Midnight Rambler

by James Swain

  Kevin walked into the next room and spoke with the tech. A minute later Saunders and I were holding color prints done off a laser printer. As I stared at Bash and Skell and the other members of the gang, my hands started to tremble. Finally, after six months of scratching my head, I was beginning to understand what I was dealing with.

  “I need to talk to Ken Linderman,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I have a theory I want to share with you,” I told Linderman.

  We'd driven back to the FBI building on Gray Street and were sitting in Saunders's office, talking on a squawk box.

  “I'm listening,” Linderman said through the box's speaker.

  “I think Skell is part of a gang of sexual predators,” I said. “Skell, a shock jock named Neil Bash, a high school history teacher, and two other men lived in Tampa three years ago, and if my hunch is correct, they preyed on underage girls. When the history teacher got busted and went to jail, the remaining members moved on to greener pastures.”

  “You mean Fort Lauderdale,” Linderman said.

  “That's right,” I said. “They came to my town and started abducting young women and having their way with them. They picked women who had no families and wouldn't be missed. They also chose women who were emotionally immature, so they could pretend they were underage and indulge in their fantasies.”

  “Like role-playing,” Linderman said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Pedophiles do it all the time. But Skell's group was different. Instead of letting the women go when they were done with them, they killed them. My guess is, they realized this was the best way to cover their tracks.”

  “Let me see if I get this right,” Linderman said. “You think that Skell and his team became killers in order to hide what they really were.”

  “That's right,” I said. “They never stopped being pedophiles. They just found a way to satisfy their sexual cravings with less fear of retribution.”

  Saunders was sitting directly across from me, hands on knees, listening intently to our conversation. He shot me a funny look.

  “You think these guys kill their victims because it was less dangerous than what they were doing before?” Saunders asked.

  “That's right,” I said.

  “Don't you think that's a bit of a stretch?”

  Before I could answer him, Linderman jumped in.

  “Not really,” he said. “The justice and penal systems are less harsh on murderers than on sexual predators of children. This is especially true for first-time murderers. In terms of self-preservation, Skell and his friends made a wise choice.”

  Saunders leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

  “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

  “I also think that the team divides up the duties,” I went on. “Bash is the front man. He's a minor celebrity and gets them invited places. Maybe that's where they scout for victims. Bash also protects the other members if they get caught, the way he did with the history teacher, and the way he's doing now by attacking me.”

  “Damage control,” Linderman said.

  “Exactly. The Hispanic is the abductor. He works for a cable company. He goes to the victim's house and cuts the cable on a pole. Then he gets a call to fix the outage, goes back to the house, and snatches the victim. There's never been a sign of a struggle at any of the victims' houses, so my guess is he's chloroforming them. I also think he's disposing of the bodies.”

  “Why?” Saunders asked.

  “He has the truck, and works with a partner. It's just a hunch.”

  “What about Skell?” Linderman asked. “What's his role?”

  “He pulls the strings and directs the action,” I replied.

  “The mastermind?”

  “Yes. He's got a genius IQ, so it would make sense that he's calling the shots and orchestrating the show.”

  The laser print of the gang sat on Saunders's desk. Saunders picked it up and pointed at the blond guy with the perfectly round stomach.

  “What about the fourth guy? What's his role?”

  “This is just a guess,” I said.

  “I like your guesses,” Linderman said.

  “The part no one's figured out is how Skell selects his victims,” I said. “How does Skell know which women to abduct? My guess is, the fourth guy is behind it.”

  “Any ideas how?” Linderman asked.

  “Maybe he owns a restaurant and is secretly bugging the ladies' room,” I suggested. “I knew a restaurant owner in Fort Lauderdale who did that, and told his buddies what their girlfriends were saying about them behind their backs.”

  “What a sleaze,” Saunders said.

  “So the mystery man in our photograph is the information gatherer,” Linderman said.

  “That's right,” I said.

  “So we have a front man, an information gatherer, an abductor and disposer, and a mastermind,” Linderman said. “This all sounds good, Jack, but can you prove any of it?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Then, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. The Broward County police charged Ernesto Ramos with Carmella Lopez's murder earlier today. Skell's attorney is standing right now in front of a judge, asking for Skell to be released from prison.”

  Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach.

  “Are the Broward police going along with it?” I asked.

  “I'm afraid so,” Linderman said.

  “So, we're too late,” I said.

  “There is no timetable on justice,” Linderman replied.

  I folded my hands in my lap and did not respond.

  “Jack, the FBI is behind you on this,” Linderman said.

  I glanced at Saunders, who nodded in agreement.

  “Behind me how?” I asked.

  “If Skell is released, he'll be watched twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, as well as have his phones wiretapped,” Linderman said. “So will Neil Bash. We'll also take the laser print of the gang and compare the unknown men against photographs of known sexual predators. Assuming we make a match, we'll watch those two men as well. Skell may have won this battle, but he won't win the war.”

  It all sounded good, but I wanted to ask Linderman how long he planned to tail Skell and his gang. A few months, a year? At some point the FBI would lose interest and move on to other cases. It was the single greatest weakness of any law enforcement operation. And once they did, a group of monsters would go back to work.

  I looked at the wall in Saunders's office. It was bare except for a ticking clock. I found myself blinking. The photographs of Skell's victims that hung in my office had appeared. Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. Tears ran down their faces, and I wondered if I was seeing them from exhaustion, or maybe I was losing my mind.

  Reaching across the desk, Saunders squeezed my biceps.

  “Jack, you okay?” he asked.

  “What's wrong?” Linderman asked through the box.

  “Jack's looking a little pale,” Saunders said.

  “Give him something to drink.”

  Saunders rose from his chair.

  “I'm okay,” I said.

  “You sure, Jack?” Saunders asked.

  I nodded while continuing to stare at the wall. The photographs faded away, leaving only the ticking clock. It was a perfect metaphor for what was about to happen. With the passage of time, the victims would be all but forgotten.

  I thanked the special agents for their time and left the office.

  I got into my car feeling angry at the world. Buster looked relieved to see me, and I scratched his head.

  I decided to drive back to Dania and resume digging for evidence. It wasn't much of a plan, but I didn't see myself having any other choices. Rose was right. I wouldn't be able to live with myself until I knew what Skell had done with the victims.

  As I backed out, my cell phone began beeping, indicating I had a message. I pulled my phone off the dash to see who'd called. Caller I
D showed a number with a Fort Lauderdale area code. It wasn't one I knew.

  I retrieved the message and listened. At first there was nothing. Then I heard a woman's voice. It was far away, as if coming from the bottom of a deep well.

  “Jack.”

  I hit my brakes hard. It was Melinda.

  “Jack, are you there?”

  Her voice was strained. I couldn't tell if it was drugs or fear.

  “Jack, you gotta help me. Oh, God, where are you?”

  I pulled back in to my spot and threw the car into park.

  “I'm sorry what I said on the radio. They made me say those terrible things. I know it hurt you, and I'm sorry.”

  She started to cry. She sounded messed up, and I decided it was drugs.

  “I'll call you back as soon as I can. Please keep your phone nearby. And whatever you do, don't call me back. They don't know about the phone.”

  It was classic Melinda. First she led me on, then she pushed me away.

  “Good-bye, Jack. Oh, wait.”

  In the background I heard a door open and the faint sound of music.

  “Oh my God—here they come!”

  The message ended. The music had sounded hauntingly familiar. I replayed the message and listened hard. It was the live version of “Midnight Rambler.”

  PART THREE

  HIDDEN MICKEYS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I wrestled with what to do with Melinda's message. It exonerated me, only I wasn't sure anyone else would interpret it that way. She sounded too messed up. If I called Russo or Cheever and played it for them, they might accuse me of doping her up and forcing her to talk. I decided to hold on to it and hope she called back.

  As I drove away from the FBI building my cell phone rang. It made my heart race, and I answered without bothering to look at the Caller ID.

  “Carpenter here.”

  “Jack, this is Sally McDermitt. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

  Sally was a former investigator with the Broward County Police Department who had worked in my department. I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice.

  “Not at all. What's up?”

  “I'm in a bind and need some advice,” she said. “A little girl disappeared inside the Magic Kingdom this morning, and we can't find her.”

  Sally had left the force to take a great-paying job running internal security for the Walt Disney World theme parks in Or lando. The last time we'd spoken, she'd had over a thousand people working for her, was driving a BMW convertible, and lived in a gated community whose other residents included a bunch of well-known professional golfers.

  “How old?” I asked.

  “Just turned three, a little red-haired cutie named Shannon Dockery. She's a roamer, so her parents didn't immediately notice she was missing.”

  “Where was she last seen?”

  “Right outside the ‘It's a Small World’ exhibit.”

  I had worked with Disney on child abductions before. This exhibit was a favorite among toddlers and their parents.

  “A pro,” I said.

  “That's what we think,” Sally replied. “The park's exits have been closed. We're only letting people out through the main parking area. That way we can get a good look at everyone who leaves.”

  “You think the abductor is still inside the park?”

  “I sure do. We looked at the videos at all the entrances right after this happened. No kids fitting Shannon's physical description have left the park today.”

  Sally had caught a live one. It was rare, and I'd compare it to catching a giant marlin on a fifty-pound reel. She didn't want him to break the line and get away, and for her sake, neither did I. I could drive home by way of Orlando, and I decided to offer my services.

  “Want me to help you catch him?”

  “But you're four hours away,” she said.

  “Actually I'm in Tampa, working on another case. I can give you a couple hours of my time, if you think it will do any good.”

  “Oh yes, please come. You were always the champ when it came to finding little kids.”

  I could hear the desperation in Sally's voice.

  “I'm leaving right now,” I said.

  “See you in an hour,” Sally said.

  “You've never seen me drive,” I told her.

  An elevated section of I-275 ran over the city of Tampa, and I found an entrance ramp without trouble and headed east. Within minutes I was merging onto I-4, which dissected central Florida and led directly to the forty thousand acres owned by the Walt Disney World Corporation. I pushed the Legend up to eighty and kept it there.

  Children had disappeared at Disney since the theme park opened over thirty years before, and many of those abductions had become case studies for people who made their living looking for missing kids. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the abductor was a parent who'd lost custody in a bitter divorce battle and decided to take the child back and go judge shopping. But every once in a while, a stranger stole a child.

  The folks who ran Disney did everything imaginable to stop this from happening, and employed a small army of well-trained security people to keep the place safe. Public areas were outfitted with the latest in high-tech surveillance monitoring equipment, including a special magnetic bar code in every ticket that allowed Disney to monitor the flow of people around various attractions. But in the end, they couldn't protect every child who passed through the turnstiles, and the unthinkable happened.

  Disney was not really in Orlando, despite what the television and magazine advertisements said. It was located in the tourist town of Kissimmee, ten miles due south. Forty minutes later I took the exit and followed the signs for the MGM Theme Park, one of five theme parks that Disney owned in Orlando. Buster's window was at half-mast and his ears were standing straight up.

  I drove down the twisting road to MGM, then hung a right at the employees only sign and EMPLOYEES ONLY sign and spotted Sally standing in the parking lot. She wore chinos and a blue sports shirt with the Disney logo embroidered on the breast. Her hair was a natural gold, her eyes the color of the ocean. Like me, she was a native Floridian, and she lived for the outdoors. I once joined her for a run after work, and she nearly killed me. As I got out I offered her my hand, but she hugged me instead.

  “It's good to see you, Jack,” she said.

  “It's good to see you, too,” I said.

  “I'm scared about this one.”

  “I know. That's why I came.”cSally led me into a four-story glass-and-concrete building with no markings. It was painted an earthy green and blended into the lush landscaping that towered around it. The security for Disney's theme parks happened here, though few people knew it. At Disney, buildings were either part of the experience or invisible.

  A basement hallway echoed our footsteps, and we entered a small carpeted room with a one-way mirror covering one wall. On the other side of the mirror sat a young couple crying their eyes out. The girl was pleasantly plain and covered with freckles, while the boy had a pinched face and an old-fashioned crew cut. Both were small of stature and dressed in simple country clothes.

  “Meet Peggy Sue and Tram Dockery,” Sally said. “We kept them apart and interrogated them. Their stories are consistent.”

  My breath fogged the mirror. “That his real name?”

  “Yes. Hails from Douglas, Georgia, which is about two hundred and fifty miles from here as the crow flies. He manages a barbecue restaurant that his father owns. First thing he told me was he'd done a stint in prison for selling weed, and had been on the straight and narrow ever since.”

  “Believe him?”

  “He offered up the information. Yes, I believed him.”

  “His wife looks young,” I said.

  “Her driver's license says she's nineteen.”

  “How old is their little girl?”

  “Nearly three.”

  “So he got her pregnant when she was sixteen.”

  Sally didn't respond.
She'd already looked at the facts and decided the Dockerys hadn't orchestrated their daughter's disappearance and sold her for money to buy crack, or to pay off a loan shark, or put a down payment on a new car, or any of the other insane reasons that couples give when they get caught selling their children.

  I continued to stare through the glass. Something about Tram's behavior didn't feel right, and after a few moments I realized what it was. Parents who lose kids do nothing but worry, and worrying is a manufactured fear. Tram's fear wasn't manufactured. It was real, and it told me that he knew something the rest of us didn't.

  “Can I talk to him without the wife?” I asked.

  “Be my guest,” Sally said.

  The couple were separated. I entered the room and introduced myself as park security without giving my name. Tram jumped out of his chair and pumped my hand. He was small and wiry, maybe one-forty soaking wet, with dozens of tiny black moles visible beneath his crew cut. The words Jimbo's Homestyle BBQ were stitched in flaming red over the pocket of his denim shirt. He didn't look old enough to shave.

  I told him to sit down and gave him my best no-nonsense look.

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Dockery.”

  “It's Tram,” he said.

  “Mine's Jack. Let me get right to the point. We think the person who nabbed your daughter is a pro. More than likely, he'll try to leave the park when it closes and tens of thousands of people are going home. That gives us time to figure out a strategy.”

  “Great,” he said.

  “That's the good news,” I said. “The bad new is, it won't be easy figuring out which child is yours. Your daughter's appearance will be drastically altered, and she may not look like a little girl anymore.”

  “I'll do whatever you want,” Tram said.

  “Good. Now, I want you to level with me. Did you sell your daughter to someone in the park and not tell your wife about it?”

  Tram leaped out of his chair, and I reflexively jumped back. He threw his arms into the air while tears streamed down his face. “No! I'd never do that! You think I'm some kind of criminal—I can see it in your eyes! I'd never sell my daughter, not even to the richest man in the entire world.”