“Those fibers can put this boy away, Lou. Are you hearing me?”
That comment, the way Lofgrin whispered it in a menacing tone, broke Boldt’s attention away from his house. He looked down into those bulbous eyes, magnified to the point of grotesque. “Blue and silver fibers,” Boldt repeated. “I’m with you, Bernie.”
“Found on at least two crime scenes. Just so we understand each other.” Nothing infuriated Lofgrin more than providing a detective with key evidence, only to have it overlooked. Boldt knew this, and because of that exchange, because of Lofgrin’s delivery, he took the information to heart: Lofgrin believed in those fibers.
“I’m at eight feet, six inches,” the man operating the vacuum reported.
Lofgrin called him off. A decision was made to drill through Boldt’s kitchen wall and drain the Part B chemical from below. As this decision was being relayed, the night sky lit up with a thin column of purple flame that raced up through the clouds and disappeared. It was less than four miles away, in Ballard. Within minutes it was a five alarm fire. Lofgrin’s attention remained on the delicate job before him. The distant sound resembled that of a jet taking off. That purple column lasted perhaps ten seconds. Sirens screamed in the distance.
Lofgrin said, “We’re okay here, Lou. You go see if your boy’s up a tree with a carving knife.”
Boldt didn’t want to leave his own home, but he did. The crime scene work lasted until three in the morning, at which point he drove to his own home and found it standing.
Another woman was believed dead, another life lost. There was word that all three networks were sending New York crews to shoot the fire remains.
An exhausted Shoswitz reported that despite the cooperation at the field level, the FBI, military CID, ATF, and upper brass of SPD were fighting for control of the investigation. His final comment was, “It’s coming apart on us, Lou. Talk about blowing up! Too many cooks, and this thing will die in bureaucratic backstabbing and name calling. We’re looking at one giant cluster fuck. And it’s you and me bending over, pal.”
Boldt did not remember drifting off to sleep but was awakened at his desk at 7 A.M. by an alert and excited John LaMoia. Boldt’s neck was stiff and his head dull. LaMoia waited a moment to make sure he had his sergeant’s full attention. “You remember Garman telling us his truck was stolen, his Werner ladder in the back?” He continued, “The truck was for real. He owned it, all right. But he’s got a little explaining to do. He never reported it stolen to us, Sarge. More incredible, he never claimed the insurance.”
Boldt focused on this a moment, allowed his head to clear. “Let’s pick him up,” he ordered.
LaMoia nodded and beamed. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it, Sarge?”
It was pouring rain outside.
44
On the way to Garman’s house, LaMoia and Boldt, accompanied by a patrol car following at a close distance, listened not to KPLU, Boldt’s jazz station of choice, but rather a random sampling of the AM radio talk shows and all-news stations. The latest victim was identified as Veronica DeLatario. She was the Scholar’s fourth known murder victim, and Boldt could describe her before he ever saw her: dark hair, nice figure, mother of a boy between the ages of eight and ten. The radio shows blasted police for arresting the wrong man, in Nicholas Hall, and chastised all city services for the huge display of manpower at a police sergeant’s home-“one of their own”-while Veronica De-Latario was “being stalked” and burned to death by a serial arsonist.
It came out that the police had received another poem earlier in the day, accompanied by a melted green piece of plastic, and “had done nothing about it.”
There were animated discussions on the talk shows of the “need for new leadership.” Federal agencies had made some well-placed leaks about their desire to run the show and take SPD out. Boldt resented this most of all, because he knew that on the officer level SPD and the agencies were cooperating just fine. It was only at the administrative level that the power plays were under way.
LaMoia, unable to bear it any longer, switched the radio back to Boldt’s favorite, KPLU, and they listened to the horn of Wynton Marsalis.
I-5 traffic was unbearably slow in both directions. Even with police lights and sirens, they crawled along.
When Boldt’s pager and telephone rang within seconds of each other, he knew there was trouble. Perhaps Shoswitz intended to pull him from the investigation, now that Boldt felt within a few miles of its resolution. Garman’s role had nagged at him from the beginning: his being the target of the notes and, later, his Air Force service with its direct connection to missile bases. Their one interrogation had gone poorly, and even now, as they drove to bring him down for another round of questioning, no hard evidence existed against him.
Perhaps the call and page were from Liz, who had told her husband in no uncertain terms that she intended to return to Seattle on that very day, Tuesday. Perhaps Marina was unavailable and he was expected to be father for the day, while his wife did God-knows-what with God-knows-whom. He bristled with anger, even before he connected the call by flipping open the cellular phone. “Boldt,” he said sternly, drawing LaMoia’s attention.
“Are you near a radio?” It was Daphne.
“In the car.”
“Well fasten your seat belt and tune into KOMO AM.”
“We were just there.”
“Then you heard Garman?” she said heatedly.
“What about Garman?” Boldt asked, at which point LaMoia was nearly leaning onto Boldt trying to hear. Boldt elbowed him away.
“You ready for this?” she asked rhetorically. “Steven Garman, Marshal Five fire inspector, is currently in the process of confessing publicly to being the Scholar, our killer.”
Boldt nearly drove the car into a sideswipe. LaMoia snagged the wheel and saved them in a brilliantly timed reaction.
Boldt told his detective, “Garman just confessed.” With LaMoia still steering the car, Boldt punched the radio and located the station. It was Garman, all right. And he was well along in describing every last detail of his crimes.
It was fifteen minutes later before they pulled up in front of Garman’s residence, and the man was still live on the radio, by that point answering a string of questions offered up by the jock that seemed more an attempt to stall the man. Two local television remotes had beaten Boldt to the scene, and both stations went live with the arrival of the police.
“He’s locked in his apartment,” a reporter shouted at Boldt, sticking a microphone into his face. “What’s the position of the Seattle Police?”
Boldt wanted to issue a “no comment,” always the safest decision. But he feared a backlash if he came off as soft or undecided. “We’re here to arrest Mr. Garman on a variety of charges stemming from a string of fatal arsons within King County.”
A helicopter roared onto the scene and landed incredibly quickly in a vacant lot. Boldt recognized Special Agent Sanders hurrying through the swirling dust and debris.
LaMoia pushed away the reporter’s microphone, leaned into Boldt, and said, “We better be first to take him.”
They ran up the steps, Sanders shouting from behind. Boldt nodded to his detective, who tried the door, called out a warning, and then reared back and kicked the door twice. It remained locked but broke away from the splintered doorjamb and banged open.
Steven Garman sat peacefully in a recliner, telephone in hand. He spoke into the receiver. “Looks like my ride has arrived.”
LaMoia began calling out the Miranda above the roar and chaos and shouts coming up the steps behind them.
Lou Boldt, charged with anger and rage, nonetheless walked calmly up to Garman, took the phone out of his hand, and cradled the receiver. Under no conditions could he reveal his emotions to the suspect, give himself away. Garman had proven himself cool to the point of cold; Boldt needed all his wits about him.
Meeting Boldt’s eyes, Garman said venomously, “If you had caught me sooner, fewer would have died. You
