Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Daphne felt a spike of heat from head to toe. To police, “Mr. Stranger Danger” referred to child abductors. The association with the Pied Piper seemed unmistakable. Pencils went to paper. Anderson had identified a suspect he believed a kidnapper of children.

If Weinstein had it right, it was the Pied Piper.

When Weinstein and his attorney had left, LaMoia offered for Flemming’s agents to join in a second search of Anderson’s duplex. In a surprise move, Flemming politely refused, implying he was happy to have SPD run his errands for him so long as any evidence discovered was shared. Flemming and Kalidja left together, leaving LaMoia and Daphne alone.

“So?” LaMoia inquired.

She said confidently, “Weinstein was nervous at first. Intimidated. But he loosened up. He’s bankable. His respiration stayed regular. No noticeable perspiration, squinting, twitching. Not even much chair adjustment. He remained alert, focused-and we were throwing a lot at him.”

“Had Caldwell prepped him?”

“It’s a possibility. That would account for some of it.”

“So we buy his statement?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“What?” LaMoia asked, aware that something was bothering her.

She pursed her lips. “It’s not Weinstein, it’s Flemming. He remained pretty quiet until mention of the photography. At that point he became much more animated.”

She asked, “Why did he pass on your offer to search Anderson’s place for the camera?”

“That stunned me, I gotta admit.”

“And what about his attempt to convince us that the photos didn’t exist?”

LaMoia hung his head in thought. He said, “It makes sense if they’ve already worked the Anderson crime scene.” He mumbled, “Fucking-A!”

Pouring ice into his veins, Daphne asked, “What if they already have Anderson’s photos?”

The Box, a small, rectangular interrogation room with gray walls, white vinyl floor tile and an acoustical ceiling, was hot. It held a single war-torn table, the metal legs of which were bolted to the floor, and, on that day, five gunmetal gray straight-backed chairs with padded seat cushions that whooshed when sat upon.

A woman officer by the name of Marsh accompanied Boldt and Daphne. Somehow McNee had identified the vacant house used for the drug lab; the Pied Piper had identified this same house, and that methodology was now critical to the investigation.

As a Narcotics detective, Marsh had the collar, but she granted Boldt this chance to work the suspect since the meth lab raid had been his idea. A previous interrogation already complete, Marsh was content merely to be present. She looked and dressed like an art student returned from Europe. She sat at the head of the table and remained silent. Boldt’s plan was a simple one: Hit the man with everything they had.

On paper, Jeffry McNee was not someone Daphne had expected to find cooking at a meth lab: white, mid-twenties, with a degree in chemistry. Daphne had coached Boldt that McNee would likely test them to measure his opponents. He would sort them out, identify the weak player and work only with this person. She advised Boldt that if he wanted to lead, he should play dumb.

McNee being assigned a public defender surprised Boldt. It implied he hadn’t the money or contacts to hire a lawyer specializing in drug defense. That fact suggested a rogue, freelance operation and offered Boldt some leverage. He might fear returning to the street more than going to jail. Drug turf was violently defended.

McNee had a boyish face with alert green eyes. With his black hair and ruddy complexion he belonged either in a Scottish kilt or selling junk bonds on Wall Street. The orange jumpsuit marked KING CO JAIL on the back did him an injustice. His attorney was a hundred and seventy pounds of Hawaiian mama, with enough mascara and lizard green eye shadow to qualify for stage work. She chewed gum vigorously and wore smudged eyeglasses. Her tent dress hung from her enormous breasts like a waterfall of lime green in a loud print. Her voice was a deep baritone, her teeth fake.

“My client wants to know what’s in this for him,” she said, from a chair all but swallowed by its gelatinous occupant.

“We’re part of a homicide investigation,” Daphne said, playing the role of the intelligent one. To the suspect she said, “A man who may have had your drug lab under surveillance was found murdered. Anyone in your position would take a dim view of such surveillance-”

“Give me a break!” the Muumuu sputtered like a big truck attempting to start.

“A conviction for which will earn you life,” Daphne addressed McNee. “Not ten years. Not sixteen. Not with the current administration. Life without parole.” McNee didn’t seem the least bit ruffled. As she had expected. The stage was set for Boldt to do some damage.

“You sure about that?” Boldt asked Daphne, wearing a gumshoe expression of fatigue. “Can’t we plea him down if we want to?”

“Trust me on this,” Daphne said while simultaneously measuring the Muumuu for her take on Boldt. He had a reputation. If she knew of him, their ruse was unlikely to work. But she was unfamiliar to them both, most likely a newcomer to the public defender’s rotation.

“You’ll pardon me for interrupting,” the suspect said calmly, “but do I detect a presumption of guilt or innocence?”

“Assumption of innocence,” Daphne told him, “is a luxury afforded by those across the street.” Her superior air helped McNee to quickly identify her as the enemy. Boldt was not yet so clearly defined.

The man addressed Boldt, “My pals and I were doing a little chemistry experiment. What’s the big deal?”

“A man is dead,” Daphne replied. “You have plenty of motive to want him that way. We can connect him to investigating a person or persons at the address of your lab. We will have documentation of that shortly. You would be well advised to play ball. Your attorney’s shaking her head, telling you not to talk, but we can offer you a plea position on the dope charge.”

“This is entirely inappropriate,” Muumuu said. To her client she explained, “They can’t offer this.”

Daphne said, “No one can make any promises. But one thing is for sure, you go up for this, in the state of Washington, and you’re gone for good. The key is tossed out. Ask her,” she said, indicating the dress and the chewing gum.

“What do you want?” McNee asked Boldt. “What is it you want?”

“Don’t do this,” the attorney advised halfheartedly.

“What we want are a couple very simple answers,” Boldt explained calmly. “What we have to offer is protection.”

“Oh! This is bullshit!” the Muumuu complained. “Do not listen to them. They have no authority to plea you, and they cannot, will not, offer any reliable protection. Forget it,” she told Boldt.

Ignoring her, Boldt informed McNee, “You take the dive and you end up in our big house. Everyone who’s anyone in drugs has their people there. It isn’t me that’s been pinching Tommy Chen’s turf. What do you suppose your life expectancy is?”

Daphne supplied the important piece of the puzzle. “A federal conviction would move you out of state.”

“Safer,” Boldt said. They had won McNee’s interest.

“Don’t threaten, people,” Muumuu warned them. “And don’t make promises you can’t keep.” But now even she seemed interested.

The suspect, who had acquired a sheen on his brow, looked silently between the two police officers.

Daphne said, “We’ll put in a recommendation that the Feds take your case.”

“How much do you know about Tommy Chen?” Boldt asked.

McNee did not answer.