The First Victim

CHAPTER 76

Boldt’s initial surveillance team arrived as illegals scattered from the trawler, some diving into the water, some jumping ship to ship, a carnival of terror as only those incarcerated against their will can impart, for their reckless run to freedom, and their mass hysteria, overcomes any and all reason, thought or plan. The moment those women left the graveyard, they also left federal property, meaning that Detectives Heiman and Ringwold possessed the necessary authority to detain these women for questioning; but it wasn’t until Heiman thought to discharge his weapon-firing into the air over the water- that they gained any semblance of control, and by that time, as a few dozen of the women lay down flat on the wharf in response to the gunfire, far too many had escaped, leaving SPD, the Coast Guard and the INS coordinating their teams in the largest manhunt in city history. The public relations nightmare that arose over the course of the next few hours would eventually bring every member of the brass down to Public Safety for emergency meetings.

For his part, Boldt entered the ‘‘graveyard’’ as a guest of an Agent Prins, a U.S. Customs officer put onto the case by the U.S. Attorney. At the time of his arrival, Prins was in possession of a federal warrant entitling him to search and seizure for improperly imported goods, the product of quick thinking by the U.S. Attorney, whose reasoning was that a sweatshop required sewing machines and fabric, one or both of which had probably entered the country illegally. Furthermore, Customs had its own highly trained, heavily armed strike force-to conduct raids at warehouses, airports and aboard ships. Prins and his team, including a canine unit, followed in behind the chaos of the mass exodus of illegals in a military-like operation that left two Chinese gang members under arrest and two others wounded by gunfire. The dogs uncovered explosives in the hull of the ship based on information provided by McNeal. An FBI bomb squad was dispatched to assist.

Ambulances, fire trucks and every news team and crime reporter the city had to offer descended on the area, requiring overtime radio units for crowd control. When the third news helicopter appeared overhead and images began broadcasting live over CNN, a Coast Guard chopper was dispatched to disburse them and then to light the ship and the surrounding waters from where illegals were still being rescued. People living along Salmon Bay and the shore of the canal turned out onto their front porches in their pajamas to watch the spectacle despite the early hour. In an act of entrepreneurial ingenuity an ice cream truck showed up and toured the streets of Ballard, selling peach sticks and ice cream sandwiches at one o’clock in the morning. In police vernacular, the raid on the graveyard turned into a zoo scene.

By the time Coughlie and his INS Rapid Response Team arrived, a thorough search of the trawler was already under way, making for a heated argument between Prins and Coughlie. When Boldt walked into the captain’s cabin, where this discussion was taking place, Coughlie stopped talking midsentence.

‘‘You?’’ Coughlie said.

‘‘Me,’’ Boldt answered.

‘‘This doesn’t have to do with Customs.’’

‘‘Sure it does.’’

‘‘It’s a sham.’’

‘‘It’s a crime scene. Prins offered for me to tag along.’’

‘‘And I’m supposed to buy that?’’

‘‘I’m not selling,’’ Boldt advised him. ‘‘Shots were fired. Federal property or not, it’s within the county. It’s ours.’’

‘‘That may be; but the detention of the illegals, their captors and the ship itself are mine.’’

Sensing a knock-down-drag-out and briefed in advance by Boldt on what to do when Coughlie’s team arrived, Prins excused himself from the room, pulling the door shut.

‘‘Why the end run, Lieutenant?’’ Coughlie asked.

‘‘What end run?’’

‘‘Why the end run?’’ Coughlie returned. Neither man would play according to the other’s agenda. He held up one finger at a time. ‘‘Illegals? A sweatshop? A federal impound? If you had a lead, you should have called our house, not Customs, not FiBI es.’’

‘‘I’m telling you-I’m here at the invitation of Customs.’’

‘‘You’re here because they had access to federal property and you didn’t. They’re here because you wanted them to be, no matter how you two act it out. But I’m here now, and that’s all that matters. It’s our scene. Thank you very much for all you’ve contributed.’’

‘‘That’s not my call to make,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Sorry. SPD is here to investigate shots fired. We have two deaths and several wounded.’’

‘‘My team will do the search.’’

‘‘It’s not my call. You’ll have to take that up with Prins. He showed me a warrant-’’

‘‘What the hell is going on, Lieutenant?’’

‘‘Just doing my job, Agent Coughlie.’’

‘‘McNeal? Did I hear she was involved?’’

‘‘We haven’t interviewed her yet. Haven’t interviewed anyone.’’

‘‘It smells,’’ Coughlie said.

‘‘It stinks,’’ Boldt replied. On this, they struck their first moment of agreement.

There was a knock on the metal door followed by Prins. He was an athletic man in his mid-thirties. A sharp nose, vivid blue eyes. ‘‘Lookie what the boys found,’’ he said, holding up a callused hand.

He held a small tape in his hand-a tape from a digital video camera. ‘‘Thing was sewed into the collar of one of the polarfleece vests. You believe that shit? We might have never found it!’’

Coughlie coughed, his first uncontrolled, unchecked moment.

Boldt accepted the object from Prins and spun it around in the bad light. ‘‘It’s a digital tape.’’ He held it up for both to see and said, ‘‘This could make our entire case.’’

Prins said with astonishment, ‘‘We could have looked for this thing for weeks and never found it. Think of that!’’

Coughlie held out his hand. ‘‘I’ll take it, thank you.’’

Tension hung in the air as Boldt retained the tape.

Coughlie’s hand remained outstretched. ‘‘Lieutenant,’’ he said.

Boldt asked Prins about the chain of custody and the Customs man confirmed that since his boys had found it, it would have to go through their system.

‘‘Ridiculous!’’ Coughlie hollered, stepping forward. Addressing Prins he said, ‘‘The lieutenant and I have just established between us that this is in fact an INS operation. Any evidence-all evidence- will go in under our umbrella.’’

Boldt corrected him. ‘‘We established that it was for you and Agent Prins and the U.S. Attorney’s office to work out. SPD’s only concern is the shootings and the homicides.’’

‘‘Then shut up!’’ Coughlie said inappropriately, ‘‘and let me work this out with Agent Prins.’’ He tried to forge a smile onto his face, but it wouldn’t take, resulting instead in a snarl.

‘‘The person who deserves this,’’ Boldt told Prins, ‘‘is McNeal. She’s been after this tape for two weeks. And in all honesty, the way it worked out for us in terms of the courts was that although the camera was ours, the intellectual property-the images-belong to the station. The sooner we get this to McNeal, the sooner we all find out what’s on there.’’

‘‘So I sign it off to McNeal to make a copy for us,’’ Prins said. ‘‘Anybody have any problem with that?’’ he directed to Coughlie, who held his tongue. ‘‘We schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning when we’ll all view it together-all of us in one room at the same time. That way nobody gets bent out of shape. Right? Okay with everyone?’’

Coughlie’s brow knitted angrily. His face looked the color of ash. He couldn’t argue this.

Boldt said, ‘‘Fine. Makes sense to me.’’

‘‘It’s INS evidence,’’ Coughlie objected one more time. ‘‘Anything and everything in this ship-’’

‘‘You want to do the dance, we’ll do the dance,’’ Prins said. ‘‘But tonight, right now, this is mine. I’m with Boldt. I say it goes to McNeal so at least we get a copy that we can view on a VCR. You want to battle me on this, you want to freeze this thing in some property room until the courts sort it out, you can do so in the morning. But tonight

it’s mine, and that’s how it’s playing out.’’

‘‘We’ll see about that,’’ Coughlie challenged.

‘‘The search warrant has my signature on it, Agent Coughlie. This tape was found inside a ship that is listed on the warrant as a target of that search. All of this went through the U.S. Attorney’s office, which is-I might remind you-is the same office to which you will make your appeal. We’re on the same side! We both want the bad guys! Don’t fight me on this!’’

Coughlie’s paste complexion went scarlet. ‘‘We’ll see.’’ He stormed out past Boldt, his frustration following behind him like a vapor trail.