No Witnesses

Less than ninety minutes later, at 11:30 A.M., a RID-ALL Pest Control van turned left past a pair of green recycling bins into the driveway of 1821 Cascadia. Dixie had arranged it; State Health used the van for low-profile inquiries exactly like this.

Boldt parked his Chevy on the street. He wore a RID-ALL windbreaker and carried a brushed aluminum clipboard clasped in his big fist. The neighbors were certain to have heard of Slater Lowry’s illness. This small effort to disguise police involvement-an involvement that remained unofficial and went strictly against the blackmailer’s demands-seemed well worth the short delay it had caused. Inside the van four State Health field technicians, outfitted in what amounted to environmental space suits, awaited a go-ahead from Boldt.

He introduced himself to a strikingly handsome woman and displayed his police identification. Pointing to the logo silk-screened onto the jacket he explained, “Just a precaution against curious neighbors.”

“A precaution against what?” she asked, immediately suspicious.

“If you have a minute?”

She apologized and showed him inside.

She gave her name as Betty, closing the door behind him. Germanic ancestry, in her late thirties, she had boyish blond hair, bright blue eyes, and wore fashion jeans and a T-shirt bearing Van Gogh’s Irises. She had small, high breasts, square shoulders, and a straight spine. A brave intensity flashed in her eyes. She wasn’t one to be pushed around, he noted. She showed him into a baby boomer’s living room: hardwood floor, cream canvas couches, a brick fireplace, surround-sound speakers.

She offered him tea and he accepted. He wanted her comfortable. He wanted her calm.

A few minutes later she returned with the tea and explained, “A man from the State Health Department called me late yesterday. He asked a lot of questions. Which restaurants we frequented, markets. That sort of thing. I can understand State Health. But what’s the interest of the police?”

“The van in the drive,” he said, “it’s State Health.”

“But you are not,” she fired back. She looked up as she poured. “You visited Slater this morning.” He nodded. “I keep track. I don’t want the press bothering him.”

“I have a two-year-old,” he said, though it sounded stupid once he heard it.

“Why?” she asked sternly. “Why the visit? What are you doing here?”

“It’s unofficial, my interest-” he explained. This wasn’t easy for him. He wanted to break it to her gently, but she was all business. Her boy was critical. A cop was sitting on her couch. How would Liz have reacted? Her jaw muscles tightened and the teapot danced slightly under her direction. He was relieved to see this. The exterior was hard, but the inside was human.

“What department are you with, Sergeant?”

There it was, he thought. She’d gone and done it. He could dodge it-answer a question with a question-he knew the tricks. Most of them. But he owed her.

“Homicide.” It came out more like a confession.

She blinked furiously, placed the tea down, and excused herself. After several excruciating minutes she returned with reddened eyes. “Okay, what’s going on?” she asked heatedly. Angry. Her eyes a hard blue ice.

“We don’t know.”

“Bullshit! He’s my boy. You tell me, damn it! You tell me everything.” She hesitated. “Homicide?” she asked.

“We investigate all crimes against persons. That may-only may-be what we have here.”

She crossed her arms tightly. “Meaning?”

“We can’t confirm any of this.”

“Any of what?” she fumed.

He explained it in general terms: A company had received threats; those threats included a reference to Slater’s illness; there may or may not be a connection; State Health field technicians were on call in the van outside hoping for her permission to look for any such connection.

“It’s entirely up to you, but I’ll tell you honestly: We need your cooperation and we need your candor. We don’t want anyone else joining Slater in the hospital.”

“May I call my husband?”

“You may call your husband. You may throw me out.” She rose and headed toward the kitchen door. He hurried, “Or you can give me a go-ahead.”

It stopped her. She looked exhausted all of a sudden. “You don’t want me to call him.”

“I want to control this, to keep it controlled. If he’s upset, if he has to leave the office, he’ll say something. You see? That’s out of my control. That worries me.”

“What’s his name?” she asked. “Your boy?” She moved back toward the couch. She was distant. Dazed.

“Miles,” he answered. “I love jazz. My wife and I like jazz.”

“Yes,” she said. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Children.” She looked up and they met eyes. Hers were pooled. “It’s a beautiful name: Miles.”

The search was its own kind of terror. The van disgorged the four technicians-two women and two men- wearing green jumpsuits, Plexiglass goggles, and elbow-length orange rubber gloves with a space-age silver material covering the palms and fingers to protect against sharpies. They wore high rubber boots. Paper filters covered their mouths. Technomonsters.

Lou Boldt and Betty Lowry looked on as these aliens methodically searched and stripped the kitchen from the deep freeze to the dustpan. The contents of every food cabinet, the pantry, and the home’s two refrigerators were removed, examined, sorted, inventoried, or returned. The occasional item was confiscated to a thick, glassine bag that was then sealed, labeled, and placed inside a bright red plastic bag that read Contaminated Waste in a winding chain of bold, black lettering. The crew’s leader kept a careful inventory. At a future date the great state of Washington would replace or return these items. What Betty Lowry was to do in the interim was not discussed. A narrow bottle of horseradish. A can of chocolate syrup. Two yogurts long past their sale date.

Every toilet bowl in the house was wiped down with paper tissues bearing stenciled numbers. Each was bagged separately.

Betty Lowry cradled herself in tightly crossed arms as she watched the desecration of her home. The crew worked silently and efficiently, the effect disarming. Boldt experienced her sense of violation and wondered which side he was on. The technicians spoke to each other using a clipped, highly specialized verbiage that further isolated them.

The last kitchen item to be bagged and labeled was the electric can opener. As they moved outside to work the trash, they left behind a kitchen stripped of its character. The teapot was gone from the stove. The entire disposal unit had been removed from the sink, along with a part of the faucet nozzle, leaving the immediate need of a plumber-something not discussed. The salt and pepper shakers were gone. The coffee grinder had been labeled and bagged-removed-as if Slater Lowry had been drinking a cup of home brew on the day he took ill. It suddenly looked like a real estate model home. A distraught but brave Betty Lowry glared up at Boldt, blaming him. He offered a look of concern, but made no apology.

She stood away from him as they listened uncomfortably to the crew’s rummaging through the trash like a bunch of rats. At one point she mumbled, “It was picked up a couple days ago. They won’t find anything.” Boldt nodded, but he didn’t stop them. They had been cued to pay particular attention for any Adler Foods products. So far, not one had been found.

Forty-five minutes after it had arrived, the van drove away, having cut a swath through Betty Lowry’s home and her life, taking off like a thief with oversize red bags of discarded garbage, and leaving her with only a multipage yellow receipt bearing some scribbles and the familiarity of her own signature.

The last room to be searched was Slater’s bedroom. Boldt and Betty Lowry watched the van depart from this window. There were sports posters and a well-traveled basketball, a Macintosh computer and a Webster’s dictionary. In the closet was a shoe box filled with army men and another filled with trading cards. Three pairs of sneakers and a pair of soccer shoes. A model of the Space Shuttle, incomplete.

She picked up the model and held it at eye level.