Beyond Recognition

46

The killer was still out there. Boldt felt certain of it, though as yet he had no conclusive proof.

Bobbie Gaynes had set up her office cubicle as an impromptu task force center. Even though Shoswitz had not allocated her time to Boldt’s resources, she refused to be shut out, pulling what amounted to a double shift and looking the worse for wear. On her wall hung several photographs of the early arsons, evidence photographs of the ladder impressions, and magnified close-ups of the cotton fibers mixed into the mud at the Enwright scene. There were photos of all four victims, including Branslonovich. Below these portraits hung a bad photocopy of Garman’s wife, eerily similar to the three dead mothers. Gaynes hung up the phone and told him, “Lofgrin has confirmed that the silver fibers are a silver fabric paint; the underlying blue is the actual color of the fabric. Second, commercially available Seahawk jerseys are not a sixty/forty blend-they’re twenty/eighty, polyester to cotton, so we can rule them out, which is good because they sell everywhere.”

“And that leaves?” Boldt asked.

“Silk-screen printers who handle towels or terry cloth,” she answered. “The lab is adamant about these being a spiral-twisted cotton-blend fiber typically seen in a towel or a terry-cloth robe. That works in our favor. We tried the jerseys even though they aren’t a twisted fiber-they seemed obvious because of the colors-but now we’re down to determining what companies produce this particular color in this particular blend and, alternately, which silk-screen companies have purchased that fabric.”

“I like it,” Boldt said.

“The larger textile mills are in the South and Northeast. I’m on that. The bad news is that there are more printers than you can shake a stick at-you can’t believe how many. And though you might think that if it’s sold here in Seattle it would also be silk-screened here, it ain’t necessarily so. If it’s cheaper in Spokane or Portland or Boise, that’s where it happens. And most of these silk-screen places are mom-and-pop shops, little independents that crank out sports uniforms, corporate golf shirts, you name it.”

“How many?” Boldt asked, dread replacing his flirtation with optimism.

She avoided a direct answer. “Both US West and Pac Bell have their Yellow Pages on CD ROM, which is handy.” She laid a hand on her personal computer. Only a few cops had gone to the expense of providing their own hardware.

“How many?” Boldt repeated. He sensed her reluctance to tell him, and that drove his curiosity.

“That’s the trouble. Six hundred ninety-seven printers in the Seattle area alone.”

Boldt felt the number across his face like a hand slap. When the entire seven-man squad had to make thirty or forty calls, they were stretched to the limit.

She spoke quickly and excitedly. Gaynes was part cheerleader. “We can rule out a whole bunch. The fast-copy places with twenty-five franchises don’t do silk-screening or fabric, and that cuts the list literally in half.”

It left them making over three hundred calls. Impossible, Boldt thought.

“Needless to say, we’re short a little manpower.”

Boldt was overwhelmed. He felt choked, as if his collar were too tight. With those numbers, pursuing the fibers was an exercise in futility. “We’re stewed,” he said.

“Have a little faith, Sergeant. Five years ago we would have needed a couple hundred volunteers to make the calls for us. You’ve used the university kids a couple of times”-she didn’t allow him to interrupt-“but that was with the blessing of Shoswitz. This is without. This requires a little Henry Ford,” she said, a smile twisting her pallid face. “When in doubt, automate.” She continued nonstop, barely taking another breath. “We did it once before, remember? LaMoia has a friend-”

Who else but LaMoia? Boldt wondered, keeping quiet.

“-a woman friend who manages a telephone telemarketing service. You know, those awful prerecorded messages dialed directly into your home, selling aluminum siding. He’s checking her out in person, due back here any minute. Thinks he might be able to wangle a few hours of service out of her-her company,” she corrected, blushing. “We post a message that leads off something like ‘This is the Seattle Police, homicide division. Your printing company may have information pertinent to solving a series of homicides in the Seattle area. Your cooperation is critical to our efforts.’ Something like that. Grab their attention, ask for their help. He says these machines, with a short enough message, can do a couple hundred calls an hour and keep calling until they verify a voice answer. I believe it; I’ve gotten enough of the calls myself.”

“Same,” Boldt said.

“So, see? Maybe we reach them all. Maybe one of them hears the message and actually does something about it. The beauty is, if she lets us lease her 800 number, we can do the same for Spokane, Boise, Portland.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “We pry a little informant money loose and divert it to this thing-the ultimate informer-and maybe we get lucky.”

She had clearly thought this through.

“It makes sense,” Boldt agreed, equally quietly. “Maybe that’s the direction we go. But let’s brainstorm it a minute and see where we get.”

He could sense her disappointment as she took up a pen and paper, prepared to jot down each thought. They took alternate turns, Gaynes first. “Cotton fibers,” she said.

“Silver paint, blue fabric.”

“Seahawk colors.”

“Silk-screen paint.”

“Sixty/forty blend.”

“The textile mills feed the wholesalers, the wholesalers the printers.”

“Contract work.”

“What’s that?” Boldt said.

“Contract work,” she repeated.

He nodded slowly. Contract work. Why had that interrupted his thoughts? “Let’s go on,” he said making note of it. “Contract work,” he repeated.

“Similar fibers were found on your windows and in the mud by the ladder at Enwright’s.”

“Window washing,” he said.

“A rag maybe, a torn towel.”

“Windows,” Boldt repeated. It stuck in his thoughts. Why?

LaMoia arrived, clearly worked up.

“Brainstorming,” Boldt said, holding up a hand to prevent LaMoia from interrupting.

The detective nodded. His demeanor was serious and contemplative. “With you,” he said.

The sergeant said, “Me, then Gaynes, then you. Okay?” LaMoia nodded. Boldt retraced their steps, saying, “Fibers found on the windows and by the ladder.”

Gaynes went next. “Window washing. A rag maybe.”

“Cotton fibers,” LaMoia said, a beat behind in the game.

Boldt hoped he wouldn’t hinder them. “A bucket of rags? A rag tucked in a belt?”

“A bucket of soapy water,” said Gaynes.

“Window washing,” LaMoia said, his voice lower and more ominous than usual.

Boldt sensed the detective’s head rise in an attempt to meet eyes, but Boldt wanted this purely stream-of-consciousness communication. His own head slightly bent, Boldt said, “Glass.”

“A squeegee.”

“Sponge. Rag.”

“Ladder,” Boldt said.

“Rooftop.”

“Glass,” LaMoia echoed.

“Windows,” Gaynes offered.

“The cars!” LaMoia said more loudly. “The wheels!”

Inadvertently, Boldt snapped his head up.

“The cars,” LaMoia repeated. “My assignment, remember? Lab report placed cotton fibers inside the cars,” he emphasized, his eyes wide, his mustache caught between his teeth as he gnawed.

Boldt wanted to continue the brainstorming but decided to talk it through. “It’s a natural fiber, John. It’s found everywhere. Every crime scene.”

LaMoia appeared too caught up in his own idea to be of any help. Ignoring LaMoia, Boldt asked Gaynes, “What about the Seahawks front office? If we’re right about the silver and blue being the Seahawks logo, wouldn’t the Seahawks front office license the rights?”

Her eyes brightened. “They’ll have a list of anyone authorized to use the colors and logo.”

“An agent would handle licensing. An attorney probably.”

LaMoia wasn’t paying any attention. His eyes were squinted shut tightly.

“I’ll get a name,” she said. He could see optimism in the brightness of her eyes. He appreciated Gaynes for her can-do attitude. Nothing beat her down.

LaMoia said to no one in particular, “It’s the cars. The lab report mentioned an abundance of cotton fibers.”

Boldt felt a surge of anger. LaMoia wasn’t listening to himself. It was first-year academy stuff. Attempting to follow natural fibers was like trying to use dust as forensic evidence.

“What about T-shirt shops?” Gaynes asked. “They wouldn’t necessarily be listed as printers, yet they might have a screen in the back room. Might sell sweat bands, something with a twisted fiber.”

“Add them to your phone list as well,” Boldt instructed.

LaMoia snapped out of it and said, “The phone deal is on.”

“If Bernie says it’s a towel or a robe, we go with that.”

“Window washing,” LaMoia sputtered, annoying Boldt. “The cars.”

“What about the silver paint?” Gaynes asked. “The Bureau’s crime lab keeps the chemical signature of paints on file. Maybe they could ID the paint manufacturer for us.” She continued. “We might narrow the printer field considerably.”

“That’s good thinking,” Boldt told her. “Check it out with Bernie.”

“Sarge,” LaMoia said, “I need to check something out.”

“Go,” Boldt told him, happy to be rid of him.

LaMoia took off at a hurried clip. That from the man of struts and strides? It caught the attention of Bobbie Gaynes as well. She said, “Well, he’s certainly in a strange place.”

Boldt checked his watch. He was late to an autopsy that he did not want to attend. Dixie was to go over the skeletal remains of the woman found in the crawl space. He would attempt to confirm it was Ben’s mother. If Boldt skipped it, Shoswitz would hear about it; he had no choice but to go.