Beyond Recognition

65

“Check it out,” Lofgrin said proudly, hoisting a pair of graphs up for Boldt to compare. “The one on the left was downloaded from the FBI database I told you about, every goddamn kind of ink manufactured. The one on the right is the chromatograph of the ink used on the Scholar’s threats.” The match, though not perfect, was unmistakable.

Boldt said, in a voice that sounded more like a prayer, “Tell me that two hundred thousand people in Seattle don’t own this same pen.”

“They don’t, not by a long shot. Maybe it helps us locate him. It’s from a company in St. Louis that specializes in cheap custom pens: giveaways. The kind that advertises in the back of magazines: Your logo here!” Lofgrin was so excited he was shouting. “You’ve seen ’em: golf clubs, hardware stores, rental shops. You name it.”

“No, you name it,” Boldt said, turning the man’s phrase and sobering him some. “How big a field, Bernie?”

“We’re a long way from St. Louis, Lou. It’s not like a company like this would be flooded with Seattle orders.”

“How many Seattle clients?”

“How many? How should I know? That’s your job. I match the fucking graphs. That’s my job. It’s your phone call to make, not mine. And don’t expect miracles. Firms like this make a lot of models, you know? And it’s not like we know the model.”

“The shape, you mean?”

“Shape, size, color. All that would narrow the field.”

“You make the call, Bernie. Wake someone up if you have to. Threaten them. I don’t care what you do. But get someone down to their records-tonight-right now! Every Seattle client, every customer.” Boldt took off quickly down the hallway.

“And what the fuck are you going to do?” the man called out indignantly. “I am not a detective!”

Without looking back, Boldt broke into a jog and shouted into the hallway, “I’m going to get a description of the pen for you. I’m going to get you the model.”

Kotch was already at work at the video monitor when Boldt entered the smoke-filled room. The big man waved the air. “Hasn’t anybody here heard that this building has been no smoking for about seven years?”

The offending cigarette dangled from Kotch’s pinched lips. “So arrest me.” He exhaled.

On the large monitor, Boldt saw a portion of the grainy video shot inside Garman’s rooming house. “Fast-forward,” Boldt ordered.

“I was just-”

Boldt interrupted, repeating the order. He steered him to the section of tape where the contents of the desktop were revealed. First the envelopes, then the cards. In the background, Boldt saw the tin can filled with pens and pencils. He directed the man to freeze-frame.

“Can you enlarge this?” Boldt asked.

“We’ve got some cool toys, Sergeant. We can enlarge anything, though we’ll lose resolution pretty fast on a tape this small.”

“Give me the pens and pencils,” Boldt said, pointing to the screen. Static sparked off the tip of his finger, and Boldt jumped back with the spark.

“A little tense, are we?” Kotch inquired.

The can of pens and pencils grew ever larger on the screen. What writing may have been on the pens was lost immediately, but it became quickly apparent that of the few items in the can, three of the pens were the same-button-operated ball points, short and thick. Cheap pens. Just what Lofgrin needed.

“Can you print that?”

“It’s not a very clear image. I can doctor it up some.”

“No time. Print it. It’s gorgeous. It’s exactly what we need.”

“The pens?” Kotch questioned earnestly. “You’re interested in a bunch of junk pens?”

“Interested? With those pens, the Scholar just signed his own death warrant.”

The printer began to sing.

Boldt smiled for the first time in days.