The Pied Piper (32 page)

“Leave it!” she said. “What's going on?” She still held him.

“I said no questions,” he whispered dryly. “Remember?”

She released her hold on him. “Let me do the talking,” she demanded. “This one has special handling written all over it. She needs force, but a special kind of force.” They locked eyes. His were sunken and darkly colored. “Please,” she begged.

Footsteps approached.

Her eyes held him, unrelenting. She, of all people, knew this man; and yet she didn't know him.

“If that kid, if that woman,” he said angrily, “has kept something from us …” He didn't complete the statement. He said only, “Lives are at stake here!” The front door swung open.

Doris Shotz answered, a mask of concern and caution. Daphne's attention remained fixed on Boldt. The woman at the door said, “I've had about enough for one day—”

“We need to talk,” Daphne interrupted her, still facing Boldt. “Now,” she said strongly, snapping her head toward the woman and pushing her way past and inside. “We need to talk with Henry,” Daphne completed.

“No! You cannot—”

“Yes, we can,” Boldt corrected, cutting her off and silencing her. He and Doris Shotz met eyes, and she cowered under his haunted look.

“Where is he?” Daphne asked once the three of them were inside the living room and Doris Shotz realized they meant business.

“You can't do this.”

Boldt responded, “You'd prefer attorneys and the press?”

“Your son was never interviewed as a witness,” Daphne stated. The immediate tension in the mother's eyes confirmed Daphne had guessed correctly. “We understand your reluctance to involve him in—”

“He is three years old!” the mother objected. “How could he possibly help?”

“We also understand how important it is to you that we make every effort to locate Rhonda just as soon as we can.”

If there had been any tears left for Doris Shotz, she might have spilled them, but her well was dry. She shook her head, holding on to what little protest remained in her.

“Let us talk to Henry. Help us find Rhonda,
please
,” Daphne urged.

“He bit the man,” the mother confessed, her chin wobbling. “I know I should have told you. Downtown … sitting there, just sitting there … I knew I should tell someone.”

Boldt glanced over at Daphne; he wanted the interview
now
.

“Please,” Daphne repeated.

“In our bedroom,” the mother replied.

Down a narrow hall, she showed them into a cluttered bedroom. The boy had a set of blocks out on the floor, reminding Boldt of Miles, and in turn making him think of Sarah.

“Honey,” the mother said, “these people are going to help us find Ronnie. They want to talk to you. I told them they could. Okay?”

The boy averted his eyes shyly, down at the toes of his Air Nikes.

Boldt said, “I understand Henry is quite the hero.”

“A brave little boy,” Daphne agreed. “We're just going to ask you some questions. Okay?”

The boy checked again with his mother, who sat down on the floor and took the boy in her arms from behind so the child faced Boldt and Daphne. Daphne signaled Boldt to lose some altitude. He joined her on the floor so he no longer towered over the boy. “Please, honey? We like these people. They want to help Ronnie.” She prompted, “You bit the man, didn't you?” The boy nodded.

“On the leg?” Daphne asked.

The boy shook his head no. Henry had several of his teeth and a small scar on his chin. His s's whistled when he spoke.

The mother said, “Would you tell me again about what happened when the man came for Ronnie?” The child vigorously shook his head no. The mother encouraged, “You heard them in the kitchen.”

“Me hearded Ronnie crying. Me shout for Julie.”

“The baby sitter,” Daphne said.

Henry nodded.

“And when she didn't answer, did that scare you?”

He nodded again. He was a cute boy with a round face and his mother's large blue eyes.

“And then what happened?” Daphne asked.

“Me go into kitchen.”

“
Went
into the kitchen,” the mother corrected. Boldt shot her a hot look. No time for home schooling.

“What did you see in the kitchen?” Daphne inquired.

The boy grew restless in his mother's arms. His voice was excited. “Julie asleep on the floor. The man with a bag. Ronnie crying.”

“Did you see
him?
” Boldt asked. “The man carrying the bag?”

“Julie sleeping on the floor.” He looked frightened all of a sudden.

Daphne signaled Boldt off with her eyes.

“What did you do then?” Daphne asked.

His voice sped up with his description. “Me pulled on his arm. He kicked me. Me screamed.” He hung his head.

“You tried to help Ronnie, didn't you?”

“I bit him,” Henry said, proudly.

“Yes,” Daphne returned quickly. “On the leg … on the—”

“His arm,” Henry interrupted.

Boldt restrained himself from interrupting, his heart racing painfully.

Without prompting, the boy continued, “Me bit him and I fell down and hit my head and it hurt.” He rubbed the back of his head. “There was a bump, wasn't there, Mommy?”

“There sure was.” Doris Shotz grimaced. She didn't want to relive any of this.

“It hurt!” the boy declared, still rubbing his head.

“I bet you hurt him more,” Boldt said.

“He bleeded.”

He smiled up at Boldt. All the innocence of the world was in that smile. What powers ultimately corrupted such innocence? he wondered. How was it so quickly lost? Because of the Pied Pipers of this world, he realized. Because detectives asked painful questions.

“I bit him on the birdie,” the boy blurted. Doris Shotz was as surprised to hear this as Boldt and Matthews.

“A birdie?” Boldt asked. “On his arm?” The boy nodded. “A drawing?” Another nod.

A tattoo was as good as a fingerprint with a jury, and juries loved child witnesses.

“What kind of birdie? Do you remember?” Boldt asked.

Daphne let him go. Boldt had opened up the tattoo information.

“Like on TV.”

Boldt was on pins and needles. He needed a detailed description of the tattoo, and the chances of that from a three-year-old were slim.

“Big Bird?” Boldt asked.

“No, the
real
bird,” the boy replied, confirming he knew the difference.

“Is the bird on a show?” Daphne asked.

He shook his head no.

“A commercial?”

He half nodded, half shrugged his shoulders in puzzlement.

“Which commercial would that be?” she asked.

Henry offered Daphne a silly expression and said, “The one with the bird in it!” He giggled.

Daphne maintained her composure, but Boldt barked out spontaneous laughter.

Henry said, “Big bird flying over the river.”

“An airplane?” Daphne asked.

“A bird!” the child repeated. “We deliver, we deliver!”

“The post office!” the mother said.

“An eagle,” Boldt announced.

Henry turned toward him and nodded vigorously. “An eagle!” he repeated.

Daphne was not pleased with Boldt, and her eyes told him so. He had fed the witness an answer. In the process of answering questions a witness reached a heightened state of wanting to please. Especially children. That desire, combined with the frustration of a blocked or vacant memory, would often jump at the first offering, even if it meant answering erroneously. Boldt had planted a word in the boy's head to go along with whatever image lingered. No matter what the bird looked like, the word eagle would now be used.

“Where was this bird on his arm?” Daphne asked, avoiding mention of the species.

Henry Shotz pointed to the top of his forearm.

Boldt said, “If a friend of ours sketched the bird, drew the bird, do you think you might recognize it?”

The boy shrugged.

The mother said, “Henry loves picture books.” The boy nodded agreement.

Boldt wanted a sketch artist with the child in a hurry.

“So what happened after you bit him?” Daphne asked, adding to her notes.

“The man ran out. I gone to Julie, but she was sleeping.”

They repeated the line of questions a second time and got the same answers, a detective's dream. Boldt took more detailed notes the second pass. They left at 9:07
P.M.
Boldt made note of this as well. Daphne was watching him, expecting this of him. Illusion was everything.

On their way back to their cars, Boldt stopped Daphne and told her he would take care of arranging a sketch artist. If they got a decent sketch, he'd pass it on to LaMoia to present to the task force. Daphne accepted this—as staff psychologist she had no part in evidence collection. But it was her role to assist in artist rendition sessions where the subject's state of mind was critical.

She mentioned her participation as if pro forma. “You'll let me know time and place,” she said. “I have a ten o'clock tomorrow, so anytime after eleven will work. I'd suggest the sketch be done here, by the way. A three-year-old doesn't need any additional stimulus. Environment is everything.”

“Good,” Boldt said. “I got all that.” He thanked her and they said good night and he walked to his car. He would arrange the interview for ten the following morning. He would use Tommy Thompson, whose studios were on Vashon Island. And if anything came of the session, no one would hear about it but him.

Thompson was perfect: retired and reclusive. No one would ever know.

Boldt approached the Weinsteins' front door alone, painfully aware that the Pied Piper had walked these same steps posing as a delivery man. The eerie sensation he experienced had to do with retracing the kidnapper's steps, with picturing his two victims: Phyllis Weinstein, and her grandson, Hayes.

“It's nine-thirty, Detective!” Sidney Weinstein objected. Dressed in a ratty cardigan, a wrinkled white button-down shirt and a pair of khakis that fit too loosely, Weinstein smelled of brandy.

“It's Lieutenant,” Boldt corrected. “Crime waits for no man,” he said.

“My hearing has been delayed while I undergo ‘psychiatric treatment,'” he said, distastefully drawing the quotes. “Careful. I might shoot you. I suggest you leave.”

“I need to talk to you and your wife.”

“My attorney might have something to say about that. Are you part of my son's investigation or mine?” He smirked. “Wonderful world, isn't it?”

The question put Boldt in a difficult position that, if answered directly, required he misrepresent himself. His only association with the task force, other than as an adviser, was a covert assignment to flush out an informer. His visit to Weinstein was difficult if not impossible to justify if Weinstein made a production of it and brought in his attorney. Trish Weinstein appeared behind her husband. She looked dazed and exhausted.

Boldt spoke over Weinstein's shoulder to the man's wife as if absolutely certain of what he was saying. “Hayes had a blanket, a shirt, an outfit—I don't know which—that carried a photo silk-screened image of him.” He spotted the hit of recognition in her eyes. “You know what I'm talking about.”

The husband stepped back and regarded his wife and then Boldt with suspicion and confusion. “Don't listen to him,” he said. “They want to put me away, Trish.”

“No one is even thinking of putting you away, and you know it. Your attorney has certainly told you that much. You stole an officer's sidearm. There is more paperwork involved in that one action, more internal reviews, than you can imagine. It will take us weeks, possibly months, to sort it all out. That is why your hearing has been delayed, that and because no one wants to see you face any charges, and that's not an easy thing to swing when a person has stolen an officer's sidearm and trained it onto half the fifth floor. You see a psychiatrist or a psychologist a couple times; we do our paperwork; a lenient judge gets assigned your case, and it's all over. In your position, any of us might have done the same thing.” Smiling oddly, he emphasized, “
Any
of us!” knowing it was true.