Boldt 03 - No Witnesses (43 page)

He bent down and petted it, and fought back a seething anger.

Dr. Richard Clements commandeered Shoswitz’s office. Daphne Matthews was there, as were Boldt and the lieutenant. Clements said to Boldt, “You are focusing on these truck farmers. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“That is
not
right.”

“We’ve pulled every watermel—”

“Schmater-melon. Blah! He no longer cares about claiming authorship. It is ending. He is leading you astray, Sergeant. You mustn’t be misled. I saw your work in the situation room. Stick with that—the paint, the colors, the
evidence
. This watermelon is a ruse, intended to mislead the hunt. He is the fox, let us not forget, and you are the hound,” he said to Boldt, “and we must remember that the only way the fox ever wins the chase is not to outrun his pursuers, but to deceive them.”

Shoswitz huffed audibly, losing patience with Clements. His agitation surfaced as small tics to the shoulders and the eyes, so that he looked like a marionette whose strings were tangled. Boldt feared he might say something to offend the doctor, and realizing the value of Clements, quirky or not, Boldt headed off any such confrontation between the two by speaking first.

“He could kill hundreds by poisoning produce.”

“He doesn’t desire to kill hundreds. What did he say on the phone?” he asked Daphne.

“That Owen had killed the ones he loved.”

“He wants to kill Adler. My diagnosis is that his schizophrenia has progressed to a point that whatever voice may once have vied for such a grand scheme has since been overpowered by the drive for vengeance, a far greater motivation. As Caulfield perceives it, Owen Adler owes him several long years of his life. How many have read this?” He waved a group of papers in the air, impossible to see. He explained, “It is his defense of his innocence subsequent to the trial. A thoughtful, powerful,
convincing
piece of writing. I for one believe him. He claims to have been the victim of a frame—that the drugs were not his. He supported this by an offer of proof that not one blood test administered to him had tested positive for cocaine use. He points to the police lab tests that failed to find any trace evidence
whatsoever
of the drug in his home or automobile. In his third year of medium detention, he wrote this most extraordinary appeal, but because of the state’s minimum sentencing failed to be granted parole or a retrial. It is my judgment that a schism developed within him, driven perhaps by a valid injustice, as we now understand his situation. His more logical half advised him to follow the system; his disturbed half revolted, rejecting any such alliance with the very forces that had led to his demise. The latter half has gained control now, I am suggesting. But there is a cunning, logical, intelligent mind at work here, and one that has been alerted to the substantial powers and abilities of his adversary. It’s all over the news. He knows the clock is running. He knows what he is up against, and he has little conscious desire to be a martyr and be caught, regardless of the efforts of the subconscious.”

“So he tricks us,” Daphne said, following the reasoning.

“Exactly. He poisons a single melon. Off go the hounds chasing the melons, following the wrong scent, while all the while the fox has doubled back and is raiding the chicken house.”

Shoswitz protested, “But we don’t
know
it was only the one melon.”

“Sure we do,” Clements countered. “We’ve not had one other report. Correct? Not one other incident. And if he intended to kill hundreds using melons, this would hardly be the case.” He giggled. “Don’t you see how
obvious
he’s being about this?”

The lieutenant bristled with the giddy pleasure Clements was taking in all of this. Any homicide cop felt the pain and suffering of the victims and their relatives—no matter how callous to the crime scenes he or she became, no matter how quick the one-liners, and how easy it was to move on to another case. The tragedy of the Crowley family had deeply affected everyone on the fifth floor, and in this way Clements was clearly a visitor.

“I’m saying it’s Adler he wants. Do not be fooled by his cleverness. He will deceive you at every opportunity. I warned you of this before: You cannot put yourself in this man’s mind. But
I
can, gentlemen.” He acknowledged Matthews and smiled. “I can.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Boldt entered NetLinQ’s “war room” on Sunday night, losing faith that the ATMs might ever be used to trap Caulfield. For too many nights now he had sat in a chair and stared at the electronic map projected onto the huge screen. For too many nights he had gone home with nothing more than a headache.

Special Agent Sheila Locke was about twenty-six years old, with short brown hair, a thin pale face, and enormous eyes. She wore a blue blazer that hid her figure, and a wireless headset that covered her right ear and a foam-covered microphone that hid her generous mouth. Using the newly added FBI communications, Locke and another agent, whom Boldt knew only as Billy, were in constant touch with the nearly seventy-five men and women watching ATMs in King County. Although Boldt’s tiny squad of eleven was keeping tabs on downtown ATMs, the FBI special agents and King County undercover officers had been deployed in the outlying regions, including Kirkland-Bellevue and SEATAC-Renton.

Ted Perch was chatting up Lucille Guillard, who monitored a computer terminal allowing her personal control of all Pac-West ATMs. She would also get a real-time look at the extortionist’s account balance so that if a hit slipped through the screening software again, they would at least see a balance change indicating a hit.

Over seventeen hundred ATMs under NetLinQ’s control were now subject to the time-trap software. In the past forty-eight hours, the system had not crashed once. Publicly, the delay was still being attributed to maintenance.

The electronic wall map was peppered with different-colored dots: Red represented cash machines not under direct surveillance, of which there seemed to be hundreds. Green, considerably fewer, depicted the ATMs under covert surveillance. No ATM had been hit twice, and the amber dots represented the machines previously hit.

It was indeed a remarkable display of technology, he realized, though it did little to buoy his mood. NetLinQ’s two other enormous screens, part of the switching station’s regular command center, displayed ATM traffic as blinking orange-and-green lines. These colorful lines shot across the maps like arrows, reaching hubs that represented banks’ mainframes, changed color, and traveled on. There were six people from NetLinQ tracking these screens, though they were generally disregarded by the law enforcement visitors.

“Ready, Billy?” Locke asked the male dispatcher after several minutes of relative silence. Billy rolled his chair forward to a computer terminal that was positioned central to the wall maps. He adjusted his headset and tested it twice. He typed into the keyboard, checking his monitor and the maps, and spoke in a soft, even monotone: “Check seventeen.” He listened, typed again, and said into the headset, “Check forty-six.” Again. “Check sixty.” He did this for several minutes before giving a nod to Locke.

Dispatchers, Boldt thought, were a different life-form. They needed nerves of steel and a steady monotone voice to go with them. In the middle of the most complex, chaotic, life-threatening emergency, they were paid to keep calm and direct human beings and vehicles as if they were chess pieces.

Twenty minutes of silence followed, punctuated only by the clicking of computer keys. Boldt had nodded off when he was pulled awake by the sound of a human voice.

“We have a hit! Three seconds and counting.”

Where once this announcement had brought excitement, now it brought only frustration.

On the display a bright white light flashed in Earlington, indicating the hit. A digital display ran in the upper right-hand corner, counting off the passing seconds of the active ATM transaction.

Billy dispatched two of the field agents, directing one to the north of the hit, and the other directly to the ATM. Not surprisingly, given the odds, this ATM was not under direct surveillance.

Guillard called out: “It’s not ours.”

Perch shouted, “Ten seconds elapsed.” He hawked instructions at an assistant who worked furiously at the keyboard. “Twenty seconds.”

To Billy, Perch said, “Where the hell are your people?”

The dispatcher, maintaining his calm, did not reply.

Boldt watched as Perch’s assistant shook his head and announced, “Transaction complete.”

Boldt said, “We need more time,” and cued Billy to rush the surveillance teams. A volley of calm instructions followed. Billy informed Boldt, “Surveillance nine is closing. Also fourteen.”

Perch, Guillard, and Boldt all fixed their attention on the two dispatchers, motionlessly, silently. Cars racing down streets. Caulfield calmly walking away.

Billy finally looked up. “Surveillance reports no visual contact. The ATM is empty.”

Perch slammed the desk violently. “I’m increasing the window of time.” He added, “The system had better hold together.”

The room settled into an uncomfortable but workmanlike atmosphere. For the next thirty minutes Boldt checked his watch frequently, glancing between Billy and the overhead screen.

For NetLinQ, it was business as usual. The rows of technicians monitored the endless transfer of money as hundreds of transactions representing thousands of dollars raced through the NetLinQ computers.

At five minutes to nine, Guillard announced excitedly, “We have a second hit. I’m pushing the time delay to thirty-five seconds. Objections?” She had independent control of the time-trap software for her bank’s ATMs.

Perch sounded apoplectic as he questioned the wisdom of such a long WOT. “Thirty-five seconds?”

Boldt glanced at him hotly.

Perch said, “Fuck it. Just do it!” he okayed.

Boldt stood to his feet as the screen changed to an enlargement of the Earlington area, showing all its streets. The small dots were now large circles with numbers inside them. Each surveillance agent carried a Global Positioning System transmitter, relaying back his or her exact real-time location, which the electronic map then displayed. A blue triangle bearing the number 6 moved steadily toward the yellow ATM on Southwest Seventh. Another blue dot numbered 4 moved north on highway 167, and another, under Billy’s monotone instructions, north on the 405.

“Authorization requested.”

Boldt could picture Caulfield at the ATM waiting for the cash. Would he notice the added time? Would he have heard the fabricated news stories that the entire Northwest system was experiencing delays due to maintenance operations?

“Authorization approved,” Perch called out, reading over Jimmy’s shoulders.

Twenty seconds
.

“Currency delivery in progress,” Guillard announced.

The time-trap software included a routine to slow the actual delivery of the bills. This was because Perch had explained that a customer can hear the machine counting out the cash, and he believed that once the suspect heard and recognized this sound, psychologically it would be much more difficult to walk away from the machine.

Thirty seconds
.

Billy said into his microphone, “I copy, six.” To Boldt he said calmly, “We have visual contact.” He handed Boldt a headset.

At that moment there were no sweeter words for Lou Boldt. Given all their efforts, this was the first time anyone had actually seen Caulfield. “Description?” Boldt asked.

He did not recognize the voice of field agent number 6. It belonged to one of the dozens of FBI agents who were now participating. He did not recognize the description of the suspect either, which was when his head felt faint and dizzy.

“Five foot seven or eight. Motorcycle helmet. Leather jacket.”

“Repeat height,” Boldt ordered. Harry Caulfield stood an even six feet.

“Five foot eight.”

“Sex?”

“Female.”

“Repeat.”

“Definitely female. I’m looking at her backside, don’t forget.”

Boldt recognized the description well enough: Lucille Guillard had shown him a photograph. Disappointed it was not Caulfield himself, he settled for the accomplice.

“Orders?” Boldt heard through the headphones.

He glanced around the room. All eyes were on him.

Billy asked calmly, “Instructions, Sergeant?”

He felt cheated. He sorted through his choices as the accomplice stood waiting for her cash, and the field agent stood waiting for instructions.

“Maintain visual,” Boldt said, though barely loud enough to be heard.

Perch jumped forward and complained, “But the software
worked!
You’ve
got
her!”

“Back off!” Boldt ordered the man. “Maintain visual,” he repeated calmly to Billy, feeling himself again, his eyes glued to the electronic map.

The dispatcher repeated the command with all the energy of ordering a tuna sandwich.

“How long to throw a net around it, Billy?” Boldt inquired. The plan all along had been for one or two surveillance personnel to make the bust. Patrol cars readied as backup, in case it went sour. But now, all that had changed.

Billy and Sheila Locke consulted several screens. Locke said, “Two minutes and we can have all the major routes in and out with a minimum of single-agent coverage. I can put the bird up if you want.” She checked a mileage chart. “Seven minutes and we’re there. That would give us backup support, although it’s a dark night out there tonight.”

“Do it. Tighten it up and close it down.” He ignored Perch, who hovered alongside. “Maintain visual surveillance only.”

“Right.”

“Transaction complete,” Guillard announced from her corner.

“What the hell are you doing?” Perch implored.

“I heard you the first time. Thank you,” Boldt said. He had other answers, all clichés: “My job.” “What they pay me to do.” But he held his tongue, wondering if a civilian could be made to understand the balance of risk and assets.

Billy deployed the agents to cover on-ramps and intersections, bus stops, bike routes, and running paths. Not taking his eyes off his work, he explained to Boldt, “If she goes too far south of town too quickly, I may lose her. We’re not set up for that.”