Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

Boldt restricted the search to the Times-Picayune database and then typed in the name:

V_I_N_C_E_N_T__C_H_E_V_A_L_I_E_R

The computer considered the request. Boldt caught himself holding his breath. A moment later seven listings scrolled down the screen, including publication date, partial headlines, page and column numbers. Five of the seven articles had been published in the paper nearly five years earlier. The first two listings had been page 3 stories, implying a relative importance to them. The last two were barely twelve months out of date. The partial headline on the opening hit read: “POLICE DISCONNECT 911 SCAM …” The last article listed had a title that began: “APPEALS COURT SHOOTS …” That first listing swimming in his head, Boldt signaled Daphne-and half those in the reference section-with a frantic wave of the hand. He asked the person in line behind him how to print out a copy of his search results. A few minutes later, he and Daphne took seats in adjacent microfiche viewing stations, the appropriately boxed issues in hand.

“A nine-one-one scam,” he reminded urgently, clumsily threading the cumbersome roll of film into the antiquated machine. He threaded it upside down on his first effort; reversed, his second try.

“Yes, I caught that,” Daphne said calmly, trying to contain him. She threaded her machine correctly the first time and was reading text before Boldt.

“As in Millie Wiggins’ day care center,” Boldt said, still fumbling.

“Yes.”

“It’s them ,” Boldt emphasized.

“It suggests a strong possibility, doesn’t it?”

He glanced at her incredulously, as he failed with the machine for the third time. “Goddamn it!” he hollered too loudly, his fingers refusing to cooperate.

“Here.” She leaned across him, corrected his mistake and restored the machine.

Boldt sped ahead to the article written five years earlier as Daphne returned to her station. “It was page three,” he said, prior to actually locating the article. “You’ve got to think that means it was pretty big news at the time.”

“Shh,” Daphne chided. “I’m on to something here.” But a moment later, as Boldt went silent, she couldn’t resist. She slid her fiberglass chair up against Boldt’s and looked on.

“Two hundred and eighty thousand,” she read. “It was run on the elderly.”

Boldt heard her but did not acknowledge. He read slowly and intently. He wanted every last detail committed to memory.

CITY BEAT-POLICE MADE TWO ARRESTS ON TUESDAY IN THE SO-CALLED 911 SCAM THAT HAD BEEN PUZZLING INVESTIGATORS FOR WEEKS AND HAS COST AREA VICTIMS, MOSTLY THE ELDERLY, NEARLY $280,000. FOLLOWING A TELECOMMUNICATIONS STING INVOLVING COORDINATED TECHNOLOGIES LINKING AIR TOUCH CELLULAR, SOUTHWESTERN BELL AND SPRINT COMMUNICATIONS, THE CONFIDENCE GAME, WHICH PITTED THE FICTIONAL CALLER AS A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER ATTEMPTING TO UNRAVEL A BANK EMBEZZLEMENT SCANDAL, WAS FINALLY PUT ON HOLD. ARRESTED WERE ROGER CROWLEY, 28, OF NEW ORLEANS, AND HIS WIFE, LISA. THE PAIR, WHO HAVE OPERATED UNDER AS MANY AS TWENTY-TWO ALIASES, ARE WANTED ON RELATED CHARGES IN FIVE OTHER STATES INCLUDING NEVADA, ARIZONA AND FLORIDA. IF CONVICTED, THE COUPLE INDIVIDUALLY FACE UP TO FIFTEEN YEARS JAIL TIME AND FINES EXCEEDING $200,000. THE CROWLEYS’ ATTORNEY, VINCENT CHEVALIER, SAID HE WOULD FILE FOR DISMISSAL BASED ON ENTRAPMENT. INSISTING HIS CLIENTS WERE VICTIMS THEMSELVES-OF A LAW ENFORCEMENT WITCH-HUNT-CHEVALIER INSISTED ON HIS CLIENTS’ INNOCENCE AND SUGGESTED TO REPORTERS THAT THE CASE WOULD NEVER REACH TRIAL.

Three subsequent articles proved Chevalier wrong. The case did go to trial, a jury trial, resulting in what to Boldt’s eye was a ninthinning plea bargain down to intent to defraud that cut short the trial and lessened the sentences to seven years each, restoration of the victims’ assets and fines of ten thousand dollars each. Translated, it meant release in two to three years, restoration at thirty cents on the dollar, and two, twenty-five-hundred-dollar fines. It was the Crowleys’ first conviction after eleven years and twenty-seven separate arrests in five states. There was nothing in the articles to connect the couple to any kidnapping, child abduction, child abuse or extortion.

Daphne made the connection ten minutes later. “Middle of last year, the Crowleys sued the state of Louisiana for blocking an adoption they had planned.”

Boldt shot her a look of astonishment. He said, “Convicted felons aren’t allowed to adopt,” well aware of the federal law.

Daphne continued, “The Crowleys took possession of an infant girl born in Arkansas. They might have pulled it off, except the biological mother was an unwed fourteen-year-old, a minor, and her parents contested the adoption. Vincent Chevalier both arranged the adoption and represented the Crowleys in their lawsuit and their appeal.”

“Lost both,” Boldt guessed.

“Yes.”

“Motive enough for this spree,” Boldt suggested.

“A couple denied parenthood?” she said. “Worse than the wrath of a woman scorned.”

“Confirm with Broole that Roger Crowley has an eagle tattooed on his left forearm. Then convince him that Crowley’s at large. We need a warrant to trap-and-trace telephone calls inside Chevalier’s office, from his cellular, and from pay phones in and around the surrounding neighborhood. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Pied Piper investigation.”

Keeping up with Boldt’s hurried strides, Daphne said, “Is there some water you want me to walk on in the meantime?”

“Just try.”

“I will.”

“What happens to them after the adoption is blocked?” he asked.

“Denied the adoption, they decided to pursue other means of obtaining a child. But not for themselves anymore. For others.”

“Forget about it,” he said.

“The penny flutes. They wanted the abductions connected. They’re making a statement. It’s the Robin Hood Syndrome. They see themselves as saviors. In their minds, their actions are perfectly justified. They know what it’s like to be denied parenthood.”

“Stop,” he said harshly. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“You need to,” she protested. “These are the people who have your daughter.”

Detective Broole returned to his desk carrying a swagger reminiscent of LaMoia and a thick manila folder that Daphne assumed belonged to Roger or Lisa Crowley. The detectives division suffered under the noisy strain of wall-mounted air conditioners unable to condition and the languid efforts of paddle fans that recycled the same stale air.

“You really know how to pick ’em, su-gar.” Broole slapped the file down in front of her and then lit up a cigarette within yards of the sign forbidding the activity. His cliched coif was gelled into a ducktail. “We’ve had this loser in cuffs more times than his tailor. How’d you find him?”

“Library.”

“Ah yes, that font of public knowledge,” he said sarcastically.

“But it didn’t say anything about tattoos,” she said, reminding him of her earlier criteria.

“Yeah? Well this does. Have a look,” he said, leaning over from behind and opening the folder in front of her, using the effort to be physically close to her. Attached to the folder’s inside flap was a series of a half dozen mug shots. Below these were two other photographs, both of tattoos: an eagle on the man’s left forearm; a snake running down his leg to the right of his genitals that had been blacked out with marker. Her heart skipped a beat-they had a physical marking that could be offered as hard evidence-Roger Crowley was the Pied Piper.

Crowley’s various mug shots revealed a man skilled at cosmetics. Light hair, dark hair. Short hair, long. Acned skin, baby face. Warts, scars and wounds. Bright eyes, dull eyes; round eyes, almond. Crowley was all of these people and yet none of them, she realized. The real man behind the crimes lay buried somewhere back on Crowley’s personal time line. Daphne Matthews wanted a shot at that person-the one who remained hidden. She wanted into his mind, inside where others had not been.