by James Swain
“Sorry, but I have an insatiable curiosity for cases that perplex me,” he said. “My wife says it borders on rudeness.”
Rose had told me the same thing many times. Taking a quarter from my pocket, I balanced it on my fingertips.
“Call it,” I said.
“Tails,” he said.
The quarter did several lazy gyrations above our heads. I slapped it on the back of my hand.
“Tails it is. You want to go first, or should I?”
Linderman hesitated. The sadness in his eyes was still there. I've heard it said that when you lose a child, you die every day.
“You go first,” he said. “I want to hear how you figured out Simon Skell was the Midnight Rambler.”
I paused to gather my thoughts. I'd spoken to no one about the case since the trial, and I didn't want to sound resentful for how things had turned out. As Jessie was fond of saying, it was water under the bridge.
Linderman sat with his hands folded in his lap. Something about his demeanor told me I could confide in him. Reaching across my desk, I punched a button on the CD player, and the Rolling Stones' “Midnight Rambler” came out of the speaker. The song, a thinly veiled homage to a notorious serial killer called the Boston Strangler, described a man breaking into women's houses late at night and brutally murdering them. The song was filled with rage; it described furniture and plateglass windows being broken, and how the Midnight Rambler tracked and killed his victims with a knife or a gun. Written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards in Positano, Italy, in 1969, it was recorded that same year at Olympic Studios in London and Elektra Studios in Los Angeles. At the time, the Stones were being billed as the Beatles' evil antithesis, and at their producer's urging, they wrote and recorded many dark songs, including “Sympathy for the Devil,” “Let it Bleed,” and “Paint it Black.” But nothing they recorded compared to the evil of “Midnight Rambler.”
The song was six minutes and fifty-two seconds long and had four distinct tempo changes, each rapidly building upon the next. I could not hear it played without imagining a terrified woman running for her life.
“Two and a half years ago, I went to an apartment complex in Fort Lauderdale where a prostitute named Chantel Roberts lived,” I began. “I'd known Chantel as a teenager when she was living on the streets, and I'd helped her out. We spoke about once a month. When the calls stopped, I decided to check up on her.
“Chantel's neighbors hadn't seen her in a while. I got the super to open her apartment, and there was no sign of foul play. Her car was also parked downstairs. I left the complex not sure what was going on. Driving away, I spotted graffiti on a schoolyard wall across the street and stopped to have a look. The graffiti was the opening lyrics to ‘Midnight Rambler,’ and included the words ‘The one that shut the kitchen door.’”
“The graffiti disturbed me, so I drove back to Chantel's apartment and got the super to open her place back up. In the kitchen was a swinging door, and I saw a man's shoe print to one side of where it had been kicked.
“I kept looking for Chantel but never found her. I knew she hadn't run away or just skipped town. I knew something was wrong.”
“How did you know that?” Linderman asked.
“On her kitchen table was a brochure for Broward Community College, with pencil checks next to classes for cosmetology. I called the school and learned she'd enrolled.”
“So she had dreams,” Linderman said.
I thought of his lost daughter and nodded.
“Yes. Chantel had dreams. Over the next fourteen months, I stopped hearing from other young women I knew in the sex industry, with each vanishing every few months. I'd go to their apartments or houses and find lyrics from ‘Midnight Rambler’ painted on a wall outside. If the lyric referenced something being smashed or broken, I would find that inside the dwelling.
“For a while, the case went nowhere. Then one day, a prostitute named Julie Lopez called, and said her sister Carmella, who was also a prostitute, was missing. I decided to visit Carmella's apartment and do a search. Nothing appeared out of place. Then I went outside and looked around. The lyrics were painted on the parking garage wall. Carmella had disappeared the day before, so I knew her trail was warm.
“I went to Bobby Russo, who heads up the homicide division of the Broward County Police Department, and asked for help. Russo put half his team on the case. One of them tracked down Carmella's cell phone service and obtained a list of phone calls Carmella had made the day she went missing.
“There were over forty messages. Carmella did out-calls, so we knew most of them were johns. Russo's detectives got the names and addresses for every one. We split them up, with each person taking five names.
“Simon Skell was on my list. I went to his house in Lauderdale Lakes and spoke with him. He was cordial and let me look around. I asked about Carmella, and he admitted hiring her for sex a few days before but said he hadn't seen her since. I asked him if he'd let a forensic team search his place, and he said yes.
“At that point, I didn't think Skell was our killer. He wasn't hiding anything and was actually quite friendly. His house was filled with books, and I saw a certificate from Mensa, the genius organization, hanging in his study, which didn't fit the profile of any killer I've ever hunted.
“I started to leave, and he offered me a cold drink. I said sure and followed him into the kitchen. A CD player was on the kitchen table, and I realized that I'd seen stereos and boom boxes and CD players in every room of the house. Skell was also wearing an iPod, and I asked him what kind of music he listened to.
“Skell just stared at me. He has strange eyes that are too small for his face. I saw a darkness in them that hadn't been there before. I knew something was wrong, and I hit the Play button on the CD player on the table, and ‘Midnight Rambler’ came out of the speaker. That's when I knew it was him.”
“Is that when he became violent?” Linderman asked.
I nodded solemnly.
“Did you provoke him?”
It's a question that I'd asked myself many times.
“No,” I said firmly.
“Then why did he become violent?”
“I have a couple of theories,” I said.
Linderman straightened in his chair. “Go ahead.”
“Skell's reaction to being arrested reminded me of many pedophiles I've arrested. They know their lives are about to become a living hell, so they get crazy.”
“Do you think Skell is a pedophile?”
I nodded again.
“But he doesn't have a record for pedophilia,” Linderman said.
“I think he's a closet pedophile,” I said. “Look at the victims he picked. They'd all been robbed of their childhoods and were emotionally immature.”
“Children in adult bodies,” Linderman said.
“That's right. I think Skell knew the consequences of preying on kids were severe, so he targeted immature women as a substitute. He chose women in the sex industry because he knew there would be less concern if they went missing.”
“Perfect victims,” Linderman said.
“Exactly. My other theory concerns Melinda Peters, the prosecution's key witness at Skell's trial. Skell kept her locked in a dog crate and played ‘Midnight Rambler’ on his stereo while standing in the next room. Melinda told me she thought he was masturbating. One day, Skell acted stressed out, and Melinda sensed he couldn't get an erection. She offered to have sex with him, and he let her out of the cage. That's when she bolted.
“I think Melinda's escaping sent Skell over the edge, and he went from being a closet pedophile to being a killer. He started picking up women who'd say they'd have sex with him, and murdered them.”
“So his fantasy changed from torturing women to killing them, with Melinda Peters fueling his rages.”
“That's correct.”
“I read in the newspaper that Skell's house was examined from top to bottom by a team of forensic experts and was absolutely clean,” Linderm
an said.
“Correct again.”
“So if you hadn't started his CD player, Skell would still be on the loose.”
“Yes.”
There was a brief silence as Linderman digested everything I'd said. Talking about the investigation had made me feel better, and I leaned back in my chair.
“Your turn,” I said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Linderman went to the blinds and darkened the room. I like to work in the light, and he was obviously someone who gravitated toward the dark. When he sat down, I saw weariness in his face and offered to get coffee from the bar.
“That would be great,” he said.
While waiting for my order, I called Jessie and got voice mail. I wished her luck in her basketball game tonight and told her about a dream I had where she was hitting three-pointers from all over the court. The bartender delivered a steaming pot and two mugs on a tray, and I went upstairs and served my guest.
Caffeine takes ten seconds to hit your bloodstream. Linderman's face sparked to life, and I topped off his cup without being asked. He nodded his appreciation and began.
“I happen to share one of your theories, which is that sexual killers like Skell start out as sexual predators and over time evolve into killers,” Linderman said. “This evolution is one of the reasons they're so difficult to apprehend. They often become experts at deception, learning to hide their impulses from society for many years.”
“So my assumption that Skell was a pedophile is probably true,” I said.
He placed his empty cup on the tray. “Oh, it's definitely true. I started looking at Skell the moment I came to Florida. He's lived all over the state. While living in Tampa he was suspected of being a pedophile. The police saw him in his car near several schools. He was also caught frequenting teenage girl chat rooms on the Internet. It wasn't enough to enable us to arrest him, but he was definitely on everyone's radar.”
“Why did you start looking at him?” I asked out of curiosity.
“He lived in Miami five years ago,” Linderman said.
The same time Linderman's daughter lived there, I thought.
“Part of my job is to analyze killers like Skell to find recognizable behavioral patterns,” Linderman said. “These patterns usually explain motivation, which is essential to prosecution and conviction. Recently, I began examining the transcripts of Skell's trial. I believe I may have uncovered something.”
I grew rigid in my chair.
“Something I missed?”
“Yes. I'm sure it did not seem significant at the time, but that's because you're not trained in criminal psychology. But it was significant to me.”
“What did you find?”
“Melinda Peters testified that ‘Midnight Rambler’ was constantly played during her imprisonment in Skell's home. The song she heard was a different version of the song you just played for me. Skell played the live version for Melinda Peters, taken off an album called Get Your Ya Yas Out.”
I knew this, having listened to the live version as well. The lyrics were the same as the album cut, and I hadn't given the detail any weight.
“So?”
“The live version has a unique lineage,” Linderman said. “It was recorded during the Stones' 1969 tour of the United States and is part of the soundtrack of a documentary called Gimme Shelter. The film chronicles a free concert given at Altamont Speedway in California. The concert was a disaster, with eight hundred and fifty people injured, three killed, and a black man murdered by a gang of Hells Angels hired as security in plain view of the band.
“The resulting publicity nearly destroyed the Stones' careers. If you watch the film carefully, the band appears to want something violent to happen during their set. When it does, the Stones are playing ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ and they continue to play.”
“Goading the violence on?”
“It certainly looks that way on the film. Vincent Canby, the film critic for the New York Times, was so outraged that he called the movie an opportunistic snuff flick.”
“And you think this is what fuels Simon Skell's rages.”
“No. They fuel his rituals,” Linderman said.
“What's the difference?”
“Psychosexual disorders are defined as paraphilias, which are recurrent, intense, and sexually arousing fantasies that involve humiliation or suffering. The partners in these fantasies are often minors or nonconsenting partners.”
“I'm with you so far,” I said.
“The presence of paraphilias in sex crimes generally means highly repetitive and predictable behavior patterns focused on specific sexual acts. The repetitive nature of the paraphilia is the ritual. To become aroused, Skell must engage in the act.”
“And Skell's paraphilia is to listen to the live version of ‘Midnight Rambler’ while torturing his victims,” I said.
“All evidence points to that,” Linderman said. “Gimme Shelter was released in 1970, when Skell was seven years old. That's the age when paraphilias usually develop. My guess is, he saw the film and was sexually stimulated by the song's violence toward women and the film's violence. Over time, the two became linked.”
“And a deviant was born.”
“Precisely. But that's the problem with this case. Based upon everything we know about sexual killers, Skell should have been caught long ago, and with far more evidence than what was presented at his trial.”
I swallowed the rising lump in my throat. The faces of the victims were staring at us, and I could almost feel their shame.
“Did I screw up the investigation?” I asked.
“Far from it,” Linderman said. “If not for you, Skell would still be murdering young women.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“What I'm saying, Jack, is that it's amazing you did catch him.
Most people who engage in sexual rituals cannot change their habits, even when they suspect law-enforcement scrutiny. As a result, they make need-driven mistakes and are their own worst enemies. But this isn't true with Skell. He chose his victims with utmost care and made them disappear in a way that so far has defied detection.”
“Why is Skell different?”
Linderman paused to give me a probing stare.
“That's a good question. You believe that Skell is a pedophile who evolved into a serial killer. I think he's evolved even further. He's used his superior intellect to become organized and ruthlessly efficient. A killing machine, if you like. Only he can't do any killing from behind bars, so he's now orchestrating his own release from prison.”
“You think he's behind this smear campaign against me?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do Leonard Snook and Lorna Sue Mutter stand to gain, besides seeing themselves on TV?”
“A million-dollar movie deal.”
“But that's illegal.”
“Skell can't profit from his crimes, but his wife can, and she's signed a contract with a Hollywood studio,” Linderman said. “According to the FBI's sources, she's cut Snook in on the deal. He's getting a 20 percent cut and is executive producer.”
“Did you tell the police and the DA?”
“I briefed Bobby Russo and the district attorney yesterday,” Linderman said. “They both felt that unless more evidence was found linking Skell to his victims, he'll be released from Starke.”
Linderman was describing my worst nightmare, and I slowly came out of my chair.
“What can I do?”
“Keep digging for evidence,” Linderman said. “You should also be thinking about what you're going to do if Skell is released.”
His words were slow to register.
“Do?” I asked.
“If Skell walks, he'll come after you. You're the person he's most afraid of, as evidenced by the campaign he's waging against you. In order for him to continue to survive and practice his rituals, he'll have to take you out of the picture.”
My office grew deathly still. The silence was
so complete that I felt as if I were underwater.
“What about Melinda Peters?” I asked. “Will Skell go after her, too?”
“That would be a logical assumption. Melinda is the object of Skell's murderous fantasies and is responsible for him going to jail. More than likely, she will be his first target.”
“What do you suggest she do?”
“Run.”
That was easy for Linderman to say. Melinda had left home as a teenager, and like so many runaways, she had no place to run to.
Linderman looked at his watch. Then he stood up.
“I'm sorry, but I need to go.”
“Of course,” I said.
Linderman took out his business card and placed it on my desk. He thanked me for the coffee and urged me to stay in touch. Then he walked out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bob Dylan said, “You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
I sat at my desk and stared into space. Although Linderman had left an hour ago, his presence hung like an odorless cloud. I thought about the timing of his appearance and the fact that our meeting had ended with a warning about my safety. It could mean only one thing: he knew something I didn't.
But what? Before paying me a visit, Linderman had met with Bobby Russo and the DA and shared the same information that he gave me. I had worked with the FBI enough times to know that this sharing didn't come without a price. Linderman got something in return, and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to determine what it was.
Buster crawled out from beneath my desk and stuck his head in my crotch, a cue that he wanted his ears scratched. I obliged him, and when I was done, he wagged his butt, then went to the door and whined. It was the same routine every day. Nap, scratch, pee. If only my own life were so simple.
I put my elbows on my desk and rested my head in my hands. I'd never been good for sitting in one place for very long pondering life's impossibilities. I was better on my feet and moving around. But this situation deserved serious thought, and I played back Linderman's warning.