The Pied Piper

by Ridley Pearson

  “Yeah. There’s a number you call. All there is to it. Pick up the tickets when you get there.”

  “You must have guaranteed them. What? A credit card?”

  “Sure.” The man repeated, “All there is to it.”

  “And you don’t remember telling anyone at all—at work, a neighbor, a best friend? Maybe a friend recommended the train and you mentioned to him that you had booked an evening?”

  The man ran his hand through his oily hair. “No, that isn’t true. I didn’t tell nobody—anybody,” he corrected.

  “Do you have the credit card statement?” Boldt asked.

  The man looked a little fuzzy.

  “Think, honey,” Doris Shotz pleaded.

  He screwed his face into a knot. “I probably got it, yeah, I suppose. I booked it ahead of time, you know.” He reached out for his wife’s hand, but she pulled hers away.

  “Get it for them,” the wife demanded.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’d appreciate the statements from the last three months for any credit cards you have,” Boldt clarified. The husband looked crestfallen.

  The wife remembered something then. She said, “We turned all that over to the other people—the FBI.”

  “All your finances,” Boldt said, perfectly calmly. Inside, he boiled.

  “The girl,” her husband said, “the one with the accent. She took our bank statements, credit card stuff, everything.”

  Kay Kalidja, Boldt realized.

  Before they left, Daphne and Boldt visited the child’s nursery. He stepped into the room knowing full well what it was like to live with such emptiness. He had spent the night in Sarah’s room, rocking in the rocking chair, staring into darkness, hating himself. He absorbed as much of the environment as he could, a new eye to the crime scene. The carpet was marked in three places where chips of automobile glass had been found. The glass connected the crimes to a single assailant, reminding Boldt of its importance. The dresser and the windowsills were clouded with fingerprint dust. Stuffed animals; children’s books on a hand-painted bookshelf; a musical mobile of pandas with red and yellow feet; a changing table.

  He visualized the Pied Piper entering the room and heading straight to the crib. Knowing what he was after. Boldt turned toward the dresser: The Pied Piper had taken time to search the dresser. Why? Did he need a change of outfits for the child? Or was he worried about leaving evidence behind? Had that silk-screened blanket been wrapped around the child, or had it been in the drawer that still remained open?

  Blanket in hand, or not, he turns toward the crib. He needs to disguise or conceal the child before abducting her. He wraps her in a second blanket? He places her in a bag or toolbox?

  The open drawer continued to tug at Boldt. The missing blanket had to be significant.

  Daphne reminded, “He’s an organized personality. If he took that particular blanket there’s a reason.”

  “Mrs. Shotz!” he called out. The woman stopped at the door to the room, unable to enter. Her eyes welled with tears and she crossed her arms tightly as if to ward off the cold.

  “You do the laundry?”

  “Paul doesn’t, I can tell you that.”

  “How many receiving blankets do you own?” he asked. Boldt did the laundry in his house. He grilled the meat, washed dishes and was much better with an iron than Liz. She paid for the housecleaner and they split Marina’s check. Liz did their bookkeeping, cooked most of the meals—all of the vegetables—and answered the mail and phone calls. He wanted his life back.

  Liz had nine bras, two that she wore more often than the others. He knew the outfits that Miles wore by heart. They had eleven burp rags and seven receiving blankets—enchiladas, Boldt called them, because that was how they looked as infants, swaddled tightly before sleep.

  “Four,” she said, without the slightest hesitation. Boldt trusted the number.

  “And how many are here?” he asked.

  She looked at him, her face drained of expression. Fear stole into her eyes. “I never counted.”

  “No reason to,” Daphne encouraged.

  “Count them now, please,” Boldt said.

  Doris Shotz headed for the drawer that had been left partially open. Exactly what Boldt had hoped for: That drawer held the blankets. She corrected herself immediately, “Four, other than the new one, the one with the picture.”

  “I understand,” Boldt said. “Five total then.”

  “I don’t machine wash the one with Ronnie’s picture. I hand wash it.”

  “Fine.”

  She rummaged through the drawer, glanced back sharply at Boldt and then started over, checking for a second time. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to count,” she said, distracted by her own guilty feelings. She went through the drawer a third time.

  “Only three?” Boldt asked.

  The woman hurried from the room. A moment later she returned, several shades paler. “Not in the wash,” she mumbled.

  “How many?” Boldt asked her again.

  “Three,” she answered. “But how did you know two would be missing?”

  Ten minutes later Daphne and Boldt stood by the Chevy. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “What about the credit cards? What was that about?” she asked.

  “We all buy tickets, we book travel, we charge our meals, our shopping, all on credit cards. If there are any patterns to our lives, the two places they show up are our checkbooks and our credit cards.”

  “But Trish Weinstein was at the supermarket at the time of abduction,” she protested.

  “Frequent flyer miles. People charge groceries to credit cards now. Liz does it sometimes.”

  “Jesus,” she muttered.

  “The Bureau gave it away without meaning to. They’ve locked us out of the credit histories on the earlier victims. We’ve been asking for them for weeks. Why hog them all to themselves unless they’ve spotted a pattern?”

  “And the blanket?”

  “We got lucky,” he said modestly. “No one picked up the pattern.”

  “Next?”

  “We contact Portland and see if the custom outfit mentioned in that interview had a silk-screened photo on it.”

  “We need the name of that company—the silk screens,” she said.

  Boldt nodded. “Might be the link we’ve been missing.” He moved toward the driver’s door.

  “We’re not done here,” she stated.

  “We have to move on this.”

  “Look over my shoulder,” she instructed. “I’ll bet you a month’s salary she’s watching us from the window.”

  Boldt did as he was told. “Are you showing off?”

  “Of course I am. Did you notice the way she kept repositioning her little boy?”

  “He’s a heavy little boy.” After a dismissive look from her, he said, “Okay. What’d I miss?”

  “Only an eyewitness,” she said.

  Boldt opened the car door and retrieved the thick task force book. He sifted through the contents until reaching the Shotz file, mumbling, “Baby sitter … mother and father … neighbor … real estate agent … neighbor … neighbor—”

  She interrupted. “John and I did the parents together. Spent a long time. We never spoke one word to little Henry.”

  “Little Henry was there.”

  “Little Henry is three, keep in mind.”

  “Miles is four. I know three very well, thank you,” Boldt said.

  “Too young for a witness?”

  “Maybe for a courtroom, but not for me. I broke a lamp of Liz’s last year—she’d had it since college. I swept it up and threw it out, and thought I would wait for a good time to tell her. You know,” he explained sheepishly, “there are good times and bad times for that sort of thing. Well, Miles beat me to it. He reported the entire incident, point by point, the minute she got home. Three years old. He not only remembered everything I’d done but articulated it. Three years old? I’ll take a three-year-old witness.
Bring him on.” He asked, “Can you deliver little Henry?”

  “Not if Mama has anything to say about it. I’d bet anything that Doris knows Henry saw something. Ironically, no matter how much she wants Rhonda back, she can’t bring herself to involve Henry. One child lost, one child left. She won’t do anything to jeopardize that. The guilt we’re seeing all over her face has more to do with her withholding Henry from us than with her being on that dinner train.”

  “Then why did you let me leave?”

  “Because she needed to see us out here in a discussion. She needs to lose some of that protective confidence before we stand a chance with her. Henry can help Rhonda. The mother in Doris knows that. But she waited too long to tell us, she vented too much anger on us to come creeping back. But now that anger has turned inward. She has dug herself a hole.

  “I can offer her a way out,” she continued, “but it will only take if she accepts responsibility for her past actions. Oddly, the way I get her there is fear. Her imagination can make this worse than we will. We need to let that stew.”

  Boldt rocked his wrist as if checking his watch. “Yeah? Well, if she won’t talk, I’ll hold her in contempt for obstruction of justice and drag her downtown.” He started walking toward the house, the task force book still in hand.

  “Since when did you become cop, judge and juror?” Daphne asked, requiring a half run to keep up with him.

  “Shit happens,” he said on the fly.

  She stopped abruptly as if slapped, and then hurried to catch back up to him. “Since when do you swear?”

  “Same answer.” He reached the front door and knocked more loudly than necessary.

  “Lou,” she said, grabbing his upper arm forcibly, “I’m serious. This isn’t you.”

  “So am I. Yes it is. This is me, the new me. Take it or leave it.”

  “Leave it!” she said. “What’s going on?” She still held him.

  “I said no questions,” he whispered dryly. “Remember?”

  She released her hold on him. “Let me do the talking,” she demanded. “This one has special handling written all over it. She needs force, but a special kind of force.” They locked eyes. His were sunken and darkly colored. “Please,” she begged.

  Footsteps approached.

  Her eyes held him, unrelenting. She, of all people, knew this man; and yet she didn’t know him.

  “If that kid, if that woman,” he said angrily, “has kept something from us …” He didn’t complete the statement. He said only, “Lives are at stake here!” The front door swung open.

  Doris Shotz answered, a mask of concern and caution. Daphne’s attention remained fixed on Boldt. The woman at the door said, “I’ve had about enough for one day—”

  “We need to talk,” Daphne interrupted her, still facing Boldt. “Now,” she said strongly, snapping her head toward the woman and pushing her way past and inside. “We need to talk with Henry,” Daphne completed.

  “No! You cannot—”

  “Yes, we can,” Boldt corrected, cutting her off and silencing her. He and Doris Shotz met eyes, and she cowered under his haunted look.

  “Where is he?” Daphne asked once the three of them were inside the living room and Doris Shotz realized they meant business.

  “You can’t do this.”

  Boldt responded, “You’d prefer attorneys and the press?”

  “Your son was never interviewed as a witness,” Daphne stated. The immediate tension in the mother’s eyes confirmed Daphne had guessed correctly. “We understand your reluctance to involve him in—”

  “He is three years old!” the mother objected. “How could he possibly help?”

  “We also understand how important it is to you that we make every effort to locate Rhonda just as soon as we can.”

  If there had been any tears left for Doris Shotz, she might have spilled them, but her well was dry. She shook her head, holding on to what little protest remained in her.

  “Let us talk to Henry. Help us find Rhonda, please,” Daphne urged.

  “He bit the man,” the mother confessed, her chin wobbling. “I know I should have told you. Downtown … sitting there, just sitting there … I knew I should tell someone.”

  Boldt glanced over at Daphne; he wanted the interview now.

  “Please,” Daphne repeated.

  “In our bedroom,” the mother replied.

  Down a narrow hall, she showed them into a cluttered bedroom. The boy had a set of blocks out on the floor, reminding Boldt of Miles, and in turn making him think of Sarah.

  “Honey,” the mother said, “these people are going to help us find Ronnie. They want to talk to you. I told them they could. Okay?”

  The boy averted his eyes shyly, down at the toes of his Air Nikes.

  Boldt said, “I understand Henry is quite the hero.”

  “A brave little boy,” Daphne agreed. “We’re just going to ask you some questions. Okay?”

  The boy checked again with his mother, who sat down on the floor and took the boy in her arms from behind so the child faced Boldt and Daphne. Daphne signaled Boldt to lose some altitude. He joined her on the floor so he no longer towered over the boy. “Please, honey? We like these people. They want to help Ronnie.” She prompted, “You bit the man, didn’t you?” The boy nodded.

  “On the leg?” Daphne asked.

  The boy shook his head no. Henry had several of his teeth and a small scar on his chin. His s’s whistled when he spoke.

  The mother said, “Would you tell me again about what happened when the man came for Ronnie?” The child vigorously shook his head no. The mother encouraged, “You heard them in the kitchen.”

  “Me hearded Ronnie crying. Me shout for Julie.”

  “The baby sitter,” Daphne said.

  Henry nodded.

  “And when she didn’t answer, did that scare you?”

  He nodded again. He was a cute boy with a round face and his mother’s large blue eyes.

  “And then what happened?” Daphne asked.

  “Me go into kitchen.”

  “Went into the kitchen,” the mother corrected. Boldt shot her a hot look. No time for home schooling.

  “What did you see in the kitchen?” Daphne inquired.

  The boy grew restless in his mother’s arms. His voice was excited. “Julie asleep on the floor. The man with a bag. Ronnie crying.”

  “Did you see him?” Boldt asked. “The man carrying the bag?”

  “Julie sleeping on the floor.” He looked frightened all of a sudden.

  Daphne signaled Boldt off with her eyes.

  “What did you do then?” Daphne asked.

  His voice sped up with his description. “Me pulled on his arm. He kicked me. Me screamed.” He hung his head.

  “You tried to help Ronnie, didn’t you?”

  “I bit him,” Henry said, proudly.

  “Yes,” Daphne returned quickly. “On the leg … on the—”

  “His arm,” Henry interrupted.

  Boldt restrained himself from interrupting, his heart racing painfully.

  Without prompting, the boy continued, “Me bit him and I fell down and hit my head and it hurt.” He rubbed the back of his head. “There was a bump, wasn’t there, Mommy?”

  “There sure was.” Doris Shotz grimaced. She didn’t want to relive any of this.

  “It hurt!” the boy declared, still rubbing his head.

  “I bet you hurt him more,” Boldt said.

  “He bleeded.”

  He smiled up at Boldt. All the innocence of the world was in that smile. What powers ultimately corrupted such innocence? he wondered. How was it so quickly lost? Because of the Pied Pipers of this world, he realized. Because detectives asked painful questions.

  “I bit him on the birdie,” the boy blurted. Doris Shotz was as surprised to hear this as Boldt and Matthews.

  “A birdie?” Boldt asked. “On his arm?” The boy nodded. “A drawing?” Another nod.

  A tatt
oo was as good as a fingerprint with a jury, and juries loved child witnesses.

  “What kind of birdie? Do you remember?” Boldt asked.

  Daphne let him go. Boldt had opened up the tattoo information.

  “Like on TV.”

  Boldt was on pins and needles. He needed a detailed description of the tattoo, and the chances of that from a three-year-old were slim.

  “Big Bird?” Boldt asked.

  “No, the real bird,” the boy replied, confirming he knew the difference.

  “Is the bird on a show?” Daphne asked.

  He shook his head no.

  “A commercial?”

  He half nodded, half shrugged his shoulders in puzzlement.

  “Which commercial would that be?” she asked.

  Henry offered Daphne a silly expression and said, “The one with the bird in it!” He giggled.

  Daphne maintained her composure, but Boldt barked out spontaneous laughter.

  Henry said, “Big bird flying over the river.”

  “An airplane?” Daphne asked.

  “A bird!” the child repeated. “We deliver, we deliver!”

  “The post office!” the mother said.

  “An eagle,” Boldt announced.

  Henry turned toward him and nodded vigorously. “An eagle!” he repeated.

  Daphne was not pleased with Boldt, and her eyes told him so. He had fed the witness an answer. In the process of answering questions a witness reached a heightened state of wanting to please. Especially children. That desire, combined with the frustration of a blocked or vacant memory, would often jump at the first offering, even if it meant answering erroneously. Boldt had planted a word in the boy’s head to go along with whatever image lingered. No matter what the bird looked like, the word eagle would now be used.

  “Where was this bird on his arm?” Daphne asked, avoiding mention of the species.

  Henry Shotz pointed to the top of his forearm.

  Boldt said, “If a friend of ours sketched the bird, drew the bird, do you think you might recognize it?”

  The boy shrugged.

  The mother said, “Henry loves picture books.” The boy nodded agreement.

  Boldt wanted a sketch artist with the child in a hurry.

  “So what happened after you bit him?” Daphne asked, adding to her notes.

  “The man ran out. I gone to Julie, but she was sleeping.”