Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

LaMoia favored him, like a teacher with a pet student, assigning Boldt four addresses closest to his own house, one of which bordered his neighborhood a half mile west of Green Lake. By doing so, LaMoia was offering Boldt the chance to head home early, ahead of the four o’clock duty rotation that would have sent him into rush hour traffic. Boldt understood this, but had no intention of going home early.

At the second to last house, he pulled to a stop and parked, checking the street for a white van or minivan. He waited, watching the house’s windows for any movement, a shadow, a change of light, motion. After a few minutes of this he left the car in favor of a neighbor’s house. He climbed the neighbor’s steps, knocked, and was admitted into a small room with a faux leather recliner and needlepointed pillows depicting British bobbies, the London Bridge and Jesus at the Last Supper. A needlepoint in progress rested on the arm of the recliner along with a sweating glass of Coke. The chair faced a twenty-seven-inch color set tuned to the shopping channel. A cordless phone perched within reach.

Beyond the television, an open curtain revealed the adjacent vacant house.

The woman’s figure implied cheeseburgers, fries and vanilla shakes. She wore blue rubber beach thongs on her pale swollen feet. She willfully closed the door behind him like a Floridian bracing for an unseen hurricane, and maintained her distance, crossing to the safety of her bowled chair in hurried little steps. Police shields bothered people.

“Can’t stay long. Police or not.” She picked up the phone like some cops handled their weapons.

“No need,” Boldt said. She clearly had items to purchase. Some black-and-white fish occupied an aquarium with pink Bermuda sand that bubbled continuously. There was a ceramic sunken pirate’s ship at the bottom that wore a green slimy film. “I need to ask you some questions about the vacant house next door. I wonder if you might turn the television down for a minute?” According to the uninterrupted narration, 170 peach cardigan sweaters had sold for $29.85; $6.50 tax, shipping and handling. Only two minutes left to go. She worked the remote and silenced the voice midsentence. “Thank you,” he said. She watched the muted television, not him.

“Eleanor Pruitt breathed her last breath there not six months ago. Pancreas, it was.”

He didn’t want to be reminded of disease and death.

“No one living there, if that’s what you wanted.”

He wondered what she found so fascinating about the silent colors flashing at her that she couldn’t so much as glance at him. “Visitors?” His chest tightened.

“People wandering around, that sort of thing. At first I thought they might be church members. People used to bring Eleanor meals from time to time. But they weren’t. Parasites is what they were-insurance men, real estate agents, tax assessors. Never knew all the fuss dying created. Been more activity over there since Eleanor died than when she was living.”

“Recently?”

“I look right out that window, don’t I? You can see that, can’t you? It’s distracting, people walking around like that. How do I know who they are?”

“Anyone been around recently?” Boldt repeated. “Quite recently?”

“I bought me a gun. It’s legal,” she informed him, making eye contact for the first time, but briefly. “Had it nearly two years now. They better not mess with me; I’ll show them.”

“Next door,” Boldt said. “These people have been walking around recently? Ma’am?”

“You got earwigs where you live? Silverfish? I hate those damn things. Goddamn, they bother me.”

He didn’t look at the television. Perhaps it was selling a roach hotel. “Have you seen anyone recently, ma’am? Over next door, I mean.”

“They hide in all the dark, damp places you know. Kitchen is the worst. Under the edges by the trash. Enough of ’em to make me sick. All I wanted was to know how much to get rid of them, you know? You’d think he could have told me that.”

“Who’s that?” Boldt asked, his thoughts finally connecting her words and his heart racing away.

Pointing to the television, she said, “That’s Jerry. He sells all the electronic stuff. Could care less. It’s Dorothy I like. The clothes. Haven’t you ever watched this? Where you been?”

“Who was it you were asking about silverfish?” Boldt asked.

“The man spraying,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“The house next door,” Boldt supplied, violating a fundamental precept of interrogation. “Someone spraying the house next door?”

“‘I’d have to call the office for a quote,’ he said. Screw him. Didn’t even give me a card. I’ll tell you something: If you’re too busy for my trade, then someone else gets it. Plain and simple, far as I’m concerned.”

“You spoke with him. You got a look at this exterminator,” Boldt stated. He wanted this badly. The Pied Piper had used his exterminator disguise to scout the home, or as an excuse to be seen entering. This woman was an eyewitness.

“You kidding? Wouldn’t give me the time a day. Never even so much as turned around.” She added incredulously, “You’ve never actually watched this channel?”

“Was he spraying the vacant house?” Boldt asked. “Is that what you’re telling me? When?”

“They had a housedress I really wanted. Kind of like this one, only red.”

“Mrs.-” He searched for the name. Couldn’t find it. A year earlier it would have been on the tip of his tongue.

“The housedress was up at the same time I saw him, and I thought about those earwigs in there and I thought, ‘That’s who I need.’ So I get up and go out back and shout over to him. That’s a big deal for me-going out like that. And could he care less? How’s someone that rude stay in business anyway?”

“The housedress,” Boldt said in earnest, returning to the language of her world. There were no minutes and hours, only items for sale. “What day was that?”

She looked up at him for only the second time. “He’s been around a couple of times, but hell if I’m going to give him the time of day.”

“You’ve seen him more than once?” It had been a long time since Boldt had conducted this kind of interrogation, and he felt out of sorts, his timing off. It was an art form when done right. Handled incorrectly, even the best witness could become confused and begin to believe he or she had it wrong. “When? How often?” He was rushing her, pushing her, supplying her with the answers he wanted to hear. If he had seen one of his detectives handling a questioning that same way, he would have been livid.

“Couple a times. At a distance. Sure I have. But to hell with him.”

“When?” He had trapped himself; he couldn’t seem to break out of what he knew to be poor practice, like bogging down in an argument going nowhere.

“Yesterday maybe. The day before.”

“Recently.”

“I said ‘yesterday,’ didn’t I? How recent do you want?”

“Have you seen him today?” Boldt asked.

“No.”

Boldt handed her his card. “My number,” he said, “in case you remember anything else about him. We’ll want to talk with you some more.”

“Not this time of day you won’t. You wait until the gadget part of the show. Who cares about computers and VCRs anyway?” Eyeing Boldt’s business card, she allowed a large grin to superimpose itself upon her features. “Say,” she said, causing Boldt to turn from the door to face her, “you know anyone sprays for earwigs?”

Boldt tried LaMoia from the cellular, his intention to inform him that he was going to enter the residence on a determination of probable cause. He couldn’t get through, but penned a note of his attempt in his notebook. He walked around back of the vacant house, not wanting to draw any attention, his senses on full alert. It took him a total of three minutes to find the spare key-under a potted plant. He paused at the back door and unsnapped his service handgun.