The Night Stalker jc-2

by James Swain

I heard my wife’s fingers typing on a keyboard.

  “I’m on one of the pharmaceutical websites,” Rose said. “I’ll look at the popular drugs beginning with Z first. Okay. It’s not Zantac, or Zaroxolyn, or Zestril, or Ziac. Wait a minute. How about zolpidem tartrate?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a sleeping drug to treat insomnia. According to the site, it was tested in the United States in the mid-1990s, then issued a patent, and is now being sold as Ambien. The site says that some patients exhibit odd behavior, including delusions and sleepwalking. How was Abb Grimes acting when he took it?”

  “His wife said the drug made him crazy.”

  “Sounds like a match. I’ll ask our records department to find out which clinics in Broward were involved in the trials, and do a trace on where they keep their records.”

  “You should have been a detective,” I said.

  “I did the next best thing,” my wife said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I married one.”

  I told Rose that I loved her, and then she was gone.

  I found Buster sleeping on the floor as I entered the Sunset. I scratched behind his ears, and his eyes popped open, and his tiny tail began to wag.

  “I think he’s feeling better,” Sonny said from behind the bar.

  “How can you tell?” I asked.

  “He growled at the postman. You want a beer?”

  “Espresso if you have it.”

  “What does this look like? A fern bar?”

  “Give me a pot of coffee, then.”

  Sonny served me a pot of coffee, and I asked him if I could use his computer.

  “I’m sure not using it,” Sonny said.

  I headed into the back room, which contained a small desk with a computer, and cartons of Budweiser stacked to the ceiling. The Internet access was dial-up, and I sucked down two cups of coffee while waiting for it to connect. Soon I was online, and I called Burrell’s cell phone.

  “I was just punching in your number,” Burrell said. “You wouldn’t believe how many restaurant employees in LeAnn’s neighborhood have broken the law. I’ve pulled out records of thirty of the really bad ones.”

  “Can you e-mail them to me?” I asked.

  “I’ll send them right now. Give me your e-mail address.”

  The bar’s e-mail address was taped to the frame of the computer. I read off the address, and a minute later, the records appeared as an attachment to an e-mail. I clicked on the attachment with the mouse, and they appeared on the screen.

  I have a nose for sniffing out creeps that’s been developed from dealing with the worst scum that society has to offer. I used that instinct as I pored through the records. Each contained the suspect’s name, last-known address, mug shot, and criminal history. It was a true rogue’s gallery, with crimes that included rape, murder, aggravated assault, and kidnapping. Looking at each record, I asked myself if this was our killer.

  Thirty minutes later, I was done.

  I had eliminated twenty-eight of the suspects for reasons ranging from being too young, to living in another state until a few years ago. The remaining two suspects were better fits. Both were in their mid-thirties, and had done time in prison for kidnapping and violent sexual assault. Each man had been given a psychological evaluation in prison, and deemed sociopathic. Both were also Broward natives. I called Burrell on my cell.

  “I’m down to two,” I told her.

  “Which ones?”

  “Johnnie Lee Edwards and Thaddaeus Prosper. You need to have both pulled in for questioning. I’d also have their homes searched.”

  “Anything else?”

  I stared at each man’s mug shot. “Can I be there when you question them?”

  “I can’t get you into the building, Jack. Hell, I’m not even supposed to be here.”

  “Can I listen in? I just want to hear how they answer the questions.”

  “That’s doable. Don’t turn your cell phone off.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  I took Buster for a walk on the beach with my cell phone clutched in my hand. I was tired and my head hurt, and I put both of those things out of my mind.

  The motorcycle cop stayed ten yards behind me. He’d put his helmet on his bike, and walked while talking into a cell phone. I caught snippets of conversation, and heard him talking to his wife about an upcoming vacation to the Keys. It was obvious he wasn’t taking his assignment too seriously.

  On my way back, I retrieved Chuck Cobb’s homicide report from my car. I needed something to do while waiting for Burrell to call me, and reviewing Cobb’s report was a good way to pass the time.

  I went inside. It was Happy Hour, and the Dwarfs noisily lined the bar. I took my usual table by the window, put my cell phone in front of me, and started to read.

  “You want a beer?” Sonny called to me.

  “Another pot of coffee,” I replied.

  “Boo,” the Dwarfs said.

  The report was fifteen pages long. A lot had happened the day I’d discovered Piper Stone’s body in the Dumpster, and I found myself stopping every few paragraphs to dredge my memory. Sonny served me a fresh pot along with a frosty mug of beer.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “They made me,” he said.

  I glanced at the bar, and saw the Dwarfs raise their glasses.

  By the time I had finished the report, it was pitch black outside. I sipped my coffee, which had gotten cold but still tasted good. On the cover page of the report was Cobb’s work number and cell number. I tried both, and Cobb answered his work line.

  “This is Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I just finished reading your report on Piper Stone’s murder. There’s an error in it.”

  Cobb groaned. “Damn, I’m never going home tonight.”

  “Sorry. It’s nothing huge.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “On page five, you say that Vorbe, the grocery store manager, told me he saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters, and called the police. That wasn’t what Vorbe told me. He said an employee had seen Jed, and alerted him.”

  “You know, I saw that discrepancy as well,” Cobb said.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. The store manager’s version of who saw Jed differed from yours. I called him, and we talked about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you must have heard him wrong.”

  The coffee was a few inches from my lips. I put it back down on the table.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any other discrepancies in our stories?”

  “No, just that one. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Do you?”

  I stared out the window at the ocean, and thought about it. Most police reports contained errors, or what cops liked to call misstated facts. But this wasn’t an error. Vorbe had told me one thing, and he’d told Cobb another.

  “He changed his story,” I said.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I talked to the employees at the store, and the manager’s version checked out,” Cobb said. “None of the employees saw Jed hanging around the Dumpsters. It was the manager, and he called the police.”

  “So why did Vorbe change his story?”

  “He didn’t, Jack. You heard him wrong. Everything else he said checks out with what you said. Haven’t you ever heard someone wrong before?”

  I started to reply, then shut my mouth. There was no use arguing with Cobb. He’d already talked to the store manager, and the manager had convinced him that I was wrong. That bothered me even more than the lie he’d told.

  “There’s my other line,” Cobb said. “I’ll call you back when I’m done, and we can talk about this some more.”

  I folded my phone. Jed had told me that Heather had gone to get food, and was going to surprise him. I’d assumed that meant she was going to a restaurant, but it could h
ave been the local grocery store. I went to the bar. The Dwarfs were slugging whiskey and feeling no pain. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and waved it in their faces.

  “Who’s up for a game of chicken?” I asked.

  “I am,” a Dwarf named Shorty said. Shorty stood six-feet-four and got his nickname because he was always short on cash.

  “How fast are you?” I asked.

  “Depends who’s chasing me,” Shorty said.

  I gave Shorty the money and told him the rules.

  “Piece of cake,” he said.

  Shorty walked outside the bar. I went to the window, and watched him approach the motorcycle cop. Shorty was acting drunker than he was, his body swaying from side to side. The cop ignored him, and continued to talk on his cell phone.

  Shorty lifted the cop’s helmet off the motorcycle’s bars, and went running down the beach as fast as his legs would carry him. The cop jumped off his bike and gave chase.

  I headed for the door, and felt something by my leg. It was Buster, and his tail was wagging.

  “You’re on,” I told him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  I drove to the Smart Buy in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood well over the speed limit. Rush-hour traffic was going in the opposite direction, and a snaking line of headlights stretched as far as I could see.

  I called Burrell, got voice mail, and left a message. The grocery store manager had changed his story about Piper Stone’s killing, then lied about it. Witnesses in murder cases often got facts wrong, but this was different. The store manager had lied about something that didn’t need to be lied about. It said he wasn’t a credible witness, and that nothing that he’d told me, or the police, could be deemed truthful.

  I pulled into the Smart Buy and parked by the entrance. The parking lot was filled with water, and looked like a swamp. I waited for Burrell to call me back.

  The minutes ticked by. Buster sat on the passenger seat, and I rolled down his window so he could stick his head out. I’d given him a pain pill, and he was acting fine.

  I called my voice mail. Sometimes people called me, and my cell phone didn’t ring, and the caller ended up leaving a message. I was hoping that was what had happened now.

  There were no messages.

  I stared at the front of the grocery. More shoppers were coming out than going in. Most were women, and I guessed they were grabbing food to take home for dinner. Soon there was no one coming out.

  I weighed what my next step should be. Part of me wanted to go inside and grill the store manager, only my recent arrest told me this wasn’t a smart idea. I needed to take the proper channels with this, or risk getting myself in more trouble.

  Buster let out a menacing growl. A woman pushing a shopping cart had come out of the store, and was heading straight toward us. She was yakking on her cell phone while talking to a small infant riding in the cart. There was absolutely nothing threatening about her.

  Buster started barking.

  A loud tapping on my window made me jump. I jerked my head sideways. There was a man standing next to my car. It was Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, the store manager.

  “Hello,” Vorbe said through the glass.

  I quieted Buster down, and lowered my window. Vorbe was carrying his cane, which he leaned against.

  “You scared my dog,” I said.

  “I am sorry,” Vorbe said. “I came out to my car to get some papers, and I saw you sitting here. Is something wrong?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Vorbe come through the front doors, and guessed he’d come through the back, and walked around the side of the building. Had Vorbe seen me sitting in my car through one of the store’s surveillance cameras, and decided to check up on me? Something told me that he had.

  “If you will excuse me, I must get back to work,” Vorbe said.

  “Have a nice night,” I said.

  “You, too,” he said.

  I watched him limp inside. A person’s walk can be as telling as his voice. His was animated, and had a bounce to it, despite his infirmity. My gut told me he was going to make a run for it. I leashed Buster and followed him inside.

  The store was dead. The checkout lines were empty, and several cashiers were chatting. Through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of Vorbe heading for the back of the store. He was still moving fast. I hurried after him.

  I saw Vorbe push open a swinging door next to the meat section. I was ten steps behind him, and as I reached the door, a big man wearing a bloodied apron blocked me from going any further. A plastic name tag identified him as the store’s meat manager.

  “Dogs aren’t allowed in the store,” the meat manager said.

  Vorbe was running away. I said the first thing that came to mind.

  “I’m legally blind.”

  “And I’m Mother Teresa. Get the dog out of here.”

  I kept moving forward. The meat manager spread his arms like a linebacker. There was no room around him, and I nudged Buster with my foot. My dog showed his teeth, and the meat manager sprang back.

  “You’re asking for trouble,” the meat manager said.

  “Go back to your station,” I said.

  “Who the hell do you think-”

  “Just do as I say.”

  The meat manager got out of my way, and I hit the swinging door with my shoulder. Vorbe’s office was in the rear of the store, and I spied a light shining through the open door. I went to the office, and stuck my head in. Vorbe sat at his desk, wiping his sweaty face with a hanky. He looked at me in alarm.

  “Can I help you?” Vorbe asked.

  I entered, and sat down across from him. “You lied to me.”

  Vorbe started to protest. I held up my hand like I was directing traffic.

  “You told me a store employee saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters the morning Piper Stone was murdered,” I said. “But you told Detective Cobb that you saw Jed. Why did you change your story?”

  Vorbe gave me a scolding look. “I think you misheard me.”

  “My ears are fine. You changed your story because you were afraid Detective Cobb would want to speak to that employee, and confirm what you’d said. Only there was no employee to speak to.”

  Vorbe shook his head from side to side. The gesture was condescending, and reminded me of a parent scolding a child.

  “Sir, you are simply wrong,” he said.

  “I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t tell me one story, and Detective Cobb another?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said.

  “So I misheard you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s what I think. You’re hiding something. Let’s take a trip to police headquarters, and take a polygraph test. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”

  Vorbe drummed his fingers on his desk. “I would like you to leave now.”

  “Did you kill Piper Stone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How about the rest of the women we found in the Pompano Beach landfill? Something tells me they all got there through your Dumpsters.”

  A bead of sweat ran down his nose and hit his desk. Busted.

  “I think you did,” I said.

  Vorbe rose from his chair without the use of his cane. In one easy motion, he lifted his desk clean off the floor, and tossed it onto me. It was heavy, and I struggled to push it away. Tangled in my legs, Buster yelped in pain.

  Vorbe pressed the desk against my body. The expression on his face had gone from polite to murderous in the blink of an eye. I tried to draw my Colt, but couldn’t get my fingers free enough to reach into my pants pocket. The meat manager appeared in the open doorway.

  “Hey, boss. Is this guy giving you trouble?”

  “Yes, Joe,” Vorbe said. “Did you bring your gun?”

  “Left it home today.”

  “That is too bad. Hold the desk while I call the police.”

  “You bet,” the meat manager said.

  The m
eat manager took Vorbe’s place. In horror I watched Vorbe draw a curved knife from his pocket, and grab the meat manager’s head with his free arm. Pulling him close, Vorbe slit the meat manager’s throat the way a farmer slits a chicken’s throat, quick and clean and ruthlessly efficient. The meat manager emitted a choking sound, and I watched blood from his wound join the blood on his apron.

  Vorbe let the meat manager drop to the floor, then placed his hands on the desk. The evil lurking below the surface was now visible.

  I was next.

  With every ounce of strength in my body, I pushed the desk a few inches, and drew my Colt. I pressed the barrel to the desk and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, and the bullet passed through the wood, and flew past Vorbe’s head.

  Before I could fire again, Vorbe ran out of the office.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  I pushed the desk away, freeing myself and my dog. Running to the open door, I looked across the back of the supermarket. The rear door was wide open, and I could hear Vorbe’s footsteps as he ran away.

  “Help me,” the meat manager gasped.

  I slipped my gun into my pocket and crouched down beside him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his life slipping away. He clasped my hand.

  “Why?” he asked.

  It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times as a cop. Why did people kill? What purpose did it serve, except to destroy lives and wreck families? I didn’t know the answer, and probably never would.

  I called 911 on my cell. An automated operator put me on hold. While I waited for an operator to pick up, the meat manager closed his eyes. As he drew his last breath, I said a prayer, and watched him die.

  I rose to my feet with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Buster was standing by the closet, pawing at the door. I pulled the door open and looked inside. The closet was empty. Something about it didn’t feel right. The interior looked cramped.

  I pressed my hand against the back wall, and it came down. Behind the closet was a hidden area about five feet tall, and a few feet deep. Hanging from the wall was a pair of handcuffs attached to a metal chain. Beneath the handcuffs, an air tank.

  I had found Vorbe’s holding area.