“Ten seconds,” Perch tracked. He checked a computer screen. “This one is not under time-trap control,” he warned.
Boldt could imagine one of his plainclothes detectives throwing a car in gear and speeding toward the location. But with less than five seconds to close the gap, he did not see much hope.
He needed more people. He needed more of the machines time-trapped.
“Transaction complete,” Perch announced, dejected.
“Lieutenant?” Boldt barked hopefully into the telephone receiver.
Shoswitz said, “Surveillance is four blocks and closing.”
Boldt felt tempted to cross his fingers. He envisioned the unmarked car running traffic lights and braking loudly to a stop. To Perch, Boldt said, “We need better communication with the field.”
“Tell me about it,” Perch replied, frustrated and upset.
Shoswitz said through the phone, “Nothing. Repeat: No visual contact.”
Boldt relayed this to Perch, who cursed so loudly that he raised the attention of several of the NetLinQ employees.
An hour later there was a second hit, though this time on a machine not under software control. Surveillance failed to close within twelve blocks.
“We need more of the machines on the software,” Boldt complained.
“Don’t tell me my business, Sergeant. We can’t make any more headway until morning. We have two lags in usage: nine-thirty to eleven A.M. and two to five P.M. That’s as soon as we can hope to put more machines on-line.”
“We need them tonight!”
“The system will crash. And if it crashes while this person is online, then it could look intentional. Is that what you want?” he asked heatedly.
Reluctantly, Boldt sat back and watched a third and final hit take place. And for a third and final time that night, surveillance was nowhere close.
At a few minutes before midnight, he was summoned to the hotel room where Dr. Richard Clements was staying.
Boldt arrived depressed and exhausted.
Shoswitz and Daphne reached the Alexis before Boldt, and all were awaiting him when he arrived.
The suite was spacious, with paper Japanese sliding doors separating the bedroom from a sitting room that included a large glass conference table, two couches, a coffee table, several freestanding lamps, a fireplace, and a wet bar. The decor was granite, glass, and steel-ultra-modern-which was not to Boldt’s tastes, and yet here he found it to his liking.
CNN was muted on the television in the corner-Michael Kinsley with his coat off, interviewing an author-and Clements kept the remote within reach.
Clements was dressed casually in linen pants and an Italian-designed white Egyptian cotton shirt, with black loafers and no socks. He was drinking what looked like brandy out of a snifter the size of a fishbowl, and he carried a wad of chew neatly in his upper lip, leaving a bulge there as though he were trying to stop a nosebleed. He wore half-glasses, tortoiseshell imitation that rode on the bridge of his nose precariously. He sat at the glass conference table in a black leather-and-stainless steel captain’s chair, waving a two-hundred-dollar mechanical pencil in the air and punctuating his authoritative instructions.
“You sit there. And you there. No-there, please,” he advised Shoswitz. “Yes, thank you. The Armagnac is excellent, and seemingly endless, and comes highly recommended. Whatever your pleasure.” He looked them over.
Daphne and Boldt declined. Shoswitz requested a Miller Lite, an order that so disgusted Clements he referred him to the wet bar’s refrigerator, advising him to “use whatever’s there.”
Dr. Richard Clements began with a self-possessed arrogance that immediately offended all present: “Before we get into Twenty Questions, let me head off whatever possible by offering you my updated profile.” He rolled the liqueur around in his mouth, and Boldt had to wonder what a mixture of Armagnac and chew tasted like when spilled across one’s tongue. “It’s interesting: Behavior will always tell you more than a rap sheet. I am referring, of course, to the incident in Mr. Adler’s woods and the telephone call that immediately preceded it.
“It’s late, so I’ll try not to bore you. You are all aware of the stalking phase that a serial killer or rapist enters into prior to the attack. Any of a number of specific incidents may precede the stalking phase, including arson, the killing of house pets, voyeurism, and masturbation, but the stalking phase is unique in that it directly precedes the offense. We see it in the wild-a cat, even some packs, will stalk prior to the kill, even if the intended prey is wounded or incapacitated. Still, the stalk. What our Mr. Caulfield is doing is getting up close and personal with his intended prey, Mr. Adler. The fact that he has entered this phase is warning sign enough: It is drawing to a close. We are in the last act. The stalking phase can go on for days, weeks, even months or years, and we are still at odds to know exactly what precipitates the craving for completion of the act. Boredom? Rage? Sexuality? So different in every case.” He swilled more of the snifter’s contents and inhaled, apparently enormously satisfied with the results. His audience was too stunned to interrupt.
“And so we know that he has begun this final coda before the finale.” He waved the pencil in time to music within his head, and Boldt could see his lips close as he hummed silently along with it. “But unfortunately, we do not know the length of the piece. Point number one,” he said strongly, “Adler-or someone in that house,” he conditioned, “-is the target of his intentions.”
He excused himself to the bathroom, and apparently leaving an interior door open, urinated loudly enough that all could hear.
Shoswitz said in a forced whisper, “Is the air-conditioning on, or is it just him?”
Daphne, noticeably upset, reminded in an equally soft reply, “Like it or not, he’s one of the best there is.”
Boldt added, “And he knows it.”
“Point number two,” Clements began anew when he returned, “he is distracted by his own greed. He is withdrawing two or three thousand a day. He finds himself addicted to this easy money. He has a good thing going, so why not prolong it? All of that sounds so logical, does it not? Well, it’s bullshit, plain and simple. What we have is a theoretical conflict that I must admit weighs heavily upon me. On the one side, he has clearly entered the stalking phase; this includes a verbal threat to Adler over the phone, and a use of language, a reference to certain personally historical issues, that confirms a deeply profound sense of injustice. On the other side, he is running around milking ATMs. If this were a game show, the buzzer would have sounded: wrong answer. So which is the real Mr. Harold Caulfield? And to what extent can we predict his schizophrenia, so apparent in these conflicting personalities within him? Will the real Harry Caulfield please stand up? Revenge-motivated killer, or greed-driven extortionist?” He had lost the chew while in the bathroom, for the lump below his nose was gone, and he inflated his cheeks and lips, using the cognac like mouthwash.
“Point number three: There’s method to this madness. It appears increasingly obvious that a grievous wrong was done to person or persons with whom Mr. Caulfield had strong emotional ties, and upon whom he was otherwise financially and emotionally dependent. He appears to have a personal agenda to which he is committed, and I must say from past experience that we should prepare ourselves for the unexpected. Nothing that we can imagine for Mr. Caulfield is out of the question. Kill a hundred? Why not? A thousand? Same answer. Caulfield believes he is justified in this, and that makes him especially dangerous. Drive a truck full of explosives into a barracks of marines? Why not? Blow up the World Trade Center? Same answer.” He reached for the phone, and ordered another. Without asking the lieutenant, he also ordered a Miller Lite, though he pronounced it as if it were a disease. He met eyes with each of them individually and said patronizingly, “Okay, time for Twenty Questions.”
Stunning them all, Shoswitz said, “Twenty minutes ago, when Captain Rankin heard of Mackensie’s murder, he ordered us to pull all Adler products from the shelves by six A.M
.. or the start of business tomorrow.”
Boldt felt the wind knocked out of him.
“Is this that bulldog I met? The one with the cheap suit and buzz cut?” Clements asked.
Boldt said, “Captain of Homicide.”
“If you are asking for a prediction of the effects on our Mr. Caulfield of such a decision, I can tell you this: He won’t like it. Pulling the Adler products will signal Caulfield that he has lost control of this-and control, after all, is what is and has been getting him high.” The man closed his eyes and his eyelids fluttered oddly, and he said softly, “Imagine the power he must feel! Dictating demands to a man of position like Owen Adler. Poisoning people with the medical community seemingly powerless to stop him. Withdrawing cash like it’s Christmas. That carries an awesome sense of power and control.” He opened his eyes, stood, and answered the door-before even Boldt with his keen sense of hearing heard any approach-and greeted the room service boy perfunctorily. A moment later he sat back down and began sloshing the liquor around his new fishbowl. “The loss of control, or even the perception of such a loss, will accelerate his timetable. He was unpredictable before; he is even less predictable now. I will chat-up your Captain Rankin.”
Boldt decided to reveal what he had mentioned to no one. He glanced at Daphne, then met eyes with Clements, and said, “Owen Adler will pull all the product if given half an excuse. He lobbied me to do just that and I dissuaded him.” Daphne looked horrified that she had not heard of this. “If he gets wind of Rankin’s request, he’ll bypass any of our concerns and get out. He wants out. He is staying with the game plan only because he fears making the wrong decision himself, and I convinced him that to go against the demands was the wrong decision.”
“By ‘get out,’ I presume this to mean pull the product, not conform with the ultimate demand and commit suicide.”
“That’s right,” Boldt agreed. “The killings have weakened him. He feels directly responsible.”
“Which is exactly as our Mr. Caulfield intends. Interesting.”
“What I’m hearing,” Shoswitz said, “is that if Rankin bypasses us and gets to Adler, we’re going to lose this anyway.”
Clements said, “I have little doubt that the intelligent thing to do is to keep as many Adler products on the shelf as possible. We would also like to keep the news media at bay for as long as possible, though we may have lost that battle. The point being-as I think Sergeant Boldt will concur-with these ATM withdrawals, we have our first real chance to trap our Mr. Caulfield.”
“And we are making some progress there, I think,” Boldt interjected. He told them about the limited success of the time-trap software.
“So I suggest we advise your public information department to issue a series of no-comments, and that we staple down the tongues of anyone associated with this investigation. If there are no sources, there is no story; it is that simple. This should include our friends at State Health, this infectious diseases lab,” he said to Boldt, and turning to Shoswitz: “And anyone within your division who may be privy to this.” He sipped the drink. “I will work a little while longer here, and by morning I will hopefully be armed with enough of a profile to convince our Captain Rankin of his ineptitude, and the certainty of his own fall from grace should his orders be carried out. Seeing you work as a unit, I believe in you-in all of you-and I must confess to you now that my secondary role in coming here was to act as a kind of spy, if you will, in assessing your abilities to handle this investigation. I hope you will be pleased to know that my initial report and subsequent follow-ups have been glowing, and they will continue to be. But I should warn you that there are those looking over your shoulders, and they will pounce if given half a chance.” Clements sipped more of the Cognac.
“What about Special Agents?” Boldt asked, spotting an opportunity. He addressed Shoswitz: “What if we requested the Bureau’s assistance with the ATM surveillance? Fifty or even a hundred Special Agents to place in the field? Equal partners, with us drawing on what is admittedly a formidable expertise in ransom situations. This allows them in on perhaps the most critical aspect of the investigation as it now stands, perhaps defusing any later attempts to take over the investigation completely and, at the same time, seems to satisfy a great need of our own, namely a shortage of field personnel.”
Shoswitz considered this.
Boldt said, “I don’t mean to put you on the spot-”
“No, it’s not that,” Shoswitz allowed.
“Perhaps something to give some consideration to,” Clements said genially. “No hurry. Sleep on it.” Boldt sensed immediately that Clements approved of the suggestion and that it might help his own position in walking a line between the two agencies.
“I like it,” Shoswitz admitted. “My only real concern,” he directed to Clements, “is that if we let them in a little, do we give it up completely somewhere down the road? This is our town, our citizens, our investigation. We have our own political concerns. The Bureau has two faces: one is cooperation, one is complete control. Surrendering control of this investigation would not go over well, and is not what we want.”
“I understand. It is one reason I like Sergeant Boldt’s suggestion. Working as equals on the surveillance-and I’m sure that can be arranged, might indeed fend off any …”-he searched for his words-“hostile takeover.” He added, “I can explore such a relationship, if you like.”
Shoswitz thought a long time, checking with Boldt repeatedly by firing off hot glances in his direction. “If we catch him at an ATM, we all win,” Shoswitz said. It was his way of giving his approval.
On their way down in the elevator together, Daphne and Boldt agreed to meet on her houseboat for a recap. It was not very far out of the way for Boldt, and he wondered if she wanted someone to escort her inside and make sure the place was empty, and so he agreed. At one-thirty in the morning, she made a pot of herbal tea and poured them each a mugful.
She began in a tone of voice that placed Boldt on attention. “I completed my affidavit, Striker obtained a warrant, and we made an inquiry with Norwest National to obtain the checking records for New Leaf Foods.” Norwest National was Liz’s bank, renamed after a string of acquisitions, and this was certainly not lost on Daphne, he thought. “I want to see what checks were being written on and around the date of the altering of that State Health report, because I firmly believe someone was paid off, and maybe there’s a paper trail.”
“I have no objection to that. But my focus remains on Caulfield.”
“It’s not that,” she interrupted him. “The bank told me that they had already cooperated with us, had already turned over that information to us with no warrants involved. They complained at having to do so again.”
“Not me,” Boldt admitted.
“Obviously not me,” she agreed.
“Danielson,” Boldt said, guessing. “How is it that Caulfield manages to always be where our ATM surveillance teams are not?”
“Danielson is in bed with him?”
“Do I believe it? No. Can I rule it out? Also, no. Providing he’s not criminal, what would motivate Chris?”
“Money?”
Boldt nodded. “An offer from the tabloids, TV, a book deal, a movie deal-there are a lot of temptations out there for a cop these days. Different than when I was coming up.”
“Chris, sell out? He’s the department’s number one overachiever.”
Boldt hesitated before dropping his bomb, feeding Daphne’s earlier suspicions. “What if Taplin was paying him for inside information? What if Taplin had promised him Fowler’s job if Danielson could settle this affair without the publicity certain to surround a police arrest?”
“Which one of us is the psychologist?” she asked nervously.
“Do you like it?”
“I can see it, if that’s what you’re asking. Yes, it’s possible. It explains a hell of a lot of what’s been going on, and it fits with Taplin’s defensive position. Taplin’s name is in and aro
und all of the communication on the New Leaf contamination. You want to look for someone with a lot to lose if Caulfield blew the whistle on State Health, Howard Taplin tops the list. We need Caulfield for more than these murders,” she suggested.
“We need Caulfield, period,” Boldt said.
TWENTY-NINE
I READ ABOUT THE TWO BOYS YOU KILLED.
AND YOUR FRIENDS WITH GUNS
SHOULD NOT WANDER THE WOODS.
YOU JUST WON’T LISTEN, WILL YOU?
I MEANT WHAT I TOLD YOU-YOU WILL PAY.
SOONER THAN LATER.
AND MORE WILL DIE UNTIL YOU DO.
MANY MORE.
Two newspaper articles were included at the bottom of the fax-one about the boys, and one, the mysterious murder in Golden Gardens Park. Technical Services informed Boldt that the articles had been scanned into a computer and pasted into the fax, which had been transmitted electronically from a pay phone on a side street near the King-dome. This was all supposed to mean something to Boldt, but it did not. His entire interest lay with the words at the top of this page, and the implication that Clements was right: Harry Caulfield was running out of patience. Time was almost up.
Like water seeking its own level, Boldt sought out the evidence, calling Bernie Lofgrin and complaining to him about the delay in the FBI report on the Longview Farms evidence. Lofgrin suggested he lodge the complaint with Clements; Boldt did so, and Clements promised to do what he could.
For his part, Clements believed he had convinced Captain Rankin to rescind the Adler recall that he had threatened, though the psychiatrist admitted to Boldt that Rankin was “a difficult bastard to read.”
There was a lot of talk and little action. Public Information called repeatedly, frustrated by a press corps that sensed a much bigger story than two boys dying in a tree house. Boldt issued a string of denials and no-comments but could see the inevitable coming. The story was going to break, and when it did there would be a recall. According to Clements, if anything was certain to push Caulfield into following through on his threat of mass murder, it was this combination of events.
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