Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Boldt tried the tea. It was strong and to his liking despite the Styrofoam cup. “You’re about as strange as they come. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know it. So what?”

“So nothing,” Boldt replied. He returned to his tea. Lofgrin smoked the thing like it was his last on earth.

“You got lucky,” the man said, exhaling a cloud. “If you could call it that.”

“Extremely,” Boldt replied. “A little bit this way or that and I’m responsible for a screwup.”

“Learn anything?” Lofgrin asked him.

He couldn’t tell if the man was serious or not. As a civilian, Lofgrin operated under a different set of rules than sworn officers. Boldt replied, “Only that I’m not looking forward to turning fifty.” He finished the tea as Lofgrin laughed through his smoke and coughed until he had tears in his eyes. They returned inside together.

“Lou, you can come on up,” Lofgrin told him forty minutes later. The sky was lighter in the east. A few birds made song in anticipation of dawn.

The second story contained old furniture, worn carpeting and tired wallpaper. There were two bedrooms, a bath and a linen closet. The rear-facing bedroom had been used as a sewing room and faced a slowly rising hill that offered a view of dozens of other homes. At four-thirty in the morning these homes were dark, streetlights etching their outlines in the fog.

Boldt heard heavy footsteps approaching and knew immediately that they belonged to LaMoia’s ostrich boots. John stopped at the doorway and leaned against the jamb. Boldt was on his hands and knees engaged in carpet patrol.

“You know,” LaMoia said, “if someone had bet me, I would have put big money on us tagging this asshole before he went for another one. Now we’ve lost Weinstein and I’m worried about a third.”

“Don’t think like that,” Boldt warned. “Deadlines make you crazy, especially when the deadline passes.”

Motioning for LaMoia to join him, he said, “Carpet patrol.”

“What about ID?”

“Busy with the mess downstairs. Bernie asked us to take the carpet. What we’ve got is slightly confusing,” Boldt explained. “We think the lookout for the cookers primarily used the front room. He’s a smoker and that room reeks of it and there are butts and roaches everywhere. This room smells clean, and no butts. And yet that,” he said, pointing out a cane seat chair by the window, “seems to indicate someone spent time at the back window.”

“A different sentry. They took turns up here. One smoked, one didn’t,” LaMoia hypothesized.

Boldt had not shared Raymond’s bit about the possibility of an exterminator on the premises with anyone. If he stumbled onto supporting evidence then it was admissible, but to do what he had done-use Narcotics to assist his own needs-was an outright manipulation of the system. To inform LaMoia would make him subject to the same risks that Boldt was taking. He said, “ID found some peat moss kicked up on the sill.”

“In the rocker with his feet up,” LaMoia suggested.

“Exactly. And peat moss?”

“Flower beds.” LaMoia’s jaw dropped. “Why do I get the feeling a bunch of meth rats would not be tending the primroses?” He sagged to his knees and joined Boldt in fingering through the carpet.

Boldt said, “P.S. No peat moss was found in the front room.”

They worked methodically, using coins to mark the areas they searched.

“You know what I got to ask myself?” LaMoia said, busy with his fingers.

“What’s that?”

“What the hell a lieutenant-Intelligence, no less-is doing on carpet patrol at four in the morning on a drug bust. Or are you just a Renaissance man?”

“The same could be asked of a Homicide sergeant running a task force investigation.”

“Yeah? Except I’m here because you rudely woke me up and told me to get my butt down here.”

“Two officers were wounded. I thought you were on rotation to investigate an officer-involved shooting.”

“Sure you did,” LaMoia said sarcastically. “I’m here because you needed someone assigned to the task force, and you weren’t about to work with Mulwright even though his squad made the raid. Curiosity is what got me out of bed, Sarge. It wasn’t loyalty this time. I’m too tired for loyalty.”

“You know what Daphne says?” Boldt asked, avoiding a direct answer.

“I’m figuring you’re about to tell me.”

“That the Pied Piper is a planner.”

Mention of the Pied Piper caused LaMoia to look up and lose his spot in the carpet.

Boldt said, “An advance man. He identifies them, we don’t know how; watches them, we don’t know from where; and only then strikes. Gets his advance work out of the way before the first kidnapping because he knows the public becomes more aware after the publicity hits. He either does the advance work himself or uses chumps like Anderson.”

“Is that what I’m doing on my hands and knees?” LaMoia asked.

“It better be,” Boldt said, “or we’re going to have some rumors to live down.”

LaMoia barked a laugh. “An attempt at humor at four in the morning. I ever tell you I love this job?”

It took several minutes for them to finish. Boldt’s knees cracked loudly as he stood.

LaMoia wielded a small penlight, training its beam beneath the furniture. He ran the light up the wall and down into the window-sill.

“Sarge?” he asked expectantly.

Boldt moved to get a look at the object in the center of the light. A tiny chip of thick glass, caught against the screen’s frame. With LaMoia training the light, Boldt opened the window saying, “He opens the window for some air … kicks his feet up on the windowsill.”

Boldt placed the glass chip into a plastic evidence bag and marked it. Old times.

LaMoia said excitedly, “This guy is picking up automobile glass in shoes. Work boots. Waffle sole. That sort of thing.”

“Yes he is,” Boldt agreed, studying the chip.

Jumping to conclusions was both dangerous and foolish. The lab would have to check it against the other glass found at the Shotz and Weinstein homes. Nonetheless, Boldt was already wondering if the glass could be used to tie the Pied Piper to a location: an auto glass shop, a car dealership.

They turned the evidence over to Bernie Lofgrin, who signed for it. Twenty minutes later, the eastern horizon wore an azure blue. Boldt drove away. Marina, who had spent the night, would be awakening soon. His kids needed to be dressed and fed and taken to day care. His worlds ran together, interdependent. Where were the missing kids? Alive? Dead? Locked in a closet or a basement?

Try as he did to focus on his upcoming parental duties, he kept returning to an image of the Pied Piper, dressed as an exterminator, sitting in the rocking chair, feet kicked up out the windowsill.

The question that begged to be asked was whether or not dead Anderson had been after a possible thief stalking a neighborhood as he had represented himself to his snitches, or was somehow involved with the Pied Piper. Anyone could have killed Anderson-a client, a victim of Anderson’s prying-one of the many names on the caller-ID list. But the pollen on the knees of his laundry matched the pollen found on the Shotz crib and in the Taurus carpet fibers, evidence Boldt could not ignore. Anderson was clearly involved- up to his knees, Boldt thought. Gaynes had checked the entire block surrounding the Shotz residence and had found no beds of knee-height yellow flowers.

Boldt slowed for a red light, but ran it. At five in the morning he wasn’t about to stop.

The caller-ID list! He suddenly understood the next logical step.

He dialed LaMoia’s cellular. He had left him at the crime scene with Lofgrin.