.”

  “I was just going to say that maybe it leads her to Vashon—or Maury. So why would she rent a windsurfer?”

  “Maybe this guy’s a windsurfer and she thinks it’s her chance to create an ‘accidental’ meeting between them. She gets a chance to interview this guy.”

  “I like that,” Boldt said. “That works for me.” He thought a moment. “Something else that might play,” he tried.

  “Shoot.”

  “What if,” Boldt said, eyes shut, thinking, “she’s fol
lowed this guy to his place on Vashon once. She wants a look inside—”

  Shoswitz interrupted, “But it’s a remote location and she doesn’t want to just drive up and say, ‘Hi, I’m here to see if you’re the copycat killer I think you are.’”

  “And it’s a place on the shore…”

  “So she rents a windsurfer.”

  “…and she intentionally screws something up on the board. She sails into his place from the waterside. She can head straight to the cabin, home, whatever. She has a perfect excuse for being there. She can even break in, once she finds no one home, with the excuse that she needed a phone and didn’t think anyone would mind.”

  “Only she’s caught, and the excuse doesn’t work,” Shoswitz added.

  “But she’s found something—”

  “The dry-cleaning receipts.”

  “The dry cleaning itself. Clothes. Evidence. The souvenirs the copycat took to match the souvenirs Lange took.”