Midnight Rambler

by James Swain

  “On what grounds?” Saunders said.

  “Make something up,” I said.

  “I can't do that.”

  “Why not? You're the law.”

  “Two reasons. Skell just got released from prison, and his lawyer is with him,” Saunders said. “Arresting him is a one-way ticket to North Dakota.”

  North Dakota was where FBI agents got sent as punishment. I handed the phone back to Linderman. He ended the call and folded the phone.

  “We need to go over to the Executive Suites,” I said.

  “I just told you Jack, everything's under control.”

  “No, it's not,” I said.

  “You're sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  Linderman's shoulder twitched again. Then he pulled his keys out of his pocket, and I followed him out the door.

  Traffic in Broward was as unpredictable as the weather. Although the Executive Suites was not far, the drive took twenty minutes. We pulled into the parking lot, cursing.

  The FBI's surveillance van was parked in a handicap spot and was painted to look like a dry-cleaning service. Linderman tapped three times on the rear door. The door opened, and Saunders hopped out.

  “Skell hasn't gone anywhere,” Saunders said, lighting a cigarette. “His suite is right in view, and there are no back windows he can escape through.”

  “Has he had any visitors?” I asked.

  “Chase Winters, the movie producer, paid him a visit fifteen minutes ago,” Saunders said. “He's also staying at the hotel.”

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “He was bringing some stuff to Skell.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Saunders shook his head.

  “Did you film Winters going into Skell's room?”

  Saunders nodded while exhaling a large purple plume.

  “I need to see it,” I said.

  We climbed into the back of the van. The interior was filled with sophisticated electronic monitoring equipment. Saunders's partner sat up front wearing a pair of headphones, and he gave us the thumbs-up.

  One wall of the van was nothing but digital monitors. Saunders played the tape of Winters going into Skell's suite. Winters wore loose-fitting designer clothes, a baseball cap, and shades. His diamond earring sparkled as he walked. Clutched to his chest was an open cardboard box containing several bottles of champagne. Dangling from his fingers was a plastic bag from CVS.

  Winters used his foot to knock on the door to Skell's suite. The door opened, and Skell stuck his head out. He looked around, then put his arm around Winters's shoulder and ushered him inside.

  The tape ended. Saunders hit a button, and the monitor switched back to real time.

  “I want to know what's inside that bag from CVS,” I said.

  Saunders looked at Linderman as if seeking confirmation.

  “I think that's a good idea,” Linderman said.

  Saunders called the CVS pharmacy on the corner. A minute later he had an answer.

  “Chase Winters made six purchases on his Visa Card,” Saunders said. “Razors, shaving cream, a box of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, a package of sewing needles, and a can of black shoe polish.”

  Linderman looked at me. “What did he want with that stuff?”

  I shook my head. There was no way of knowing what Skell was up to.

  “The movie producer is coming out,” Saunders's partner announced.

  On the monitor we saw Chase Winters emerge from Skell's suite. He was holding the cardboard box up to his chest, and his baseball cap was pulled down low. His diamond earring continued to sparkle. He walked to his own suite, unlocked the door, and went in.

  Something didn't feel right. Without thinking I lifted my head, and banged the roof of the van. The pain made me see the discrepancy.

  “Play the tape again,” I said.

  Linderman and Saunders stared at me.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Saunders replayed the tape. I brought my face to the screen and stared at Winters's feet. He was wearing black tennis sneakers. They didn't match his outfit, and I was reminded of Shannon Dockery's abduction at Disney. Her abductors had painted her shoes instead of switching them because shoe sizes were hard to predict.

  Then I knew. The man we'd just seen wasn't Chase Winters. It was Skell, wearing Winters's clothes and earring, his sneakers colored with dark shoe polish. He had staged his escape right beneath our noses.

  “That's Skell,” I shouted.

  The FBI agents beat me out of the van and across the lot.

  With weapons drawn, they took down the door to Winters's suite. I waited a few seconds before following them inside. This was their show, not mine.

  The living room was empty, save for the cardboard box lying on the floor. I walked into the bedroom and found Saunders and his partner climbing through an open window that led to a courtyard behind the motel. They had checked Skell's suite for escape windows, but not Winters's suite. My nightmare had become reality. Skell was free.

  As Saunders and his partner ran across the courtyard in pursuit, Linderman frantically punched numbers into his cell phone and called for backup.

  “Where's the other teams?” I asked.

  Linderman looked at me, not understanding.

  “You said there would be three teams of agents assigned to watch Skell. Where are the other two teams?”

  Linderman shook his head. He didn't know. I cursed and started to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Linderman asked.

  “Next door,” I said. “I want to see what he did to them.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The door to Skell's suite was unlocked. So as not to taint the crime scene, I twisted the knob using my shirttail, then used my shoe to open the door.

  I stuck my head into the darkened space. So did my dog, who'd climbed out of the 4Runner to join me.

  The living room had its shades drawn, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The sounds of a man's tortured breathing filled the void and painted pictures in the dark too gruesome to describe. I opened the door all the way and let sunlight flood the room.

  A hazy cloud of cigarette smoke hung lifelessly in the air, as did the sweet smell of champagne. I drew my Colt as I stepped inside.

  “Ahhh.”

  The voice was muffled. My eyes scanned the room's interior. Leonard Snook sat in the corner, tied to a chair with a bedsheet. A sock was stuck in his mouth, and his face was turning a violent shade of blue. He had also soiled himself.

  “How's the book coming?” I asked.

  “Uhhh.”

  “I should let you die, you know that.”

  “Ahhh.”

  I pulled the sock out of his mouth, and Snook sucked down air.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  Snook began to weep. The shock was so great he could not speak. I kicked the leg of the chair with my foot. The jolt made him sit upright.

  “Start talking,” I said.

  “He made me watch,” the attorney sobbed.

  “Did he kill them in front of you?”

  Snook shut his eyes, forcing out tears.

  “Yes.”

  “The FBI was listening to the room,” I said. “You had to know that. Why didn't you scream for help?”

  “He said if I screamed, he'd kill me.”

  “You're a coward,” I said.

  “Untie me, please.”

  I heard Buster whining. He was standing at the bedroom door with his hackles up. I left Snook and went to the door. It was closed, and I covered my hand with my shirttail before twisting the knob. Then I went in.

  The bedroom was dark, and I flicked on the lights as I entered. A man lay on the bed in his underwear. The left side of his head was crushed in, and his throat was slit from ear to ear. His eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. I looked at the recognizable portion of his face and decided it was Chase Winters.

  A broken champagne bottle lay beside
Winters's body. I guessed that Skell had killed him while celebrating, then stolen his clothes. The wounds Skell had inflicted were so severe that Winters had bled out, and I pulled my dog back so he didn't step in it.

  I made Buster sit in the corner, then noticed several loose sheets of paper lying on the floor beside the bed. I picked one up without bothering to cover my hand. It was the cover page to a movie contract with Paramount Pictures for a film based on the life of Simon Skell. The working title was Midnight Rambler.

  My dog let out a pitiful whine. He could smell the death and despair and pure evil that had inhabited the room. I looked around the room for Lorna Sue Mutter. She wasn't in the closet or stuffed beneath the bed. I noticed a sliver of light streaming out from beneath the bathroom door. I crossed the room and knocked gently on the door.

  “Lorna Sue?”

  Nothing. I tapped again.

  “Are you in there?”

  Still nothing. I wanted to believe she might still be alive, even though I felt certain she wasn't. Despite our run-in outside the police station, I did not hate her. She had found it within her heart to love a monster. If more people had done that with Skell, he might not have become the person he was.

  “I'm coming in.”

  My body pressed against the bathroom door, and I heard it click open. I pushed the door open a few inches, and Buster pushed it open a few more.

  The bathroom was large and contained a shower stall and a tub. The sink was filled with clippings from Skell's beard. On the floor I spied a bloody cotton ball, which Skell had used to pierce his own ear.

  Lorna Sue Mutter lay in the tub, submerged in water. She was faceup, and her big hair floated in the water like a dead animal.

  Like Winters, her eyes and mouth were wide open. I'd heard it said that death was the ultimate aphrodisiac, but the look on Lorna Sue's face told me otherwise. It was the look of betrayal, and love gone horribly bad.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I walked outside into the blinding sunshine. A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot, and two cops hurried inside. Linderman stood nearby with his phone pressed to his ear and a disgusted look on his face. He said, “All three of them dead?”

  “He spared Snook,” I said.

  “You never know when you'll need a good lawyer.”

  “You on hold?”

  “Waiting for the police,” he said.

  Although I knew the answer to my next question, I asked it anyway.

  “Any trace of Skell?”

  “Looks like he stole a car and took off. Tell me what you think of this.”

  He removed a photograph from his pocket and handed it to me. It showed Melinda lying provocatively on a bed without any clothes on. She was smiling through clenched teeth.

  “Saunders found it in the courtyard behind the hotel,” Linderman said. “He thinks Skell dropped it running away.”

  “How would Skell have gotten this?”

  “Snook must have given it to him.”

  I stared at the photo. Melinda looked just like the other victims I'd seen in Bash's trailer. That surprised me, and I flipped the photo over. There was writing on the back.

  #9.

  The number's significance was slow to register. When it did, I showed the writing to Linderman. He didn't understand, and I grabbed his arm.

  “I was wrong,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “Skell isn't obsessed with Melinda.”

  “I thought you said she had sent him over the edge.”

  I pointed at the #9 on the back of the photograph.

  “This is how the gang identifies the victims, by numbers. Melinda's just another number to him. She isn't what fuels his rages.”

  The FBI had given Linderman an award for his accomplishments in hunting down serial killers. Understanding a serial killer's motivation was the only possible way of stopping them. He took the photo from my hands and studied it.

  “Then why did Skell come to Fort Lauderdale?” he asked.

  “To frame me.”

  “Why not let his gang do that?”

  “The gang tried. They killed a prostitute named Joy Chambers and tried to pin it on me. They left enough evidence behind that the police knew it wasn't me.”

  “So Skell wanted to make sure they didn't blow it this time.”

  “Yes.”

  Linderman nodded. Then he took out his car keys.

  “Get in the car,” he said.

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “To the beach. The Rasta told you Jonny Perez was taking Melinda to a marina so he could dump her body in the ocean, right?”

  “That's right,” I said. “Only the Rasta didn't remember the marina's name.”

  “Your office is at a marina, isn't it?”

  We drove to Tugboat Louie's with the blue light flashing on the dashboard of the 4Runner. This time, traffic got out of our way. I called Bobby Russo and told him what was going on. Then I called Kumar and told him to be on the lookout for the police.

  Kumar was standing in the parking lot as we pulled in. His oversized bow tie was undone, and he looked upset. Two police cruisers were parked by the front door with their bubble lights flashing. A Jimmy Buffet song about getting wasted filled the air.

  Linderman and I hopped out of the 4Runner and approached Kumar.

  “Jack! I'm so glad you are here,” Kumar said. “The police arrived five minutes ago, just like you said they would. Can you please tell me what's going on?”

  I introduced Linderman. Seeing the badge pinned to Linderman's lapel, Kumar fell silent.

  “I need to talk to you about a man named Jonny Perez,” Linderman said.

  “I know this man,” Kumar said.

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yes. Perez keeps a boat in my dry dock. He's a strange character, that is for sure.”

  “How recently have you seen him?” Linderman asked.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” Kumar said. “Is he involved in this?”

  I ran around the parking lot looking for the stolen Nova. It was illegally parked in a handicap spot. I searched the interior and popped the trunk. No Melinda.

  I went back to where Kumar was standing with Linderman.

  “Perez was walking with a limp,” Kumar said. “His shirt was pulled out, and it was stained in the back. He had a beautiful woman with him, very tall and very blond, and she looked drunk. They were walking to the dry dock, and several times she nearly fell down. It was obvious she should have been at home, sleeping it off.”

  “Didn't you find his behavior strange?” Linderman asked.

  “I own a bar,” Kumar said. “I see a lot of strange behavior.”

  “What happened then?”

  “As they reached the dry dock, the woman fell and couldn't get up,” Kumar said. “I went over and offered my assistance. Then a second man appeared and started to help Perez. They appeared to be friends, so I left.”

  “What did this second man look like?” Linderman asked.

  “He had a baseball cap on and sunglasses. I didn't get a good look at his face. I did notice that he was missing a finger on both his hands.”

  “Did you see them leave in Perez's boat?”

  Kumar nodded. “Perez owns a Boston Whaler. It's probably the smallest boat in the marina. I saw the boat leave with the three of them in it.”

  “Did they go inland, or out to the ocean?” I asked.

  “To the ocean,” Kumar said.

  “Anything else you remember?” Linderman asked.

  Kumar scratched his chin. “I did find one thing strange.”

  “What's that?” we both asked.

  “The man who runs the dry dock is not on good terms with Perez. They have had words many times. I was surprised he got Perez's boat out so quickly.”

  A good ole boy named Clyde ran the dry dock. Clyde had issues with dark skin and foreign accents. I took off running toward the dry dock, knowing what Perez and Skell must have done to persuade Cly
de to get Perez's boat.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The dry dock was a blue-and-gold manufactured aluminum building designed like an airplane hangar. Inside, powerboats rested on steel-framed bunks stacked one atop the other, right up to the vaulted ceiling. A portable hydraulic lift, used to move the boats, sat in the corner as I entered. Normally, Clyde sat in a beach chair beside the lift, listening to country and western music while spitting tobacco juice on the ground.

  Clyde's chair was empty, and his radio was turned off. I looked around the building for a sign of where he might have gone. The building did not have air-conditioning, and the air hung hot and still. Buster had disappeared, and I could hear him whining and scratching on wood. I followed the sound to a storage closet in the back.

  “Good dog,” I said.

  I pulled open the heavy sliding door. Sunlight filled the closet's interior, and I saw a sunburned man lying on the floor, holding his stomach with both hands and moaning. A large stain covered the bottom of his denim shirt.

  “Clyde?”

  “Don't hurt me,” he begged.

  “It's Jack Carpenter. Where you hit?”

  “That bastard Perez shot me in the stomach,” Clyde said.

  Linderman entered the building. I called him over, and we pulled Clyde out of the closet by his ankles. Linderman started to tend to Clyde's wound while I dialed 911.

  “Jack, he's okay,” Linderman said.

  “How can he be okay?”

  Linderman tossed me a pint metal flask that he'd pulled from Clyde's pants. The flask had a bullet hole in it. Holding it to my nose, I smelled rum. I saw Clyde tenderly rub his stomach.

  “Lucky you,” I said.

  Linderman called the Broward office of the FBI and asked for a cutter to be sent to the mouth of the canal leading out of Tugboat Louie's. The FBI, which was responsible for handling criminal investigations in waters twelve miles off shore, kept a high-speed cutter and crew on twenty-four-hour alert in nearby Port Everglades. It was the best chance we had of finding Perez's boat.

  Linderman and I walked outside the hangar and waited for the cutter to arrive. Kumar came down the dock and pulled me into the hangar's cool shade.