by James Swain
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
PART ONE
A SHOT AT HEAVEN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PART TWO
THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PART THREE
DON’T BE CRUEL
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
PART FOUR
THE NIGHT STALKER
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY JAMES SWAIN
COPYRIGHT
FOR LAURA
Just as a wise man keeps away from mad dogs,
so one should not make friends with evil men.
—BUDDHA
PART ONE
A SHOT AT HEAVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Noise was one of the few things that moved freely inside a prison. The haunting echo of my own footsteps followed me down the long, windowless corridor inside the maximum security wing of Florida State Prison in Starke. I’d visited many prisons, and the smell was always the same: a choking mixture of piss, shit, fear, and desperation, wiped down by harsh antiseptics.
Walking through an electronically operated steel door, I was patted down by two stone-faced guards. Satisfied that I was not carrying weapons or contraband, they passed me off to a smirking inmate with a hideous purple birthmark on the side of his face. He took off at a brisk pace, and I followed him into the cellblock that housed death row inmates.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Garvin,” he replied, not breaking stride.
“What are you in for?”
“I shot up my family during Thanksgiving dinner.”
I walked past the cells in death row with my eyes to the floor, feeling their occupants’ presence like a fist pounding on my back. When we arrived at an empty cell, Garvin slid back the door, and stepped to one side. “Wait inside here,” he said.
“What if no one comes?” I asked.
“Make some noise, and I’ll come get you.”
I entered the cell, a ten-by-ten concrete square with two wood benches anchored to the floor, and a small wood table. Garvin slammed the door behind me, making me jump. He chuckled as he walked away.
I took the bench nearest the door, and stuck a piece of gum into my mouth. I chewed so hard it made my jaw ache. I’d put scores of bad guys into Starke, and I didn’t want to be here any longer than I had to.
I stared at the table. Inmates were not supposed to have anything sharp, but the table said otherwise. Names and dates and ugly epithets were carved into every inch of wood. One name stood out over the others.
Abb Grimes
I had been involved in Abb’s case, and I knew his story. A Fort Lauderdale native, he’d quit high school at seventeen, done a stint in the navy, gotten married and had a kid, and gone to work driving a newspaper delivery truck—an ordinary guy, except that he liked to kill young women.
Abb’s killings followed a pattern. Late at night, he left his house, and walked to the neighborhood grocery. There, he’d hidden behind the Dumpsters. When a young homeless woman would show up looking for food, he’d drag her into the woods, rape and strangle her, then stuff her body in a large garbage bag, tossing her into a Dumpster.
As mass murders went, it was nearly perfect. The victims were women no one cared about, and the bodies were disposed of for him. It might have gone on forever, only one night a surveillance camera filmed Abb with the body of a victim draped in his arms. As was his custom, the store manager viewed the tape the next morning. Seeing Abb, he called 911.
The police found the woman’s body in the Dumpster. They got a search warrant for Abb’s home and in his garage they found a cardboard box containing women’s underpants. Each of the pairs was different.
Their next stop was the Pompano Beach landfill, where trash in Broward County was taken. Using earth movers and cadaver dogs, they’d moved several acres of trash, digging up the bodies of seventeen strangled women.
Eleven of the women were carrying ID. As head of the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit, it had been my job to contact their families. It had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done.
The remaining six women were still Jane Does. I had hoped to identify them one day, and put their memories to rest. Only I’d lost my job after beating up a suspect, and never gotten it done.
It ate at me.
Hearing footsteps, I went to the cell door. Wearing leg irons and handcuffs and flanked by two guards, Abb shuffled down the hall. Tall and powerfully built, he had an angular jaw and dark, deeply set eyes. During his trial, the prosecution had called him “The Night Stalker,” which had been a TV show that had lasted one season. It had scared the hell out of everyone who’d seen it. The nickname fit.
“Stand back,” a guard ordered.
I retreated, and the three men entered. Abb dropped down on the opposing bench and looked at the floor, while the two guards remained standing.
An attractive brunette clutching a leather briefcase came in next. She was young and looked a little scared, and I found myself admiring her. It took guts for a woman to enter a prison filled with a thousand hardened criminals.
“I’m Piper Stone, Abb’s attorney,” she said.
“Jack Carpenter,” I said.
“Thank you for coming.”
We sat on the bench, and faced Abb. As strange as it sounded, he was my client, so I waited for him to start. Abb cleared his throat. He had a voice like gravel, and I guessed he didn’t use it much.
“I’m going to die soon,” Abb said. “Did my lawyer tell you that?”
“No, she didn’t,” I said.
“They’re going to execute me in four days,” Abb said. “Think you can find my grands
on before then?”
Abb’s grandson, three-year-old Sampson Grimes, had disappeared from his bedroom three nights ago. I’d read about it in the Fort Lauderdale newspapers, and knew that the police had been stymied in their efforts to locate him.
“I’m going to try,” I said. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“I get an hour each day to exercise in the yard,” Abb said. “Two days ago, a photograph of my grandson and a ransom note got slipped into my back pocket. I didn’t see who did it.”
“Do you still have the note and photo?” I asked.
“I gave them to Ms. Stone.”
I looked at Stone. “I’d like to see them.”
Stone unclasped her briefcase and handed me the items. The photo showed a tow-headed little boy with a face like the Gerber baby lying on a blanket. His clothes looked clean, as did his face and hands, and his eyes showed no sign of fear. I took these as a sign that his captor was not abusing him. Lying on the blanket was a copy of the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel with the date prominently displayed. It was a trick used by kidnappers to show that their victims were still alive.
I shifted my attention to the ransom note. Written in pencil, it said, “Stop talking to the FBI or Sampson will die.” The handwriting surprised me. Most kidnappers used typewriters, or glued letters cut from a magazine. Whoever had kidnapped Sampson obviously didn’t think he was going to get caught.
“What are you talking to the FBI about?” I asked.
“I’m in their VICAP program,” Abb said. “I was supposed to go under hypnosis to help them identify those Jane Does. I still don’t remember the things I did.”
VICAP was the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Cops had an expression when criminals entered programs like VICAP, and agreed to help the police. They called it taking a shot at heaven.
“Does the FBI know you were contacted by your grandson’s kidnapper?” I asked.
Abb shook his head.
“How about the police?” I asked.
Abb shook his head again.
“Why haven’t you told them?”
“Because I want you to find him,” Abb said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ve met six guys in Starke who are serving life for kidnapping little kids. You put them here. That’s why.”
I slipped the ransom note into my pocket.
“You’re going to take the job?” Abb asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good.”
I stood and so did Stone. She went over and placed her hand on Abb’s shoulder. Under her breath she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow, and let you know how the appeals are going.”
Abb gazed up at her and nodded.
One of the guards slid back the cell door. Stone and I started to leave. I saw Abb look directly at me. Something resembling hope flickered in his eyes. I decided to level with him.
“Your grandson’s case is three days old,” I said. “That’s a long time when it comes to a kidnapping. I need to do a lot of groundwork, and talk to a lot of people.”
“What are you trying to say?” Abb asked.
“I may not find Sampson before they execute you.”
“Four days isn’t enough?”
“I won’t know until I start looking.”
“I was hoping you—”
I cut him off. “I don’t make promises.”
“But—”
“That’s the deal,” I said.
Abb cast his eyes to the floor. He had asked me here because he did not want to go to his death knowing he’d caused an innocent child to suffer. I had to think it was one of the more decent things he’d done in his life.
“Okay,” he muttered.
He was still staring at the floor when we left.
CHAPTER TWO
We walked back to the prison’s main reception area. Stone had her personal items and cell phone returned, while I was given back my Colt 1908 Pocket Hammerless, which I slipped into the concealed holster in my pocket.
The parking lot was hot, the air still. Stone’s sleek BMW sports car was parked beside my aging Acura Legend. From the glove compartment she removed my fee for finding Sampson, and had me sign a receipt for it.
“I’d like you to give me a progress report every day,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
Stone made a call on her cell phone. I listened to her talk to another lawyer about filing an appeal asking the governor to halt Abb’s execution. I didn’t like lawyers, but I had to give her credit. She was going to fight until the bitter end. I said good-bye and she nodded.
I got into my car. I’d left the windows down, yet the interior was still warm. My dog, who was curled on the passenger seat, opened his eyes. He climbed into my lap, and we spent a few moments getting reacquainted.
I’ve heard it said that bad things come in threes. The day I’d gotten thrown off the force, my wife walked out on me, and I’d gone to the Humane Society to find a new companion. I guess it said something about my luck that I’d come home with Buster, a chocolate Australian Shepherd who mistrusted everyone but me and a few of my friends.
Buster was not an easy dog to be around. He had a temper, and some funny quirks. But he also had a nose like a bloodhound, and had saved my ass plenty of times on jobs. He was part of the team, and went where I did.
The two-lane road outside the prison was as straight as a shotgun blast. I pushed the Legend up to eighty, and kept it there. Taking the kidnapper’s photo of Sampson Grimes from my pocket, I stuck it on the wheel, and stared at it as I drove.
I have spent much of my life looking for missing kids, and helping kids in trouble. There’s a reason for that. Back when my daughter, Jessie, was a little girl, a pervert exposed himself to her on the beach during a weekend outing. Luckily, I was able to rescue my daughter before the pervert did anything else.
What I remember most about that horrible day was my own fear. It replaced every other feeling in my body, and it flipped an invisible trigger inside my head that’s never gone off. When I hear a baby crying, I run to the sound. When I happen upon a lost child in a mall or a parking lot, I help the child find her parents. And when I know that a kid needs help, I do everything in my power to help him. Sometimes that means breaking the rules and stepping on people’s toes. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but it happens. And like my dog, I don’t see myself changing anytime soon.
I pulled into town. Although Starke was in north Florida, it was truly a Southern town, with a Wal-Mart-sized Baptist church on its main drag, and pickup trucks covered in NASCAR bumper stickers and Confederate flags. I drove around until I found a copy store, and went inside with my dog.
The owner was a possum-shaped man with straw-colored hair and blotchy skin—what locals call a cracker. I asked if he had a computer that I could send an e-mail from, and a scanner.
“You came to the right place,” the owner said.
He led me to the back room. His computer may have been the first one ever made, and was bigger than most TVs. He booted it up, and went into his Hotmail account. Then he showed me how to work the scanner, which sat on the desk beside it.
“I’d like to pay you for this,” I said.
“Doesn’t cost anything to send an e-mail,” he replied. “That’s a fine dog you’ve got. Does he hunt?”
“Just people,” I said.
He smiled, thinking I was joking.
“I’ll be out front if you need me,” he said.
He walked out of the room. I sat down at the desk, and removed the kidnap photo and ransom note from my pocket. I placed both into the scanner, and scanned them into the computer. Then I composed a letter explaining how I’d come into their possession, and the things that Abb Grimes had told me.
When I was finished with my letter, I took out my cell phone, which, along with allowing me to take pictures and send e-mails, contained a memory bank of e-mail addresses important to me.
Opening the
e-mail memory bank, I typed into the computer the e-mail address of every law enforcement agency in Florida that I worked with. This included the FBI, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the U.S. Marshals, and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I also included Detective Ron Cheeks, who now ran the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit. Rescuing kidnap victims wasn’t easy, and I was going to need all the help I could get.
When I was done, I hit send, and everything on the computer screen disappeared. The store owner had been more than helpful, and I removed a ten-dollar bill from my wallet, and stuck it beneath the coffee cup on his desk.
I grabbed my dog, and went to the front of the store where the owner sat behind the counter reading a newspaper. I thanked him again.
“Come back anytime,” he said.
Starke had every fast-food restaurant you could name. I bought two value meals at Burger King, and ate lunch with my dog. Buster had lousy table manners, but I put up with them. I didn’t like eating alone.
We were splitting an oatmeal cookie when my cell phone rang. I pulled the phone off the Velcro patch on the dashboard hoping it was someone responding to my e-mail.
Caller ID said ANDY VITA. Vita was the Florida point man with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I gave Buster the rest of my cookie, and answered the call.
“Carpenter here.”
“Hey, Jack, it’s Andy Vita. You busy?”
“Just finishing my lunch. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with the principal of Oakwood Elementary School in Ocala. A four-year-old Honduran girl named Angelica Suarez disappeared from Oakwood this morning, and the cops are pulling their hair out trying to find her. The principal said you helped them with their abduction prevention program, and I was wondering if you remember the setup.”
Back when I was a cop, I’d traveled around Florida and helped dozens of elementary schools establish procedures to protect them from child abductors.
“I remember Oakwood,” I said. “It was tight as a drum.”
“I think we’re dealing with a pro,” Vita said.
“Why do you think that?”
