The Pied Piper by Ridley Pearson

‘I’ll go get my tape recorder. It sounds like a burglar,’ I tell her.” He sought sympathy between them. Found none. “She told me a car would do the neighborhood, but did I ever see one?”
    â€œWere you burglarized?” Daphne asked. “A patrol car may have in fact come by.”
    â€œThat’s a crock of shit, and we both know it.”
    â€œOn any other occasions did you—”
    â€œThe next time I was in my car. I was driving the neighborhood, coming home from work. Two, three blocks north. I passed a guy getting into his van. You know, what do you call them? A bug sprayer—”
    â€œAn exterminator,” Daphne answered, feeling weak in her stomach. This matched Daech’s information.
    â€œAn exterminator!” Weinstein agreed. “And I swear he was watching me, even though he looked away. It may sound crazy to you but—”
    â€œIt doesn’t,” Daphne assured him. She appreciated witness testimonies and put more faith in them than her colleagues. Sometimes the content was off, but the littlest details right on target.
    â€œAnd so I called again. Right? Same thing from you people: Was he on my property? Did he make a verbal threat? Was there any physical contact?” He shook his head disgustedly. “And now this …,” he mumbled.
    â€œThe vehicle?” Daphne asked, displaying no excitement in her voice. “A van, you said. What color van?”
    â€œSo now you care? Is that what you’re saying? You people are too much, you know that?”
    â€œThe color of the van?” Daphne pressed.
    â€œWhite.”
    â€œTell me about the driver,” she encouraged.
    â€œWhat’s to tell?” he asked. “Face was covered up. Goggles. One of those mouth things.”
    â€œA respirator,” she supplied.
    â€œYeah. And what do I get from the cops? Questions. And here you are again, same thing. What’s any of it matter to Hayes? A dollar short and a day late is what it is. I’m going to sue you people. Goddamn it, I’m going to sue you!”
    The door was opened by a woman doctor wearing a white lab coat and a grim expression. She took in both Weinsteins with her sad eyes and slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this—” she said.

CHAPTER

    â€œLou! We have a situation!” Daphne shouted frantically as she ran past his office door. Boldt knew her well enough not to question. He left his office at a run and followed her down the stairs, two at a time. The fifth floor, Crimes Against Persons—Homicide—remained his emotional home. His time with Intelligence, required for his advancement, felt more like a probationary sentence.
    He guessed: two officers going at it; a suspect loose; a threatened suicide—police work did strange things to people.
    They reached the entrance to Homicide and peered through the safety glass. “Who is that?” Boldt asked, seeing a man waving a police-issue 9mm at a semicircle of a dozen uniformed and plainclothes officers, all perfectly still.
    â€œSidney Weinstein. Father of the second child,” she answered. “His mother is the homicide. We asked him down to view mug shots because he may have had a look at the Pied Piper.” Her breath fogged the glass.
    â€œThis is not good,” he said.
    â€œYou see who I see?” she asked.
    â€œWish I didn’t.”
    Well behind Sidney Weinstein and just around the corner, Dunkin Hale and Gary Flemming, there for the four o’clock task force meeting, observed the chaos.
    Boldt signaled the receptionist to admit them. Weinstein was shouting obscenities and complaints about the incompetence of the police. “My mother and my child!” he cried out.
    The receptionist slowly lifted her arm and depressed the button that freed the secured door. Sidney Weinstein, hearing the electronic buzzing, waved the gun frantically, parting the