by James Swain
Burrell arrived a half hour later. With her was Special Agent Whitley. They got out, and Burrell handed me a cup of coffee. I thanked her with a nod.
I led Burrell and Whitley to the body. I had covered it with a blanket that I’d found in the trash. I shooed the gulls away, and pulled the blanket back. Whitley took a tube of Vick’s from his pocket, and dabbed some beneath his nostrils. Burrell did the same, and offered me the tube. I shook my head.
“How can you stand the smell?” she asked.
“You get used to it,” I said.
Whitley knelt down to study the corpse. He wore a navy windbreaker with FBI printed in blazing white letters across the back. I wondered if he’d put the windbreaker on to remind me that he was still in charge of the investigation. He pointed at a number of items lying on the ground beside the body.
“Did you put these here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did they belong to the victim?”
The garbage bag in which I’d found the corpse had contained several personal items. These included a lipstick, some coins, and two pieces of inexpensive jewelry.
“I think so,” I said.
“How can you tell they were hers?” he asked.
“The lipstick is good, and the jewelry is wearable,” I said.
“So they’re not garbage.”
“That’s right.”
Whitley picked through the items. “Anything else you want to share?”
“She’s either a runaway or a homeless person,” I said.
“Did you ID her?”
“I didn’t have to ID her.”
“Then how do you know that for certain?”
I pointed at the victim’s feet. “She’s wearing a pair of cheap Keds. That isn’t a fashion statement. She was dirt poor.”
Whitley examined the victim’s sneakers. One of the sneakers had a slight bulge in it. Taking rubber gloves from his pocket, he snapped them on, and tugged the sneaker off the victim’s foot. Then he held the sneaker up, and gave it a shake. Out dropped a Florida driver’s license and several folded bills. He picked both up from the ground. The victim’s name was Mary McClary, and she hailed from West Palm Beach. I’d dealt with hundreds of missing persons cases as a cop, and names that rhymed had always stood out.
“I remember her,” I said. “She left home at age sixteen. Her father ran a moving and storage business. He called me every day for a few months.”
“So she was a runaway,” Whitley said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Was she seen around Fort Lauderdale?” Whitley asked.
“Yes,” I said. “That was why I was looking for her.”
Whitley looked at Burrell, and I saw a knowing look pass between them.
“Like father, like son,” Whitley said.
“Do you think Jed Grimes did this?” Burrell asked.
“Yes, I do,” Whitley said. “He’s taking over his father’s legacy. I’ve seen a couple of cases like it in my career. It’s called savage spawn.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Whitley had decided that Jed Grimes had killed this woman, even though there was no evidence linking him to the crime. Worse, Burrell had fallen under his spell, and was going along with it. I exploded.
“Savage spawn,” I said. “That sounds like the name of a movie. Do you think you can get us all parts?”
Whitley placed the driver’s license into an evidence bag, then removed his gloves and tossed them on the ground. His eyes were on fire.
“You’re not funny,” he said.
“And you’re a jackass,” I replied.
We rushed each other at the same time. I got my hands on his windbreaker, and spun him around. Whitley’s legs got tangled up, and he fell onto a pile of garbage, ripping his pants and messing up his haircut. He cursed me.
Burrell grabbed my arm and pulled me over to her car. She wagged a finger in my face. “Stop this or I’ll cuff you, Jack.”
“Whatever you say,” I said.
Five minutes later an unmarked white van came rumbling into Section P, and disgorged a sheriff’s department excavation team consisting of six men. Each man wore rubber gloves and a surgical mask, and carried a black duffel bag filled with equipment.
A flatbed truck carrying a pair of bobcats came in behind the van. The bobcats were unloaded, and Burrell directed their drivers to start tearing apart the hill where I’d discovered the body. I stood off to the side with Buster and watched. My clothes stank of rotting garbage and sweat and death, and I guessed I’d have to throw them away.
Over the next hour, the bodies of five more women were discovered in the hills in Section P. The bodies were lined up next to Mary McClary’s body, and covered with blankets. The scene was starting to resemble a disaster area.
I heard a loud noise and looked to the sky. A helicopter circled overhead, the markings on its underbelly belonging to a local TV news station. Burrell had her hands full, and I didn’t want to be filmed or give her any more grief.
I hustled Buster into my car, and got behind the wheel. As I started to pull away, Burrell ran over to me.
“Jack!” she called out.
I hit the brakes, and made Buster climb into the back. Burrell opened the door, and slid onto the passenger seat.
“I want you back on the case,” she said.
“You do?” I said.
“Yes. I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
“What about the mayor?”
“Fuck the mayor,” Burrell said.
I looked through my windshield at Whitley, who was helping the evacuation team examine the bodies. During our scuffle, a piece of rotten fruit had gotten stuck in his hair, and ruined the image that he seemed so bent on cultivating.
“What about Mr. Hollywood?” I asked.
“Believe it or not, Whitley wants you back on the case, too.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He thinks you have amazing instincts.”
“Even if I think Jed Grimes is innocent?”
“Yes. The fact that we disagree doesn’t mean we can’t work together. I need you, Jack. Please say yes.”
It had been a long time since anyone had told me that. I looked across the seat at Burrell, and saw that she meant every word of it.
“Okay,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
T here is always a glimmer of light when I search for a missing person. That light is sparked by the hope that the person is still alive, and that I’m going to find them safe and unharmed, and reunite them with their loved ones.
There is no light when I’m dealing with the dead. The color is always black, and sometimes it’s so deep and penetrating that it swallows up everything around it.
I felt swallowed up in black as I drove away from the landfill. It was a feeling that I had to shake, and I drove due east until I reached the ocean. The beach was filled with people, and I stripped off my shirt, and jumped into the water. I splashed around until I got my sanity back, then lay on the beach for a few minutes and let my pants dry. Then I put my shirt back on, and went looking for something to eat.
I found a McDonald’s and bought breakfast. As I was sitting in my car unwrapping an egg biscuit, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Sally Haskell, my former colleague who now ran security for the Walt Disney World Corporation in Orlando. I tossed Buster my food.
“Hey Sally,” I answered.
“Hey, Jack. How’s it going?” Sally replied.
“I’m working a case, and need your help.”
“I know. I got an e-mail from Candy Burrell. I’ve been trying to reach her with no luck, so I figured I’d give you a try. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for a little boy named Sampson Grimes. He’s being held by a couple of drug enforcers in Fort Lauderdale. I got my hands on a photo of the kid taken inside a hotel room. One of your employees once helped me identify a hotel room from a photo, and I was hoping to use him again.”
“That was Tim Small, our resident interior designer,” Sally said.
“Is he available?”
“I’d like to help you, Jack, but Tim is dying of pancreatic cancer. He’s in home hospice.”
I leaned back in my seat. Ever since I’d started searching for Sampson, I’d been surrounded by the dead and dying. “How bad is he?” I asked.
“I spoke to his nurse a few days ago. He’s got a week at best.”
“Will you call him, anyway?”
Sally let out a gasp. “Jack, the man’s at death’s door. I’m not going to intrude on him at a time like this.”
“Please.”
“Jack! For God’s sake, what’s come over you?”
Buster was eyeing the hash browns sitting in my lap. I wasn’t hungry anymore, and gave them to him. “The little boy I’m searching for is in mortal danger. If I don’t find this kid soon, I’m afraid I never will.”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t make the call. Tim’s in horrible shape. I can’t put this kind of strain on him.”
I took a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“If you knew you were about to die, and someone came to you, and begged you to help save a little kid’s life before you checked out, would you do it?”
“Jack, don’t do this…”
“Would you?”
“Jack!”
“I sure as hell would. Instead of making the decision for Tim Small, why don’t you let him make the decision himself?”
Sally went silent. We’d butted heads many times when we’d worked together, and it had been like fighting with my sister, with lots of verbal pushing and shoving, and one of us usually getting our feelings bruised. But in the end we’d remained friends, and Sally knew that I wouldn’t push her unless there was good reason.
“All right, Jack, I’ll call him, but I can’t make any promises,” Sally said.
“Thanks, Sally,” I said.
I drove up and down A1A smelling the salty ocean breezes while playing with the radio. I ended up listening to a talk show whose sponsor was a local moving company. It made me think of Mary McClary’s father, whom I’d spoken to so many times. He’d been a decent man and a loving father, and I wondered if the Broward cops had contacted him with the tragic news about his daughter. Or would he hear about it the way so many families of the missing did, from the TV?
I decided to call him myself, and spare him any unnecessary grief. Pulling off A1A, I got the number for McClary Moving amp; Storage in West Palm Beach from information, and dialed it. A receptionist answered, and patched me through to the boss’s office. McClary picked up on the first ring.
“This is Frank McClary,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. McClary,” I said. “This is Jack Carpenter.”
Light jazz was playing in the background. Frank McClary killed the music, then in a tentative voice said, “You’re calling with news about Mary, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s not good,” I said. “A woman’s body was discovered this morning in the Pompano Beach landfill that was carrying your daughter’s driver’s license. The police will have to make a positive identification, but I wanted you to know.”
McClary put down the phone and started to weep. The sound tore at my heart. After a few moments, he came back on the line.
“My daughter is with the Lord,” he said.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do the police have any idea who did this?”
I hesitated. The police did have a suspect, only I knew it wasn’t the right one. I didn’t want to give Frank McClary any conflicting information, so I said, “The case is wide open, Mr. McClary. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Pray that they catch him,” I said.
McClary fell silent, and I heard him blow his nose. Then he said, “I got a call from one of Mary’s friends about a year ago. Mary had contacted her, and said that she was trying to get off the streets and find work. I took that as a positive sign, and told myself that one day Mary would call, and that she’d tell me she’d gotten her life straightened out.”
Mary McClary had been looking for a job. It made me wonder if that was how she’d met her killer. “Did your daughter’s friend say what kind of work?” I asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“Did your daughter have any training?”
“No, she dropped out of high school.”
“Did she work during the summer or on weekends?”
“She did some babysitting in the neighborhood, but that was about it. No, wait. Mary worked as a waitress and part-time cashier one summer at a hotel on the beach. She made a lot in tips, so I guess she was good at it.”
McClary’s voice cracked, and he again started to weep. I didn’t like putting him through this, but I’d learned something important. His daughter might have tried to get a job at a restaurant before she died. I again told him I was sorry, and got off the line.
I left the McDonald’s and drove back to the beach. I sat with my car facing the ocean and my windows down. I did not know what was worse, finding Mary McClary’s body, or telling her father. They both ripped at my soul.
My wife believed that for every good deed there is a reward. Mine came a few minutes later when Sally Haskell called me back.
“Tim Small said he’ll help you,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
T im Small lived outside of Melbourne, a seaside town an hour east of Orlando and two and a half hours north of Fort Lauderdale. Driving north on the Florida Turnpike, I pulled off at the first town I came to, went into an outlet store, and purchased a pair of khaki cargo pants and a lime-green Tommy Bahama shirt that was on sale for half-price. My old clothes smelled like death, and I did not regret parting with them.
Small lived on a street lined with ranch homes painted in vibrant Sun Belt hues. As I pulled down the driveway, I saw Sally Haskell leaning against her car. Sally was a honey-blond, blue-eyed Florida native who spent her free time running marathons. She was dressed in chinos and a pale blue sports shirt with the Disney logo embroidered on the pocket. We hugged as I got out of my car.
“You look like hell,” she said.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.
She gently pushed me back and put on her serious face. “I want you to know something before we go inside. Tim Small is a very dear person to me. I’m very protective of him.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said.
“I know you will,” she said. “But you’re also going to push him. It’s your nature. And if you push too hard, I’m going to put my foot down. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Do you think he’d mind if I let Buster run in his backyard? He’s been cooped up in the car for a few hours.”
“I don’t see why not. Tim adores animals.”
I got a plastic dog bowl out of the trunk and filled it with water, then put Buster and the water in the backyard. My dog seemed happy with the situation, and began chasing a squirrel in a tree. I found Sally standing by the front door.
“You still haven’t gotten back together with your wife, have you?” she asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“That dog acts like he owns you.”
Sally rang the bell. The door opened, and a male nurse wearing a white uniform ushered us inside. He introduced himself as Danny, and we followed him into a spacious room off the foyer that was decorated like an old-time soda fountain.
“I’ll go get Tim. Please make yourself comfortable,” Danny said.
Danny disappeared into another area of the house. Sally took a stool at the shining Formica-topped counter, which contained several penny licks, a Hamilton Beach malt maker, and an old-fashioned root beer dispenser. Hanging on the wall we
re colorful signs for different ice creams and sodas, plus a photograph of a smiling man sitting atop a Good Humor delivery tricycle.
A minute later, Danny pushed the man in the photograph into the room in a wheelchair. Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was swathed in blankets and wore a knit hat.
“I’m Tim,” the man said hoarsely.
Sally hopped off her stool, and kissed Small on the cheek. I smiled into the dying man’s face. To my surprise, he smiled broadly back.
“I’m Jack Carpenter,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” Small said. “Sally tells me you’re looking for an abducted little boy, and that you’re hoping I can help. I’ll be happy to try, but I must warn you, my eyesight and memory are not what they used to be.”
“I understand, Mr. Small,” I said.
“Please call me Tim,” he said. “Now, let’s see the photograph.”
I froze. I had forgotten to bring the photograph of Sampson Grimes. Sally came to my rescue, and fetched her laptop computer from her car. She retrieved the photo from her e-mail, and Small spent a long moment studying it.
Small shook his head, and I felt my spirits crash.
“The resolution is too weak for my eyes,” he explained. “Perhaps you could send the photo to the computer in my bedroom. I just purchased the screen, and the resolution is much sharper.”
“What’s your e-mail address?” Sally asked.
“ Goodhumorman@timsmall. com.”
Sally typed in the e-mail address, and sent the photo to Small’s computer. At Small’s request, Danny left to check and see if the e-mail had arrived.
“Not yet,” Danny called from the other side of the house.
“It should be here soon. I have high-speed Internet access.” Small rested his hands in his lap and looked at me. “I saw you admiring my collection of ice cream memorabilia. Did you see anything that struck your fancy?”
My face reddened. Had Small sized me up as a petty thief and thought I was going to steal something from the room? I started to reply, only he spoke first.
“My question is a sincere one,” Small said. “I have no family to bequeath my things to. I’ve donated the soda fountain to the Smithsonian, and Sally’s agreed to take an ice cream maker, but there are many pieces that have no place to go. I want them to have good homes, where they’ll be used and appreciated. Please tell me you’d like something.”
