The Night Monster

by James Swain

  “That’s right.”

  Now I understood what had happened. Sara had been expecting Biggs to pick her up. She had looked through the peephole and seen a giant figure standing outside in the dark; she’d assumed it was Biggs and unlocked the door.

  Now I was pissed. Biggs had unwittingly aided in Sara’s abduction. I pointed my finger at him and saw him squirm in his chair.

  “What?” Biggs said.

  “You know what,” I said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It’s time for you to come clean. Otherwise, the police will continue to think that you did this, and not focus on catching the real abductors.”

  “Come clean how?”

  “I want you to tell us everything that happened at the strip club, starting with the time you got there, till the time you left.”

  A line of sweat appeared above Biggs’s upper lip. Liar’s sweat. Biggs had gotten more than a hand job from Sky. If it came out, his career would be finished. No NBA contract, or lucrative sneaker endorsements, or beautiful girls waiting in every town he played in. He wasn’t prepared for that, even if it meant harming Sara. He was a selfish prick, and nothing I could say was going to change him.

  “I want to talk to my lawyer,” Biggs said.

  CHAPTER 10

  wanted to be a detective for just ten minutes. That was all the time I’d need to put the fear of God into Biggs, and make him start telling the truth. Boone pulled me into the hallway.

  “So, what do you think?” Boone asked.

  “Biggs is a scumbag, but he didn’t abduct Sara Long.”

  “Then why won’t he talk to us?”

  The hallway was filled with men wearing tailored suits and silk neckties. They looked like defense lawyers who happened to have better hearing than most dogs. I pulled Boone into a corner where no one could eavesdrop.

  “Biggs had sex with a stripper and doesn’t want the NBA to find out. That’s why he’s keeping his mouth shut.”

  “I think he did it,” Boone said. “I’m going to ask the DA to press charges. Are you sure you don’t want to change your story?”

  Boone had made up his mind. He disliked Biggs so much that it had tainted his reasoning. Cops called it personalizing a case. It had ruined more criminal investigations than anything I knew of. Shaking my head, I watched Boone walk away.

  ———

  I trudged up the stairwell to the main floor, turned over my visitor’s pass to the desk sergeant, and started to sign myself out.

  “Not so fast,” the desk sergeant said.

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “Detective Burrell wants to see you. She’s in her office on the second floor.”

  I reclaimed my visitor’s pass and went upstairs. The second-floor receptionist waved me through, and I walked down the hall. Burrell occupied my old corner office with its depressing view of the employee parking lot. I’d never liked looking at the cars cops drove; they were usually aging pieces of junk and had always reminded me how poorly cops were paid. I stuck my head into Burrell’s office, and caught her gazing through the window.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Burrell spun around in her chair. She still wore yesterday’s blue pantsuit, her hair disheveled, her eyes ringed from lack of sleep. I didn’t need a crystal ball to figure out what was going on. The search for Sara had gone cold.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  I sat across from her. You could tell a lot about people by the photographs that sat on their desks. The photos on Burrell’s desk were of her father, her uncle, and her two brothers—all rank-and-file cops. I supposed it was in her genes to carry a shield.

  “Boone let me question Tyrone Biggs,” I said. “He didn’t abduct Sara Long.”

  “How can you be positive? Strange things happen to people’s memories when they get knocked out.”

  I had hired and trained Burrell, and it felt strange to hear her question me. Only that was what the job required. You had to question everyone.

  “And it was dark,” Burrell added.

  “I know what I saw,” I said. “It wasn’t Biggs.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “I don’t know who he is.”

  Lying on the desk was a green Pendaflex file. Burrell picked the file up and handed it to me. I opened it and started to read.

  “Those are the records of eleven men of unusual height who’ve committed crimes against women in south Florida in the past five years,” she said. “Maybe one of them is the guy you saw abducting Sara Long.”

  Burrell was giving me the benefit of the doubt, which was more than Boone and Weaver had done. I removed the records and spread them across her desk. The mug shots of eleven hardened criminals stared up at me. Five were white, three black, three Hispanic. I studied their faces, then put the records back into the file.

  “It’s none of these guys,” I said.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes. I know this is going to sound strange, but I’ve seen the guy before.”

  Burrell’s mouth dropped open. “You have? When?”

  “Eighteen years ago. I was a patrolman, and went to an apartment complex in Fort Lauderdale on a call. A college student named Naomi Dunn was being assaulted by an unknown male. I responded and tried to get into the apartment. The guy opened a door in my face and knocked me down. I saw him leave with Dunn thrown over his shoulder. It was the same person I saw abduct Sara Long.”

  “What else do you remember about him?”

  “He looked crazy,” I said.

  “Did you write this up in your report?”

  “I did, but my supervisor made me change it.”

  An uneasy silence filled the office. Burrell put her elbows on her desk and gave me a hard look.

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I was studying to become a detective. My supervisor said that if I wrote in my report that this guy was a crazy giant, people would think I was making excuses, and I might not get promoted. He made me change my report to say that Dunn’s abductor was a big guy who was high on something.”

  “Only he wasn’t.”

  I felt my face burn, and shook my head.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Burrell said.

  “I made up for it.”

  “How so?”

  “I had a choice of units when I became a detective. Missing Persons was brand-new, just a cubicle and a desk. I took over, and immediately started looking for Dunn. I’ve never stopped looking.”

  “Where did you look?”

  “I contacted every police department in the state, and every hospital. When that didn’t pan out, I contacted police departments and hospitals in other states. Nothing turned up.”

  The red button on her desk phone lit up. It was the office’s private line, and only a few select people had the number. Burrell answered it.

  “Excuse me, Mayor Dawson, but I have someone sitting in my office,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to put you on hold. I’ll be right back.”

  Burrell put the call on hold and nestled the receiver into the cradle. Her eyes had not left my face the whole time.

  “Let me see if I get this straight,” she said. “You think Sara Long’s abduction is connected to an eighteen-year-old case, and the culprit is some big guy with mental problems that there are no records of.”

  “I know it sounds stupid, but yes.”

  “You once told me that criminals don’t operate in vacuums. They live in regular neighborhoods and shop for groceries and do other normal stuff. If this guy has been running around for that long, how come there’s no record of him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He works with a partner called Mouse, so maybe Mouse is the visible one, while he stays undercover.”

  “A mouse and a giant.”

  “That’s right.”

  Burrell drummed her desk. The sound gave a nice beat to the blinking light on her phone. I could tell she was growing
exasperated with me.

  “The mayor wants me to formally arrest Tyrone Biggs,” she said.

  “Why is the mayor involved?”

  “Because the case has become political. If I don’t make an arrest soon, the city stands to lose the women’s NCAA basketball tournament next month. We’re talking millions of dollars of tourism revenue and lots of TV exposure.”

  “But Tyrone Biggs is innocent. Someone else did this.”

  “Jack, be reasonable. You got hit in the head, and your mind is playing tricks on you. What other explanation is there?”

  I rose from my chair. I had told my story to three detectives, and none had believed me. I needed to find more evidence to prove my case. If I didn’t, Sara Long would end up like Naomi Dunn.

  “Who’s got my gun?” I asked.

  “I do.”

  “Can I have it back? Or do I need to take a sanity test first?”

  Burrell removed my Colt from her desk. There was a slight hesitation as she handed it to me. Like she thought I might have gone off my rocker, and could hurt someone with it. I slipped it into the holster in my pocket and went to the door.

  “Tell the mayor I said hello,” I said.

  CHAPTER 11

  drove to the Bank Atlantic Center where my daughter’s team was practicing. Entering through a service entrance, I walked to the arena without seeing a single cop or security guard. Had I still been running Missing Persons, I would have assigned a pair of cops to every practice until Sara Long was found.

  I stood beneath a basket and canvassed the arena. The Lady Seminoles were at the far end of the court, practicing their jump shots. I waved to my daughter and also to her coach, who I owed a dinner. Then I looked in the stands to see if any suspicious characters were hanging around.

  Satisfied that Jessie and her teammates were safe, I went to the lobby and tagged a maintenance man mopping the floor. Maintenance men were good sources of information, and had helped me many times during investigations. I handed him my business card, which identified me as a retired detective with the Broward County police.

  “My name’s Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I was wondering if you were working the basketball game last night.”

  The maintenance man studied my card. He was pushing sixty, with snow-white hair worn in a buzz cut, and bloodshot eyes that said he was no stranger to the bottle. Stitched in red above his shirt pocket was the name Frank.

  “Is this about the girl that was abducted?” Frank asked.

  “That’s right. I was wondering if anyone found a video camera courtside last night, and turned it in. It’s linked to the case.”

  “Didn’t hear about any video camera getting turned in,” Frank said.

  “Do you have a lost and found?”

  “Yeah. We keep stuff we find in a locked room in the back.”

  “Who runs the lost and found?”

  “I do.”

  “Would you check to see if the camera is there?”

  Frank leaned on his mop and gave me a hard look. I felt a confrontation coming on, and pulled a crisp twenty from my wallet. I tucked the money into his shirt pocket.

  “I’d really appreciate it,” I said.

  Frank went to look for the missing video camera. He returned empty-handed and with whiskey on his breath. I had expected more for my money.

  “The camera’s not in lost and found,” he said.

  “Was it ever?” I asked.

  Frank gave me a look and shrugged.

  “Did you pawn it?” I asked.

  He winced like I’d slapped him in the face. I’d made a study of body language, and everything about Frank’s body had told me that he was lying through his teeth. I decided to vent my anger on him.

  “I could get you in a lot of trouble,” I said.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Withholding evidence is a serious crime.”

  “You can’t prove—”

  “You could go to jail. Ever been to jail before? It’s murder on old guys. They make you clean the toilets and mop the floors.”

  His chest sunk and his mouth dropped open. He whispered the word shit.

  “Tell me where the camera is,” I said.

  Frank blinked. Then he blinked again. Being busted was like being in a car wreck, with everything turning to slow motion. Frank was in slow motion right now. When he spoke, his words were barely a whisper. “There’s a fence in my neighborhood. I dropped by his place this morning, and sold him the camera. He moves the stuff fast.”

  “Any chance of retrieving it?” I asked.

  Frank shook his head.

  “Did you watch the film on the camera before you fenced it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember any of it?”

  “It was of Sara Long and another girl on the team. I didn’t know that the Long girl had been abducted until I picked up the paper at lunch. By then it was too late to get the camera back.”

  “Would you have tried to?”

  “Of course. I’m just trying to make ends meet.”

  “Who was the other girl on the tape?”

  “One of the forwards. About five-ten, wore her hair in a ponytail. On the film she was practicing shooting three-pointers. She had a sweet shot.”

  An icy finger ran down the length of my spine.

  “Was she wearing number sixteen?” I asked.

  Frank closed his eyes and plumbed his memory.

  “I think so,” he said.

  The other girl on the tape was Jessie. Sara Long’s abductors had been profiling two members of the Lady Seminoles, and had picked Sara over my kid.

  God had spared me.

  I returned to the arena. The Lady Seminoles were working on their layups, their exertion echoing across the hardwood floor. Their coach was pushing them hard, trying to make them forget the loss the team had suffered. More than once I saw a player go to the sidelines to cry into a towel, then go back to the floor, and resume practicing.

  A voice snapped my head. A man sat in the bleachers, talking on a cell phone. The one and only Karl Long, Sara’s father.

  Karl Long was a well-known real estate developer with a penchant for ruthless deals and expensive toys. He was pushing fifty, a tall, good-looking guy with a hundred-dollar haircut and perfect teeth. He never sat with the other fathers during the games, but sequestered himself in a private box. I waved to him and climbed the bleachers.

  “Jack Carpenter,” I said.

  I offered my hand. Long snapped his phone shut and glared at me.

  “I know who you are,” Long said. “You were at the Days Inn when Sara was abducted last night.”

  There was a hint of accusation in his voice. It was common for parents of missing kids to take out their grief on the people around them. It was part of coping, and I’d experienced it many times working cases.

  “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” I said. “I know how hard this must be for you.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he replied.

  It was rare for me to be speechless. This was one of those times.

  “You’re an ex-detective,” Long went on. “You carry a gun. You were right there in the parking lot when it happened. Why didn’t you stop that son-of-a-bitch from taking my daughter? What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

  I wanted to ask Long where he’d gotten his information, since the victim’s families were often the last to know the details. Instead, I tried to calm him down.

  “I didn’t want to risk shooting Sara,” I said. “Then I got knocked out. I would have saved her if I could have. You have to believe that.”

  “You should have done more.”

  “I spent the night in the hospital.”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  “I’m sorry, Karl. I truly am.”

  “Don’t take that personal tone with me.”

  Long gave me a murderous look. Behind the icy demeanor was real pain. He had everything money could buy, and
now someone had taken from him the one thing his money couldn’t buy back. His baby.

  “I want to help,” I said.

  “How do you propose doing that?”

  “I’m an expert at finding missing kids. It’s how I make my living.”

  “I’ve hired the best detective agency in town to find Sara. They’re wired into the police and also the criminal underground. They’re professionals, which is more than I can say about you.”

  Private detective agencies were good at staking out motel rooms and digging up dirt, and little else. Long had probably paid the agency a big retainer, and in return, gotten a lot of promises. The agency had also probably told him some unpleasant things about me. I was the bad guy in all this, just like I’d been the bad guy for saving Bobby Monroe’s life.

  But none of that fazed me. I guess you could say I was used to it. Taking out my wallet, I removed my business card. Long acted astonished when I gave it to him.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” he said.

  “Take it,” I said.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do. These guys are pros.”

  Long tore my business card in two and let the pieces flutter from his hands.

  “Get lost,” he said.

  I walked down the bleachers toward the arena. The Lady Seminoles had taken a break, and I spotted Jessie standing by the sidelines, waving to me. There was a pleading look in her eyes that told me she had something important to tell me.

  I put Karl Long out of my mind and hurried toward her.

  CHAPTER 12

  essie was breathing hard as I approached. “How’s practice going?” I asked.

  “Horrible. I can’t stop thinking about Sara, and neither can anyone else.”

  “You need to focus on the game tonight.”

  “I’m trying, Daddy.”

  Jessie glanced over her shoulder at her coach, who was standing nearby, then dropped her voice. “A couple of the girls on the team want to talk to you.”

  “About Sara?”

  My daughter wiped the sweat from her face with a towel. “Yeah.”

  “Why the secrecy?”