Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

Dr. Sandra Babcock could have modeled in a blue jean ad, and proved to be much younger than what Boldt had expected of a tenured professor of archaeology. Mid-thirties at best, she had a clear complexion, soft green eyes, and a slurry, southern way of speaking. She had a playful sparkle to her eyes and the distracting habit of rolling a mechanical pencil between the fingers of her right hand like a majorette with a baton.

If her office reflected her thought patterns, then they’d get along fine. Neat and tidy, not a paper clip out of place. Two discarded yogurt containers in the trash-nonfat strawberry. He noted that she’d saved the plastic spoon, as it stood out amid a group of pens and pencils in a Weekend Edition coffee mug. But for all the organization, the pretension that accompanied the director of any university department, Dr. Sandra Babcock churned inside, as her fingernails were gnawed to the quick. He appreciated knowing that in advance. Birds of a feather, he thought.

They killed a few minutes in social discourse. Boldt lectured regularly for the criminology courses at the U and Babcock had done her homework. They got through the do-you-knows and have-you-mets without too many overlaps. After a few tentative silences between them, Boldt saw clear to open up the conversation to the purpose of his visit.

He said, “Day before last I interviewed a pair of EMTs. Either they lied to me, or there’s an explanation for events that I’m missing. As I explained over the phone, Dr. Babcock, I need the Cliffs Notes on this city’s Underground and, if possible, access-I need to get under that section of Third Avenue, and the city won’t let me down in.”

“EMTs?”

“They claimed they had not attempted resuscitation on a man who I believe died later than what they put down in their report.

It’s not them I’m after. I just want the right answers.”

“Where exactly on Third?”

“Between Cherry and Columbia.”

She glanced up to a large wall map of downtown Seattle that was nothing like what he’d ever seen-instead of city blocks, a good deal of downtown was represented as excavated walls and floor plans.

Boldt said, “I have only a vague notion of the city’s Underground. A couple of blocks around Pioneer Square. The fire in the late 1800s, the tidal floods, and the decision to elevate the shoreline of the city. But according to these EMTs, they encountered what they believe was Underground clear up on Cherry and Third.”

A few strands of hair broke loose from behind her ear and cascaded into her eyes. She brushed them aside. “Twenty-two city blocks were buried when they filled in the flats a hundred years ago. Retaining walls were built surrounding the old ground level, and then the streets backfilled to elevate them some twenty feet higher. It took over a decade to complete. The Underground tour accounts for only three city blocks. Plenty of other sections of the Underground still exist, most sealed off and awaiting us like time capsules. For the most part, they’re on private property, they’re dangerous, and though we’re constantly trying to gain access in order to inventory and photograph, fears of lawsuits and insurance coverage discourage cooperation. From the early 1920s on, city utilities were run along the old underground sidewalks, the perimeter area between these retaining walls and the brick walls of the old buildings down there. When I read about the sinkhole, I’d hoped the city engineers would allow us access.

But the needs of archaeology took a backseat to getting traffic running again and the complication of much of this being private property. On the other hand, if you could get me-this department-access, you’d be doing the history books a favor. I’d be happy to tell you what you’re looking at.”

“I was hoping this might work out the other way around.”

“I’m afraid not. The city flat-out turned down my request.

But a police lieutenant? Can’t you gain access, even to private property, if you want?”

She’d clearly granted him the interview because she saw Boldt as her ticket into the Underground.

“It doesn’t work like that.” He said this, but his mind ground through the possibilities. Dixon’s confused autopsy might provide enough unknowns to win Boldt the necessary paperwork.

Babcock teased him into wanting this with her explanation.

“As the city streets were filled in, to lift them above the flood levels, people moved block to block by climbing ladders, crossing the new streets still under construction, and then back down a ladder to another block. It went on this way for years.

Eventually, the retail stores moved up to the new street level, but the old storefronts still existed.

“They’re still down there,” she continued. “What used to be Main Street is now underground. I imagine that’s what your EMTs found themselves in: stores and shops and sidewalks that haven’t been touched for over a hundred years. You’re the one with the ruby slippers, Lieutenant.”

Giving in to her urging, he said, “I’ll need the name of the owners.”

“I can get that for you. No problem.”

“It’s to be treated as a crime scene first, an archaeology dig second, if at all.”

“I can live with that.” She extended her hand for him to shake. “I’ll leave the decision to you.”

Boldt accepted her handshake, though somewhat reluctantly.

He had the feeling he’d walked into a trap.

Babcock had the callused hands of a farmer or field-worker.

She said, “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Matthews considered the evidentiary hearing-a probable cause, or preliminary hearing-a formality. She’d attended only two such hearings in her decade of service, and then solely because she’d been called as a witness. When LaMoia informed her that he’d included “some of her paperwork” in his report to the prosecuting attorney’s office, and that because of this she was advised to attend the hearing, she lost her temper, admonishing him for submitting a report that was little more than “notes on a napkin.”

She arrived at courtroom 3D like a plane coming in too fast for a landing, tires smoking and wing lights flashing.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said to LaMoia, where they sat three rows behind the prosecutor’s table.

LaMoia held his finger to his lips, requesting she lower her voice. The hearing was not yet in session, but the prosecutor, a stump-faced woman named Mahoney, sat within earshot.

He said, “We do what we do.” His only explanation.

“I scribbled out a memo to you, John. That was not a psych evaluation.”

“It is now.”

“No, it isn’t. That’s just the point.”

“We both want Neal for this, Matthews. I included the memo because it supports his frame of mind at the time of his statement, which was when he lied about the window of time. It’s that false statement that Mahoney’s hanging our case on for the time being. Let’s not forget that. The blood on the sweatshirt came back Mary-Ann Walker’s, yes. But hell if Mahoney is going to put Ferrell Walker up on the stand to tell us all where he got that sweatshirt-”

“From behind a Dumpster in the back alley,” she said.

“Within a few yards of the same vehicle we know ran her over.

That works, John.”

“But it brings Walker onto the stand for possible questioning.

It opens up the threat on Neal’s life at Dixie’s and a personal thing between them. That’ll not only invalidate the sweatshirt but confuse the judge and leave room for reasonable doubt. We gotta trust Mahoney on this. She knows what she’s doing. She wanted the psych report.”

“It wasn’t a psych report. You think the PD won’t know that?”