by James Swain
Burrell glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Snook isn’t going to stand on the front lawn forever. If he comes inside and sees you, there will be hell to pay.”
“So stall him.”
“How can I do that? I can’t control the length of his press conference.”
“There are a dozen reporters questioning Snook. How many do you know?”
“Five or six. Why?”
“Which of the reporters do you know best?”
“Deborah Bodden with Fox News. She covers the crime beat.”
Bodden had been a reporter for as long as I’d been finding kids, and I’d never had a bad experience with her. I said, “Call Bodden on your cell phone, and ask her to keep questioning Snook. Promise to give her an exclusive when you bust the case open.”
“That’s not ethical, Jack. I could get in trouble.”
“If you don’t want to do it, I’ll call her.”
Burrell shot me a cold stare. When it came to finding missing kids, ethics were situational. I was willing to do whatever was necessary to find a child and get him or her home safely. Sometimes that meant skirting the law or breaking it. It was one of the reasons I wasn’t a cop anymore.
Burrell took out her cell phone. “You don’t back down, do you?”
“Never,” I said.
I left her standing in Suzie’s bedroom, and started my search.
Suzie’s parents’ bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall. Buster had joined me, and put his paw against the door.
“Let’s find out what Dad’s been up to,” I said.
I pushed the door open with my foot and stood in the doorway. The bedroom was the width of the house and looked like it had been decorated by Laura Ashley. A private bathroom was off to my left. The door was open, and I spied glistening marble countertops and a bathtub fit for a Roman emperor.
I went to the window beside the bed, and looked down at the lawn. Snook was still talking up a storm, and I saw Fox reporter Deborah Bodden ask him a question, and stick a mike in his face. Snook was not the kind of guy to walk away from free publicity, and he answered Bodden while dramatically waving his arms.
“Beautiful,” I said.
I went around the bedroom pulling open drawers. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. Just another piece of evidence that said Dad was a creep.
The drawers turned up nothing. Nor did I find anything inside the walk-in closet—which was bigger than my old apartment—or beneath the bed. I was beginning to doubt myself when I came to a dresser and felt the hair rise on my arms.
A framed wedding photo sat on the dresser. It had been taken on the dock of the Rusty Pelican restaurant in Key Biscayne, the restaurant’s colorful sign visible in the background. Mom wore a floor-length wedding dress, Dad a tux and red bow tie. They were holding champagne flutes, their arms interlocked as they drank from the other’s glass. Both stared lovingly into each other’s eyes.
Suddenly the situation became clearer. I did another search of the bedroom. The closet was divided into His and Hers, and I focused on Dad’s side. Two dozen expensive suits hung from the racks, and I searched the pockets. In one jacket, I found an envelope inside the inner pocket, and pulled it out. It was filled with photos of Suzie lying asleep on a bed in her underwear clutching a teddy bear. The photos could have been touching, only they were focused on Suzie’s breasts and her crotch.
I grabbed the wedding photo off the dresser and snapped my fingers for my dog. Buster emerged from the closet with a smelly running shoe in his mouth.
“Drop it,” I told him.
I headed down the hallway to Suzie’s bedroom with my dog hugging my leg. Burrell was inside the room, taking photos of the deadbolt on the door.
“Who interviewed Dad?” I asked.
Burrell lowered her camera. “I did. Why? What did you find?”
I showed her the photos of Suzie I’d found in the closet. Then I showed her the wedding photo, and pointed at the sign. “The Rusty Pelican burned down ten years ago. It took the owners several years to rebuild the place. It didn’t open again until six years ago. I know this because Rose and I celebrate our anniversary there every year. The sign in this photograph was installed after the restaurant was rebuilt.”
“Which means that this photo was taken within the past six years,” Burrell said.
“That’s right. I’m guessing this guy isn’t Suzie’s actual father.”
“He never told me that.”
“What’s his name, anyway?”
“Richard Knockman.”
Burrell’s face went blank, but I felt her rage bubbling below the surface, the deception making her want to explode. Men who carried on sexual relationships with underage girls came in a variety of forms. Some were teachers, some were coaches, and some even pretended to be men of faith. Each of these men had one thing in common: They used their positions of authority to get close to their victims, who were young and vulnerable They were predators.
Richard Knockman was a special breed of predator. He had married Suzie’s mother to get at Suzie. Suzie was the prize. More than likely, he had dated other women with young daughters, and settled on Suzie’s mother because she desperately wanted a man in her life. That was how it usually worked.
Richard Knockman had worked on Suzie slowly, lavishing her with gifts and attention and whatever she’d desired. He’d made her feel like a princess, and worked his way into her heart. Then one night, Richard had paid an unexpected visit to his stepdaughter’s bedroom. Suzie had awoken to find him rubbing her back, or even lying next to her. He made physical contact with her to see how she reacted. When she didn’t scream or try to scratch his eyeballs out, he told her how special she was. Then he left, with a promise to return.
Only the next time Richard Knockman had visited Suzie’s bedroom, he was in for a surprise. The door had a deadbolt. When Richard knocked and asked to be let in, Suzie told him he couldn’t enter. Maybe she even told him that she had a baseball bat. That was how little girls dealt with men like Richard Knockman.
But Richard didn’t stop. He kept coming on to Suzie when no one was around. She tried to stop his advances, only it got worse. So she ran away.
“I want to talk to Suzie’s mother in private,” I said.
Burrell had taken the wedding photo out of my hand, and was still studying it.
“Do you think the mother knows what’s going on?” she asked.
“I won’t know until I talk to her.”
Burrell placed the wedding photo on the dresser next to Suzie’s photo. It was ironic to look at them sitting side by side, knowing what we knew.
“All right. You can talk to the mother,” Burrell said.
I walked outside to the barn with Buster. There were six stalls, one of which contained a chestnut pony that a brass sign identified as Suzie’s Girl. I grabbed some carrots out of the feed room, and fed them to the pony until Suzie’s mother came outside.
“I’m Rebecca Knockman,” the woman introduced herself.
She was a petite woman with red hair and a pale Irish complexion. As she attempted to pet Suzie’s Girl, the pony retreated into the stall. Rebecca Knockman withdrew her hand, which I noticed was trembling.
“She’s never done that to me before,” Rebecca Knockman said.
“How long have you had her?”
“A little over a year. Richard bought her for our daughter.”
My grandfather had raised horses, and I knew something about them. A horse’s sense of smell was their primary source of protection, and I wondered if Suzie’s Girl had picked up on Rebecca Knockman’s fear, and decided to back away.
“Did Detective Burrell tell you what I do for a living?” I asked.
Rebecca Knockman crossed her arms and gave me a distrustful stare. “No, she didn’t.”
“I help the police find missing kids. When Detective Burrell told me your family had hired Leonard Snook, I knew that I wouldn’t have a problem finding your daught
er.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Leonard Snook represents criminals. Innocent people don’t hire him, but bad people do. Once I find out which member of your family hired Snook, I’d know what was going on. Make sense?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Your husband hired Snook, didn’t he?”
Rebecca Knockman’s eyes turned into slits. She didn’t answer my question.
“Let me tell you what I think, Mrs. Knockman. I think you know where Suzie is hiding. I also think your daughter told you what your husband has been up to. Deep down, you’re hoping to somehow fix this mess, and keep your family intact.”
Rebecca Knockman lowered her gaze to the concrete floor and hugged herself. I felt bad for her, but not as bad as I felt for her daughter.
“Only you can’t,” I went on. “Your husband is a bad man. If the police haul him in, and he gets the opportunity to give his story first, he’ll drag you and Suzie down with him. He’ll say it was your idea for him to sleep with Suzie, and that you’re into kinky sex, or some other kind of nonsense. He’ll make you into the villain.”
“Richard would never do that,” she said, still looking at the floor. “He didn’t have sex with Suzie.”
“But he tried,” I said emphatically. “Your husband is a sexual predator. Once he’s been exposed, he’ll do everything in his power to protect himself. That’s why he hired Leonard Snook. For damage control. I’ve dealt with hundreds of men just like your husband. I know exactly what they’re capable of.”
Rebecca Knockman shivered from an imaginary chill. She had come to that terrifying brink called reality, and it was ripping her apart.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.
“Go inside and tell Detective Burrell the truth, no matter how painful that might be. Lay it all out. You have to protect yourself and Suzie before it’s too late.”
“But I love my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Knockman. I really am. Do it for Suzie.”
Rebecca Knockman said something under her breath that I didn’t understand. She went to Suzie’s Girl’s stall door, and made a clucking sound with her tongue. The pony refused to come to her, and remained in the corner of the stall. Rebecca Knockman brought her hand to her mouth.
She walked away without another word.
CHAPTER 27
fed the pony carrots while the situation played itself out inside the house. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, and see Leonard Snook’s reaction as Rebecca Knockman turned the tables on her husband. If Snook was smart, he’d run like hell.
I heard a crash that sounded like glass being broken, followed by a yell that shattered the still air. Buster dashed out of the barn with me holding his leash.
“Is everything all right in there?” I called out.
I halted at the back stoop, and made my dog do the same. There was no response. Sexual predators were dangerous when cornered, and have been known to attack the police when threatened with arrest. I didn’t want Burrell to get hurt, but at the same time, I wasn’t going to stick my nose where it didn’t belong. Burrell was already angry with me, and there was no point in making it worse.
“Hey! What’s going on?” I called out.
Still nothing. Buster was straining at his leash. The back door slammed open, and Snook staggered outside. His thousand-dollar suit was ripped at the shoulder, and his mouth was spitting blood. Snook took a few uncertain steps, and promptly fell down the stairs.
I might have broken his fall, but stepped back instead. Snook hit the ground, and my dog lunged at him. I loosened the leash just enough to scare Snook half to death.
“Get that beast away from me!” the defense attorney bellowed.
“He’s really a nice dog, once you get to know him.”
“Away!”
I reined Buster in. Snook was a real mess. His upper front tooth was busted, and there was a purple swelling above his upper lip.
“Who gave you the knuckle sandwich?” I asked.
Snook started to reply, but then he realized who he was speaking to.
“Carpenter! You son-of-a-bitch!”
“It’s been great catching up.”
Hurrying past him, I entered the house. A cyclone had swept through the kitchen, with pots and pans and broken dishes scattered across the floor. Men who molested kids tended to be cowards, and I envisioned Richard Knockman throwing the items at everyone in the room, and running for his life.
I ran down the hallway to the front of the house, and found Burrell consoling Rebecca Knockman in the living room.
“I’m sorry things turned out this way, Mrs. Knockman,” Burrell said.
“He hit me with a sauce pan,” Rebecca Knockman said under her breath.
“I know. You need to call your daughter, and tell her to come home.”
“How could Richard do this?”
“Mrs. Knockman, listen to me. You have to call Suzie. It’s important that we get her home right away. Please.”
Rebecca Knockman pulled out her cell phone.
“Of course,” she said.
The front door was wide open. Outside I found Snook’s chauffeur sitting on the lawn.
“Is my boss okay?” the chauffeur asked.
“He’s just dandy,” I said. “Where’s Richard Knockman?”
“Mr. Knockman came outside waving his arms, and told me that Mr. Snook had a heart attack,” the chauffeur said. “I got out of the car, and Mr. Knockman jumped behind the wheel, and took off.”
I went back inside. “Richard Knockman’s stolen a car,” I said.
“He won’t get far,” Burrell said. “I posted patrol cars at both ends of the block.”
Back when I’d run Missing Persons, I’d always had a cruiser parked a block away from a crime scene, just in case. Burrell had done me one better, and used two cruisers. Back outside, I cornered the chauffeur, who’d thrown his hat on the ground in disgust.
“Which way did he go?” I asked.
The chauffeur pointed west, and that was the way Buster and I headed.
I don’t know why I ran down the street. It wasn’t my case, and I was probably never going to see Rebecca Knockman again.
I’d arrested many men like Richard Knockman, and I knew the damage they were capable of causing. Not just to their victims, but also to every living soul around them. They were human cancers, not fit to be loose in society.
The block was long and the air was hot. Soon I was drenched in sweat. On the next block a cruiser was parked on the grass, its bubble light flashing. I picked up speed, and soon was staring Richard Knockman in the face. He was tall and rather thin, and wore his hair stylishly long. He’d driven Snook’s town car off the road, and into a cluster of royal palm trees on someone’s front yard. The hood was crushed, and the engine was spewing black smoke. The car was a goner.
A pair of uniforms had handcuffed Richard Knockman’s hands behind his back and were reading him his rights. His face was covered in bright red cuts and he looked dazed. It was impolite to stare, but I did anyway.
“Jack Carpenter,” I said to the uniforms. “I’m working with Detective Burrell.”
One of the uniforms called Burrell on his walkie-talkie and confirmed my identity. The uniform handed me the walkie-talkie.
“Detective Burrell would like to speak with you,” the uniform said.
“Your boys got him,” I said into the walkie-talkie.
“Great,” Burrell said. “Keep your eye out for Suzie Knockman. She’s holed up in an abandoned house in the neighborhood. Her mother called her, and she’s walking home.”
“Will do.” I handed the walkie-talkie back to the uniform. “Detective Burrell said that it would be okay for me to shoot your suspect.”
“Want me to take the cuffs off?” the uniform asked.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
Richard Knockman’s head snapped so hard that I thought he had broken his n
eck. The uniforms held their stomachs and laughed.
Buster saw her first; the wisp of a girl standing across the street, hidden in the shadows. I crossed to get a better look at her, and saw her back away.
“You must be Suzie Knockman,” I said. “My name is Jack. I’m working with the police.”
Suzie eyed me suspiciously. She wore the uniform of girls her age: pink shorts, a colorful T-shirt, tanned arms and legs. She carried a backpack loaded with stuff and a pillow popping out of the top. I guessed she’d planned to stay away from home for a while.
“Is my stepfather going to jail?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. Richard Knockman was being put into the back of a cruiser, the uniform holding his head down. I turned back to her.
“Yes. He’s going to jail.”
“They won’t let him out on bail, will they?”
I shook my head. If I’d left any legacy as a detective, it was that every judge in the county had gotten an education about child molesters, and never let them post bail.
“He’s going away for a long time,” I said.
“Good. What’s your name again?” Suzie asked.
“It’s Jack.”
A cell phone appeared in Suzie’s hand. She said her mother’s name and the phone dialed itself. She lifted the phone to her face.
“Hey, Mom. It’s me. Some surfer dude named Jack wants to escort me back to the house. He says he’s working with the police. He’s got this neat-looking dog.”
I hid a smile. I’d been called a lot of names recently—most of them unpleasant—and Suzie’s description of me and Buster told me there was still hope. Suzie said good-bye to her mother and flipped the phone shut.
“Mom says you’re okay. Let’s go.”
We started toward her house. Her movements were slow, and I sensed that she was afraid to go back to that house. I wanted to tell her that her life was about to get a lot better, but I knew that these words would have to come from her mother, or someone else she trusted. Several times she glanced yearningly at Buster.
“Do you like dogs?” I asked.
“Yeah, but my stepfather Richard wouldn’t let me get one. I think he was afraid I’d keep it in my room.”
