“Tell me about it.”
“You nervous?” LaMoia asked, his concentration fully on his work. “There’s nothing quite like an operation, you think? But I never really recover. It’s like putting too much postage on a letter, you know? You can never get it back.” He added, “Your postman ever return any money to you?”
He reminded Boldt of Liz’s mother, who tended to rattle on when she became nervous or anxious, switching subjects randomly and somehow stringing them all together.
Boldt checked the roof. The sharpshooter had his hand inside the roll of tar paper. One of the two pool cleaners was scrubbing the steps of the high dive, making sure he had an elevated vantage point in case he had the only shot. All cogs of the same wheel. It rolled slowly toward Harold Caulfield.
“Boats are two minutes out,” Dispatch reported into Boldt’s ear. Then, after a spit of static, “Suspect vehicle is rolling.” Calmly, he stated: “All stations, suspect is rolling. Good luck, everyone.” SPD dispatchers rarely added such editorials, but Boldt was glad to have it.
The dispatcher traced the route of Caulfield’s Monty-mobile as it passed under the first of the phone crews. “We have confirmation of vehicle registration.”
“We’re on,” Boldt told LaMoia.
“Show time,” said the detective. “Don’t forget to smile.”
Boldt heard the first sailboat thump against the float, and then the shrieks of excited, childish laughter. One of the parents passed by on the way down the dock, but rubbernecked the two cops, and Boldt realized she was looking at LaMoia’s cowboy boots and probably wondering what a guy wearing a gorgeous pair of ostrich boots was doing digging a hole at her club. But she didn’t say anything. She ran her hand along the rail, though she walked more slowly, apprehensively, and looked back one more time, her face still caught in curiosity.
Too many civilians, Boldt thought, tempted to abort. Tempted to let it be Penny Smyth’s problem: Arrest now, figure out the charges later.
“Don’t do it, Sarge,” LaMoia said, reading his thoughts. “We’ve got this bastard. Five minutes and it’s all over.”
The inevitable question came into his ear; it was the voice of Phil Shoswitz. “Decision time. He’s thirty seconds out.” Hesitation as he awaited Boldt’s signal to arrest now or play it out.
LaMoia stared at him.
The anxious mother, far down the dock, reached the arriving boats and grabbed hold of a line tossed to her. Other parents waited in the party area. Boldt caught Daphne’s eye, where he saw both worry and concern, yes-but determination as well.
Boldt considered a sentence of twenty years-out in six with good behavior.
LaMoia, serious now and sensing Boldt’s struggle, looked into the man’s eyes and said, “Slater Lowry.”
In the distance the jingle of cheap bells filled the air.
Boldt depressed the radio button hidden at his chest. “Go,” he said.
Dispatch said into his ear, “All stations: green light.” He repeated this and then added, “Suspect vehicle has arrived on-site.”
Boldt glanced up to check the sharpshooter: The man had changed positions, and now hid behind the chimney where it would be easier to steady a rifle barrel. It occurred to Boldt that in the next few minutes they might kill a man-might get several more killed if they were not careful. For what? To appease the legal process?
The clanging bells grew louder, followed by the sound of a rough motor. Adler shouted not to run on the docks as a group of seven children sprinted toward Boldt and LaMoia.
Boldt recognized Corky from Daphne’s description: third back in the pack. Bright-eyed and innocent. After today, regardless of the outcome, her life would be changed; in and of itself, a crime against persons.
The ice-cream truck, bells clanging noisily, came to a stop not fifteen yards from Boldt. The sergeant swung his head casually. The driver wore a clown’s face, a bulb nose, and a yellow wig. He was dressed in a baggy jumpsuit of red, yellow, and blue. He reached to his mouth, withdrew a toothpick from his lips, and tossed at the ashtray. For Boldt, this confirmed it: It was Harry Caulfield.
Boldt felt hotter than just moments earlier: body chemicals. He could not allow himself to stare, and so he looked back at the black hole that LaMoia had dug, and the similarity to a child’s grave was impossible to mistake. He took his first and only stab with the shovel and spilled a mound of dirt back into the hole like a widow at a funeral. He touched his breast pocket, LaMoia looking on nervously, and said for the benefit of the microphone: “Suspect confirmed.” He heard the dispatcher repeating this as he plucked the earpiece from his ear and stuffed it down inside his collar, out of sight-out of contact now. Isolated.
The plan called for he and LaMoia to make the front of the line-to beat the kids to the truck and hence maintain their position closer to the parking lot than to the dock or the party area. Boldt took two steps toward the ice-cream truck and casually shouted over his shoulder loudly enough for the driver to hear, “What kind you want?”
“Get me an orange and vanilla,” LaMoia answered loudly, delivering his one line just as he had been told.
Boldt quickened his step, sensing the approaching children coming up on him rapidly from behind. Everything felt sharp and crisp, and suddenly the sunlight seemed overpowering-blindingly bright. To his left, the cop on the high dive adjusted his position. To his right, high on the ridge of the roof, the sharpshooter could no longer be seen, but Boldt could imagine the black eye of the barrel looking down on him.
If Boldt pressed the switch hidden on his chest and uttered the words Take him, then Caulfield was a dead man-his sentence decided right here and now. The power of that possibility did not escape him. He was judge, jury, and executioner. Ironically, arrest was all that could save the man now.
In this moment of consideration, he moved too slowly. Two of the frantic children scampered past him and cut in line, beating him to the ice-cream truck. This was not the way they had planned it, and though his fallback position had been to take Caulfield before any sale of ice cream, that too was now no simple matter, given the two children-hostages-easily within his reach.
The safety release was Diana and her three shepherds. Boldt glanced over at her, seeing she was in position, just behind the ice-cream truck, kneeling and talking to her dogs: stalling.
Boldt could not make a play for Caulfield until these two kids were out of the way.
The first child in line ordered a Big Dipper with nuts, and Caulfield, looking uncomfortable and acting slightly awkward, moved to the side of the truck and checked two of the small doors before coming out with the order. “None with nuts,” he said, handing the girl the ice cream. “I’m all out.” She took it anyway and immediately handed Caulfield two dollar bills. Boldt recognized fear as it darkened the suspect’s eyes: with all this preparation, he had neglected to bring change. He stuttered, “Ahh-I-,” glanced into Boldt’s eyes, and hurried back into the truck. He came out with change and handed the girl some coins. He looked into Boldt’s eyes again-calmly-and Boldt thought that Caulfield somehow knew.
The second child in line ordered a Red Bar-frozen fruit juice on a stick-and it occurred to Boldt that as he stood here waiting in line, every Montclair frozen ice-cream product in a three-state region was being pulled from the shelves-every truck emptied and the product destroyed. If Caulfield had laid bigger plans, hopefully they had shut these down.
“Change?” the man was asking Boldt. “Any change?” Caulfield repeated. Boldt had been caught up in thought. “Any quarters?”
The coveralls allowed a snapped slit to access the pants he wore underneath, and Boldt reached into his pocket and found five quarters and several dimes. He extended his open palm to Caulfield, who thanked him, and picked his way through a dollar in change, exchanging it for a dollar bill.
He thanked me. I just helped him, Boldt thought. He stuffed Caulfield’s dollar back into his pants, but it required of him an amazing amount of concentration
and effort for so simple a task.
The girl with the Red Bar slipped out of line, and Lou Boldt stood facing Harry Caulfield.
“Help you?” the clown asked.
“An orange one with vanilla, and a Big Dipper, please.” He was saying “please” to a murderer; it seemed inconceivable to him.
Caulfield checked two doors. The white vapor of the dry ice escaped, briefly concealing him inside a cloud. “An Orange-Up and a Big Dipper?” he confirmed.
“That’s right.”
Boldt heard the tearing of paper. The two kids were not waiting: They were ripping into their treats. He glanced hotly at Diana, and she released the trained dogs, who immediately bounded across the pavement and leapt at the girls, knocking them down and stealing their ice-cream bars. The panicked screams and piercing cries of the two girls cut Boldt to his core. Diana plunged into the fray, confirming that the ice creams were not in their possession, and then called off her dogs, making apologies. She reprimanded both dogs severely, all the while petting them-a trainer’s game. As if on cue, Daphne and another of the fake caterers rushed to help the girls.
His backup was in place.
Boldt, pretending to be absorbed in the drama, kept one eye cautiously on Caulfield, who handled the disturbance quite well. And then Caulfield’s head snapped and Boldt followed his line of sight: Inexplicably, the third of the shepherds was gobbling down one of the ice creams. It had sneaked in behind its trainer as she collared and controlled the other two dogs. Seeing this, Caulfield seemed to panic.
Boldt tried to catch Diana’s eye, but it was too late. Snap, snap-the Big Dipper was gone.
“Two-ninety,” Caulfield said.
Boldt had not thought this out, had not figured on having to hold the two ice creams in one hand while searching for money in his pocket. This left him with no hand free for his weapon. As he rummaged back into his pocket and found several dollars, Corky Adler jumped line in front of him and demanded a Sno-Foam Fudge Bar. At this same moment, Owen Adler, right behind his daughter, looked first into Boldt’s face, then Daphne’s, and actually staggered as he realized what he had walked into. He straightened himself up, and in a moment of quick thinking said, “Corky, let’s wait for the cake!”
At the sight of Adler, Harry Caulfield was unable to move. The air charged with hatred. Corky, oblivious to it, said to the clown, “It’s my birthday, I can do what I want. Right, Monty?”
Boldt handed Caulfield the money, which snapped the man’s momentary lapse. If he could just get Corky out from in front of him, it was over. His hand, free of the money, was now touching the stock of the handgun. Move, Corky. “Better listen to your father,” Boldt said, trying to nudge her.
“Stop it!” she said precociously, holding her ground.
Move! He tried again.
“Quit it!”
“All out of Sno-Foam,” Caulfield apologized to the girl, focusing on her briefly, moving to the freezer door closest to him. “But how ’bout a Big Dipper?” he asked. “Monty thought the birthday girl loved Big Dippers.”
Adler stammered.
Daphne stepped forward, alongside Boldt, a face of cold stone. She took Corky’s left arm, “Listen to your father, Corky.”
“You made it!” a delighted Corky said. “Oh please. Oh please, Daffy!”
The other kids pressed in against Boldt, eager to be next in line. It was too crowded. It was all wrong. They could not take Caulfield with Corky where she was, and they could not allow this man to sell anything more.
Caulfield was distracted, and Boldt followed to see one of the shepherds whining and circling erratically, Diana consoling him. Boldt understood then that all of the ice cream was poisoned, not just selected pieces intended for Adler or his daughter. Another check of Diana’s charge confirmed it. The dog stumbled and went down onto its front legs in a praying position. He collapsed twice and pulled clumsily back to his feet, wanting to perform for his trainer. But it was no use-he was dying.
Boldt turned in time to see Caulfield leaning toward Corky with the Big Dipper.
The little girl accepted the ice-cream cone and tore at the wrapper.
“No, Corky!” Adler exclaimed, but not in the voice of a father worried about spoiling an appetite.
Caulfield reacted instantly, by reaching out for Corky-wanting a hostage. “Motherfucker,” Caulfield muttered, looking at Adler.
Boldt went for his gun, but it hung up in the coveralls.
Caulfield took hold of the child. Daphne’s purse came at his face like a wrecking ball, and as it connected, she yanked Corky away, threw her down onto the pavement, and covered her.
The children behind Boldt screamed.
Boldt charged the man. Caulfield went up hard against the side of the truck, and Boldt felt a knee implode into his gut, the wind knocked out of him. His head swirled as he heard more screams from behind him-screams of children-and the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn from holsters as the voice of John LaMoia hollered, “Hold your fire!” Boldt was going down to the pavement in slow motion as LaMoia appeared in his peripheral vision, diving through the air.
He saw Sheriff Turner Bramm’s shotgun then: It had been sawed off, the metal a fresh silver on the end of the barrels, and must have come from inside one of the freezers.
“Down!” he heard shouted in the midst of the pandemonium.
“Drop it!” came a stern voice from behind.
LaMoia dove at Owen Adler and carried him down hard to the pavement.
Boldt, still falling toward the pavement in an indescribable slow motion, touched the chest of the coveralls and said, “Take him.”
He heard a dull pop-like hands clapping together-and the side of the truck sprayed with Caulfield’s blood. It was a shoulder shot, and though Caulfield’s eyes rocked in his sockets and seemed to acknowledge the hit, the sawed-off never faltered for a moment. Mechanically, he pumped the weapon. Boldt, in midair, kicked out hard and caught the toe of his shoe under Caulfield’s kneecap. Caulfield twisted and screamed.
The sawed-off blew the mirror off the truck and sprayed the front windshield into powder.
Two of Boldt’s people swarmed on top of Caulfield.
Boldt’s head slammed into the pavement and the lights went out. He heard the words, “Paramedics! He’s hit!” “Get these kids out of here!” Coming back, Boldt pulled himself up to sitting. Caulfield was buried under a pile of police. A pair of handcuffs sparkled in the afternoon sun as they disappeared into that pile. The Miranda was being spoken.
A moment later the pile parted slightly, revealing a clown without his nose and wig-just bright red cheeks and eyes filled with hatred. His shoulder was bleeding badly.
Daphne was hugging Corky and stroking her hair. Boldt could not see LaMoia or Adler.
But he did see Diana. She was weeping, her shepherd down and still. She held to it as a mother to a child.
Boldt’s heart tore in two. Too close. Too big a risk. And yet the joy of triumph as well. The Tim Man was in handcuffs, his glassy eyes fixed rigidly on a point beyond Boldt, fixed on a man whose voice rose above all others as he called out joyously for his daughter.
THIRTY-SEVEN
While surgeons at Harborview Medical Clinic stitched up Caulfield’s left shoulder, Boldt and six others went through several hours of debriefing. The Scientific Identification Division’s second-floor lab, under the direction of Bernie Lofgrin, began testing each and every one of the sixty-one ice-cream products recovered from the freezer van.
Despite the fatigue of everyone involved, there was an ebullient bounce in the step of all those who walked the fifth floor. A press conference, scheduled so that footage could be included in the eleven o’clock news, was held in a conference room at the Westin, with over eighty journalists and news crew personnel in attendance. Captain Rankin, the police chief, and the mayor fielded questions, assuring the public that “this terrible man” had been apprehended, that a “nightmare of carnage had been avoided,”
and that Seattle’s supermarkets were safe once again.
Bobbie Gaynes, John LaMoia, Freddie Guccianno, and dozens of others involved in the incident were given a six-hour break to go home and sleep. Some of them took it, some did not.
The emergency surgery took forty-five minutes, finishing up a few minutes before six o’clock. The chief surgeon allowed Boldt and one other detective to interrogate the suspect if the interrogation was kept to thirty minutes or less. Boldt pressed for and won a concession that the interrogation could involve three, possibly four people. A second, more involved session was tentatively approved for the next morning. Although Caulfield had already waived his right to an attorney, by morning a public defender would be assigned and the case would fall into the hands of the attorneys. With black holes, everything was done to the letter.
At ten-thirty that night, armed with a cassette tape recorder and a large tea, Boldt stood outside Caulfield’s hospital room alongside two SPD patrolmen who stood guard. They were accompanied by Dr. Richard Clements and deputy prosecuting attorney Penny Smyth.
Boldt wanted nothing less than a full confession. They had attempted murder, they had enough circumstantial evidence to fill a courthouse, but a confession would finish things nicely. Clements wanted “a peek into that mind.” Smyth wanted to make sure they conducted the interrogation properly.
“Before we go in,” Clements said, stopping them, “his world has ended, and he knows it. He continues to blame Adler-not us, you will find-for everything. And that is extremely important, because it offers us a way to the truth. He will surrender the truth without meaning to. The more he tries to hide it, the more we can get from him. I see your confusion. You will understand as we proceed.” He pushed open the door, and they entered the room.
Caulfield was awake, lying in bed, his head rocked up on a pillow, his eyes alert and sparking darkly with anger. The room, stripped down to the bare necessities, smelled of alcohol and disinfectant. The surgery had involved only local anesthesia, which meant medication would not interfere with or negate the results of the interrogation.
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