The Night Stalker jc-2

by James Swain

  T he sunlight was beginning to fade as I pulled into the Sunset’s parking lot, and I knew I didn’t have much time left. Walking down to the shoreline, I pulled off my clothes, and dove headfirst into a wave.

  The water was tepid, and tiny schools of minnows tickled my legs as I headed out to my regular spot. I’d gone swimming here the day my marriage had fallen apart, and it had given me the strength to get on with my life. The backstroke was my specialty, and I flopped onto my back, and began doing laps.

  I searched for a cloud in the sky but couldn’t find one. My body was tired and I could not find the rhythm to my stroke. I’d been looking for missing kids nearly all my adult life, and I’d never been forced to leave a case before it was finished. It made me angry enough to scream, so I did.

  Soon it was dark, and I decided to head in. Reaching the shore, I found a cold sixteen-ounce Budweiser half-buried in the sand next to my dog. I popped the top and let the beer pour down my throat. Then I threw my clothes back on, and went inside the Sunset. The bar was quiet, and I found Sonny watching the evening news.

  “Where are the Dwarfs?” I asked.

  “Over at the jai alai fronton, losing their money,” Sonny replied.

  I took a stool, and watched the TV. The news was showing the manhunt taking place in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood, the police using bloodhounds and policemen on horseback to scour the alleyways and backyards in search of Jed Grimes. Toward the end of the segment, an aerial shot taken from a helicopter appeared, and showed bags of garbage lying on the ground next to the Dumpsters behind the Smart Buy.

  The shot made me think back to my discovery of Piper Stone’s body. Before her killer had tossed Stone into the Dumpster, he’d removed a bag of garbage, and put it on the ground. Then he’d tossed Stone in, and covered her with the first bag. It hadn’t seemed significant to me at the time, but now it did.

  The segment ended, and I slapped my hand on the bar. Sonny thought I wanted another beer, and placed a fresh can in front of me.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I swore.

  “What’d I do?” Sonny asked.

  I pointed at the TV. “I meant the killer.”

  “Oh. What about him?”

  “I was there at the grocery, and I missed something. The killer had the presence of mind to cover his tracks. That’s not normal.”

  “It’s not?”

  The beer had rushed to my head, and I took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “Not with a murder like this. The guy just strangled a woman. His heart is racing a hundred miles an hour. What is his mind telling him to do?”

  Sonny scratched his chin and gave it some thought. “Run?”

  “That’s right, run. Only he had the presence of mind not to. Instead he took the time to remove a bag of garbage from the Dumpster, put it on the ground, then put his victim in, and cover her up. What does that tell you?”

  Sonny wasn’t too quick on the draw, and he gave it some more thought.

  “That he’s a master criminal?”

  “He’s more than that,” I said. “Even master criminals lose their cool when they’re committing a crime, especially a cold-blooded murder. This guy didn’t lose his cool.”

  “You make him sound like a genius,” Sonny said.

  I looked down at the water-stained bar while playing back everything I knew. Whoever was responsible for these crimes had out-smarted the police every step of the way. He planned his crimes meticulously, and he didn’t leave clues.

  “He is a genius,” I said quietly. “Only the police haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “What a surprise,” Sonny said. “Drink your beer.”

  The second beer went down way too easily, as did the third. Soon the Dwarfs appeared, and the place got noisy. I went upstairs and stretched out on my bed with Buster curled up beside me. Shutting my eyes, I was soon floating in that hazy area between sleep and reality.

  “Jack.”

  The voice came out of nowhere. I opened my eyes, and found myself standing behind the Smart Buy next to the Dumpsters. Unearthly shadows danced across the property beneath a full moon.

  “Jack.”

  I spun around, trying to determine where the voice had come from.

  “Jack.”

  I looked at the Dumpsters. The milk crate I’d used that morning was still there. I stepped onto it, and flipped open the closest Dumpster’s lid. The interior was filled with black garbage bags that shimmered eerily beneath the moonlight.

  “Jack.”

  A bag in the back caught my eye. A woman’s face was pushing through the plastic. I pulled the bag toward me and tore it open.

  “Hold on,” I said.

  As the plastic came away, Piper Stone’s face materialized. Her mouth was still frozen, her neck ringed by her killer’s hands. Her eyes snapped open.

  “Jack!” she said.

  I tried to reply, but the words were frozen in my mouth. Stone sat upright, and put her hands around my forearms. I tried to pull back, but her grip was like iron.

  “Help me,” she said.

  Her eyes were hollow and black. Suddenly the other bags in the Dumpster came to life, the plastic shredding to reveal more dead women lying inside. They sat up, and stared at me with their lifeless eyes.

  “Jack!” they all said.

  I looked into their faces. The other dead women were young, and their necks had been ravaged by a killer’s hands. The women started to cry, the tears rolling silently down their cheeks. I could not help myself, and began to cry as well.

  A pounding on my door snapped me awake. The moon was peeking through my window, and Buster was up on my bed, licking my face.

  “It’s open,” I said hoarsely.

  Sonny stuck his head in. “You okay?”

  I took several deep breaths. “Never better.”

  “I heard you yelling, and thought maybe something was wrong.”

  “Was I really yelling?”

  “Only like someone was sticking a knife in you. Come downstairs and I’ll buy you a beer. I was just cleaning up.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About three-thirty.”

  “Was I really loud?”

  “Shit, yeah. I almost called the cops.”

  My room had grown chilly, and I draped the bedspread over my shoulders, and followed Sonny downstairs. I took a stool at the bar, and tried to pull myself together. Stone’s haunting voice still rang in my ears. I could feel her hands, and the hands of the other dead women, clutching me like they were never going to let go.

  Sonny served me a beer. “This will make you feel better.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “It’s always worked for me.”

  I took a swallow. The beer was cold and good, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I pushed it away.

  “What was I yelling?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Something about being sorry.”

  “Being sorry about what?”

  Sonny began to wipe down the bar. “It was weird. You were yelling ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and your voice kept getting louder. Finally I ran upstairs and woke you up.”

  I thought back to the dead women. Each one had seemed real, and not just a figment of my imagination. So real that I’d felt compelled to tell them that I was sorry.

  Then I understood what my nightmare had meant, and jumped off my stool.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I sucked down coffee while driving through downtown Dania. The town’s main traffic light was blinking red, and in the shadows dark figures lurked, some with sleeping bags thrown over their shoulders, others pushing shopping carts filled with junk, the homeless on parade.

  Pulling out my cell phone, I retrieved Burrell’s cell number, and hit Send. I knew Burrell wasn’t happy with me, but I wasn’t going to let that affect how I handled this. She needed to know what I knew.

  Burrell’s voice mail picked up. I ended the call, and hit redial. I kept doing that until I was heading n
orth on the Florida Turnpike. When I was a few miles from the Pompano Beach exit, Burrell answered the call, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Hello…?”

  “It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said.

  “For the love of Christ, what time is it?”

  “Four in the morning.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you about the case.”

  Burrell snapped awake. “Listen to me, and listen good. You’re off the case, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Please don’t argue with me. It wasn’t my call.”

  “Whose call was it?”

  “The mayor’s. He decided you were a liability.”

  “Am I?”

  “Please don’t make me have this conversation,” Burrell said.

  “Did you stand up for me?”

  “Of course I stood up for you. I did everything I could. I just couldn’t tell you to your face. So I let Special Agent Whitley give you the bad news.”

  “How do you know Whitley?”

  “I worked with him a few months ago.”

  “I still want to talk to you about the Grimes case.”

  Burrell let out a noise that was half-shout, half-scream. “You’re not listening to me!”

  “Whitley is wrong about Jed Grimes,” I said. “Jed didn’t commit these crimes. Someone else did, and they’ve killed before. We’re dealing with another serial killer.”

  “Really? Where’s your proof?”

  “The victims are my proof.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  A giant flock of seagulls loomed over the turnpike. There were several hundred of them, maybe more. It looked like a scene straight out of The Birds, their incessant cawing loud enough to awaken my dog.

  “What’s that noise?” Burrell asked.

  “Birds,” I said.

  “Where are you? The beach?”

  “I’m driving north on the turnpike.”

  “And I’m going back to sleep,” Burrell said “Now stay off the case.”

  Burrell hung up on me before I could reply. I weighed calling her back, but decided there was no point. Her mind was made up. The Pompano Beach exit was in my headlights, and I dug the change for the toll out of my pocket.

  The Pompano Beach landfill was the largest in south Florida, and was where garbage from Broward and Palm Beach Counties was brought to be buried. It was one of the few areas of the county not at sea level, and the man-made hills of garbage towered over many office buildings in town, and were covered in grass that was country-club green. During the day, thousands of birds feasted on the garbage, then flew back to their nests when the sun went down.

  I drove down a gravel road and parked in front of the gate. I had been to the landfill many times as a cop. It was the last stop when I was looking for a missing person who might be dead. I was hoping an employee would remember me, and I wouldn’t have to lie through my teeth to get in.

  The guardhouse door opened, and a white-haired guard emerged. Although he was older, the starched white shirt and necktie told me he took his job seriously.

  The guard came over to my window, and shone a flashlight into my face. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I used to run the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit.”

  “Didn’t your daughter play basketball?” the guard asked.

  “You’ve got a good memory. She’s now at Florida State on a full scholarship.”

  “Jessica Carpenter.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “You must be very proud of her,” the guard said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m working with the Broward police on a missing kid’s case,” I said. “I was wondering if I could come inside, and have a look around.”

  “There’s a lot of garbage back there. What are you looking for?”

  “Commercial garbage from Davie. It’s from a supermarket.”

  “That would be section P. If you’d like, I can draw you a map.”

  “That would be great.”

  The guard drew me a map on a sheet of paper. The landfill was divided into sections that were identified by letters of the alphabet. Going into the guardhouse, he hit a switch, and the gate slid back. I waved to him and drove inside.

  Following the guard’s map, I drove down a bumpy dirt road that cut between the hills. It was pitch dark, and my car lurched uncertainly every few feet. There were no other people back here, and I found myself petting Buster as I drove.

  Soon I came to a wood sign that read “Section P.” The area was in the process of being filled, and several unfinished mountains of garbage stood in front of me. I grabbed my flashlight from the glove compartment, and got out with my dog.

  Landfill excavation was a vital part of homicide investigations, and excavation teams used metal detectors, ground-penetrating radar, and Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR) technology to look for clues. When it came to looking for bodies, they also used dogs.

  I led Buster to the freshest hill, and let him loose. He spent a minute peeing on everything in sight, then scurried up the side of the hill. I followed cautiously, my feet slipping on the mushy ground.

  Reaching the top, my dog began to run in circles, having a field day with all the strange and wonderful smells. Then, he disappeared, and for a scary moment I thought he’d fallen down a hole.

  Hearing his panting, I followed him down the other side of the hill. He was running fast, and I struggled to catch up. He ran straight to an older hill covered in grass, and went halfway up the side. Then he began digging with his front paws.

  “What you got, boy?”

  His digging turned frantic. Buster was the kind of dog that would do something until you stopped him, or it killed him. I ran back to my car and popped the trunk. I needed something to help him dig. All I found was a tire iron.

  I drove back to the front gate, and found the guard sitting inside the guardhouse, reading a novel. He took off his glasses, and came outside.

  “I need to borrow a shovel,” I said.

  “You want some help?” he asked.

  I should have said yes-another pair of hands would have made my task a lot easier-but I was afraid of getting anyone else involved. I wasn’t supposed to be here, and the fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better.

  “No, but thanks anyway,” I said.

  I drove back to section P. Buster was still at it, and I plunged my borrowed shovel into the hill, and began to help.

  There is no more difficult labor than digging a hole. Soon, sweat was pouring down my face, and I could barely see. I stopped to wipe the sweat away, and looked to the east. The sky was lightening, and I could feel the air beginning to warm up.

  I went back to work, and pulled out the plastic bags buried in the earth, and sliced them open with the blade of my shovel. The smell they emitted was disgusting. Each time I inhaled, it felt as if a hole was being eaten into my brain. But I didn’t stop.

  Nor did my dog. Buster had locked onto a scent, and each time a bag came out of the hill, he stopped what he was doing to sniff the contents. It was hard to say who was more driven, him or me.

  I was still digging when the sun came up. My shoulders were aching, my breathing labored. There was garbage strewn all around me, and the gulls had swooped down from the sky, and were picking at it.

  I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake. I had pulled a huge portion of the hill apart, and there were no other bodies hidden in the garbage. Then I heard a car backfire, and saw a pickup truck pull up to the hill.

  Four Mexicans jumped out, shovels in hand. They wore bandannas on their heads, and had smiles on their faces. I spoke to them in Spanish, and learned that the guard had sent them. I told them what I was looking for, and their smiles disappeared.

  Together, we dug for another hour and a half, and took the hill apart. By now my muscles were screaming, and my mind was telling me
to quit. I went and leaned against the pickup truck, and one of the Mexicans came over to see what was wrong.

  “This is no good,” I said.

  My shovel was lying on the ground. He picked it up, and tried to give it to me. I didn’t understand the gesture, and he pointed at the sky.

  “Look,” he said.

  I shielded my eyes with my hand, and stared upward. Hundreds of gulls were circling overhead, forming a cyclone of white.

  “So what?” I asked him.

  The Mexican pointed directly overhead. I had to squint, but finally saw it. A large black bird among the gulls, looking down at us.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Vulture,” the Mexican said.

  I took the shovel from his hands, and went back to work. Forty-five minutes later, we discovered the first body.

  PART THREE

  DON’T BE CRUEL

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  T he body was of a woman who appeared to be about five-four, with wispy black hair and a silver cross hanging around her neck. Her eyes and skin were gone, and her mouth was twisted in a horrible smile. I was no expert on pathology, but I saw no signs of bullets or knives or blunt instruments having been used, and I guessed that she’d been killed the same way Piper Stone had died.

  The vulture that had been circling overhead had landed on a garbage hill no more than thirty feet away. The Mexicans had taken turns throwing bottles at it, but the bird would not leave. I turned my back on it as I called Burrell.

  “You need to get up to the Pompano Beach landfill,” I said when she answered. “Tell the guard at the front gate you know me, and ask for Section P.”

  There was silence on the line, and for a moment I thought we’d been disconnected.

  “What did you find?” Burrell asked.

  “Another victim,” I said.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “For the love of Christ,” she said.

  I ended the call, then spent a minute petting Buster. My dog had bloodied his paws ripping through the earth, and now lay at my feet, exhausted.