The Night Stalker

by James Swain

  Lonna rested her hand on her husband’s wrist. “I’ll do whatever you want, mister.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning. How many days have you been here?”

  “Three,” Lonna said. “I started having my contractions early, and Jimmie rushed me to the hospital on Tuesday night.”

  “Detective Burrell told me that a woman came into your room this morning, and you gave her your son,” I said. “Why did you do that?”

  Lonna winced, and I thought her husband was going to come out of his chair.

  “She didn’t do it on purpose,” Jimmie Wakefield said angrily.

  I ignored him, and continued staring into his wife’s eyes.

  “I thought she was a nurse,” Lonna replied softly.

  “Was she wearing a nurse’s uniform?” I asked.

  Lonna’s eyes flickered as she brought up the memory. “Yeah, but she wasn’t wearing a nurse’s badge around her neck. I should have noticed that.”

  “You had other things on your mind. Had you seen this woman before?”

  “I saw her hanging around the maternity ward. I really didn’t notice her, not right away. There are so many people, between the doctors and nurses and volunteers and visitors. There was even a newborn class one day. She sort of blended in.”

  “Had she visited your room before?”

  “Yes. She popped in after Martin was born to see how I was doing.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  Lonna closed her eyes. “She was about thirty-five, Italian, maybe five-six or five-seven, kinda plump, wore her hair tied back in a bun, pleasant face.”

  “Was she nice to you?”

  She opened her eyes. They had welled up with tears, and Jimmie grabbed a tissue and handed it to her. “She was sweet,” Lonna said. “She reminded me of my mom.”

  “Which was why you felt comfortable handing her your son.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t want to at first.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “My baby was coughing, and needed to get his medicine. She offered to take him. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  Lonna had just described the classic abductor of newborns: a pleasant woman impersonating a hospital employee who ingratiates herself with a mother in order to get her hands on the mother’s newborn child. I decided that the Wakefields hadn’t done anything wrong, and rose from my crouching position. Both parents relaxed.

  “Is there anything else you remember about this woman?” I asked.

  “She called herself Tessa,” Lonna said. “She really fussed over Martin.”

  I found myself nodding, and went to the door. Then I had a thought, and turned back to face the couple. “Did Tessa know the name of the medications Martin was being given?”

  “Yes,” Lonna said. “She asked me what they were called, and wrote it down. She said she wanted to be sure the doctor was giving Martin the right drugs.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Albuterol and theophylline.”

  I borrowed a pen and slip of paper from Burrell, made Lonna spell the drugs for me, and wrote them down.

  “Is that important?” Lonna asked.

  I didn’t like to tell grieving parents any more than I had to during an investigation, only Lonna and Jimmie Wakefield were sick with worry, and deserved to hear even the tiniest bit of good news. I said, “This is going to sound strange, but that’s the best thing you could have told me. Tessa loves your baby. That’s why she stole him, and that’s why I should have no trouble tracking her down.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I walked outside Lonna Wakefield’s room and let my eyes scan the hallway. The floor had been recently mopped, and it reflected my shadow, as well as that of my dog’s and Burrell’s, both of whom stood behind me. My eyes locked on an emergency exit at the hallway’s end. Without conscious thought my feet took me to it, and my hand grabbed the door handle that would lead me outside. Burrell called out in alarm.

  “Jack, you’re going to set off the sirens,” she said.

  “This is the exit that Tessa took when she escaped with the baby,” I said.

  “We don’t know that for certain. There are other exits in the building.”

  I shook my head, still grasping the door handle. I heard Burrell’s shoes clop on the floor as she caught up to me. “Tessa took the path of least resistance, which happens to be this door,” I said. “My guess is, she dismantled the siren earlier, and parked her car outside. She was gone before anyone knew the baby was missing.”

  “You’re sure about this,” Burrell said.

  “Bet you a buck.”

  “You’re on.”

  I’ve been hunting down kids long enough to know when I’m right. I pushed open the emergency exit and waited. No siren went off. Burrell let out an exasperated breath.

  “It must be hell being right all the time,” she said.

  I entered a dimly lit stairwell and had a quick look around. On the opposite side was another door that led outside. I went to it, and grabbed the handle.

  “Want to bet another buck?”

  “Not with you.”

  I opened the door and sunlight flooded the stairwell along with the clamorous noise of traffic on nearby Andrews Avenue. Buster scurried out between my legs and made a beeline for a line of garbage cans hugging the side of the building. I began pulling off the lids and quickly found a drab gray nurse’s uniform stuffed into one. The tag inside the collar said X Large. Burrell took the uniform and held it up to the light.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” she said.

  “Check the pockets,” I said. “She was in a hurry, and probably didn’t bother to clean them out.”

  Burrell emptied the pockets while I tried to determine where Tessa had parked her car. We were on the eastern side of the hospital, and parking was limited to cars reserved for doctors and high-ranking hospital employees. A small strip of grass separated the parking area from the street, and I found tire imprints in the grass.

  “Tessa parked her car here,” I called to Burrell. “Judging from the space between the tires, she’s driving something pretty small.”

  “She parked in the grass? Isn’t that a little risky?”

  “Desperate people do desperate things,” I said. “Find anything?”

  “A receipt from Publix. She purchased eighty-six dollars’ worth of groceries two days ago, paid cash. Judging from the items she bought, she definitely is married.”

  “Lots of beer and frozen pizza?”

  “Yes. They like to eat.”

  Burrell stuffed the uniform beneath her arm. “We still don’t know her name, or where she lives, or anything else. I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but how do we track her down? Have your trusty dog run down the highway, and pick up her scent?”

  Buster had found something smelly in the grass and was rolling in it. I clicked my fingers to no avail, then answered her. “You need to contact all the local pharmacies and hospitals, and ask them to be on the lookout for any woman who’s registered a home birth. They also need to be looking for any prescriptions for albuterol and theophylline. Tessa may have stolen a doctor’s script, and written out a prescription for Martin’s medicine.”

  “You think she’s going to claim Martin as her own?”

  “Yes. Tessa is starting a family.”

  “This woman isn’t your normal criminal, is she?”

  “She’s probably never broken a law in her life. But apprehending her is still going to be tricky.”

  “Is she dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  Burrell’s cell phone was ringing. She yanked it out, and made a face. I didn’t have to ask her who it was. She said, “Save that thought. There’s a Village Inn up the road. I’ll meet you there when I’m done with this call, and you can explain this to me.”

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

  “I’ll do that.”

  I pulled Buster out of the grass. He’d ro
lled in something dead, and I dragged him to my car.

  I got a towel out of the trunk and cleaned Buster’s fur. Dogs rolled in bad smells to cover their own scent and keep their enemies guessing. Right now, I was guessing that Buster needed a bath.

  As I put Buster into the car, I saw Jimmie Wakefield coming across the parking lot. He was a huge guy, and his puffed-up chest and face made him look even bigger. He halted a few feet from where I stood, and pointed a finger in my face.

  “Why did you say that to Lonna?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “You said you’d have no trouble finding our son. That’s bullshit. You don’t know who this nurse was, or what she’s going to do with him. You filled my wife with false hope, you crummy son-of-a-bitch.”

  It was common for parents of abducted children to fly into rages, and siphon their anger against the very people who were trying to help them. It was part of coping, and something I’d experienced many times.

  “You need to calm down,” I said.

  Jimmie cocked his fist. “What I need to do is punch your lights out.”

  He looked strong enough to kill me. I didn’t want to pull my gun and risk shooting him. He was a victim, and needed to be treated that way. I stepped toward him with my arms still at my sides. “What I told you and your wife was true. I will find your baby.”

  “How can you know that?” he bellowed. “That nurse might have driven Martin down to the Miami airport, and sold him to some couple that’s already halfway around the world. I’ve seen those shows on TV—people steal kids and sell them all the time. It’s a big business. How can you stand there and tell me that didn’t happen to my son?”

  Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his whole body was shaking. I decided to tell him the truth. It was going to hurt, but I had to tell him anyway.

  “People don’t buy sick babies,” I said.

  Jimmie blinked, then blinked again. He lowered his fist.

  “They don’t?” he replied.

  “There’s no market for them.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “None whatsoever. People who traffic in children look for strong, healthy babies to steal. That’s their main criterion. Your son is sick and needs attention and medicine for his lungs. That rules him out.”

  “If people don’t steal sick babies, then why did the nurse steal Martin?”

  “We won’t know for certain until we track her down. But I can give you my best guess. The woman who stole your son wants a baby of her own, but is incapable of having one. That was her motivation. She bought a nurse’s uniform, and started visiting maternity wards at different hospitals to become familiar with the procedures. She’s been planning this for a long time.”

  “But Martin’s sick.”

  “That’s right. And because he’s sick, he had to be moved around the floor to get his medicine. That meant different nurses got to put their hands on him. That let this woman step in, and grab him.”

  Jimmie stared at me. The rage had left his body, leaving a scared and bewildered young man. I stepped toward him, and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.

  “Now I get it,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A toasted bagel was waiting for me when I slipped into the booth at Village Inn. Burrell had also ordered a pot of coffee, and was pouring herself a fresh mug.

  “You remembered,” I said.

  “Jack’s rules,” she said. “First one orders.”

  I bit into my bagel. Back when I was a cop, I’d established a number of different rules for the detectives in my unit, one of which was that the first person to a restaurant was required to order for everyone else. It was a great time saver and also forced each detective to be familiar with the others’ preferences.

  “I would have ordered for your dog, but I don’t know what he likes,” Burrell said.

  “That’s easy,” I said. “He likes doggie bags.”

  She smiled at my joke. “I want to hear why the woman who apprehended the Wakefield baby is dangerous. You said she probably isn’t a criminal. Arresting someone like that should be easy.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “She’s been living a lie for the past nine months. That makes her dangerous.”

  “What do you mean, living a lie?”

  “She plans to keep Martin, and claim him as her own child. Babies don’t fall out of the sky. Nine months ago, she told her husband and friends and her family that she was pregnant. She’s been living that lie ever since.”

  “And by arresting her, we’re going to shatter that lie.”

  “That’s right. Based upon past experience, she’ll probably lose it when we arrest her. We have to make sure she doesn’t harm the child when that happens. We also have to make sure her husband or boyfriend doesn’t go ballistic on us. She’s sucked him into this lie, and he probably thinks that Martin is his son.”

  The sounds of crashing waves filled the air. It was the ring tone to Burrell’s cell phone, and she answered it. Moments later she had a pen out, and was scribbling on a napkin. She said, “Got it,” and ended the call.

  “A woman named Teresa Rizzoli reported a home birth to her doctor this morning,” Burrell said. “This same woman also filed a prescription for albuterol and theophylline at the pharmacy in her neighborhood. Now here’s the clincher. The detective who called me ran a background check, and discovered this same woman got arrested for shoplifting last month. Guess what she got caught stealing?”

  “Baby clothes,” I said.

  Burrell yelped so loudly it made the people in the next booth jump.

  “Damn it, can’t I get anything by you?” she asked.

  Teresa Rizzoli lived in a development called Weston. We decided to take one car, and Burrell drove her Mustang across the clogged lanes of 595 and down the pitched exit ramp. Burrell had called for backup before leaving the restaurant, and I looked for a cruiser as we neared Rizzoli’s apartment building.

  In Fort Lauderdale, a good parking place had everything to do with shade. Burrell parked in a cool spot next to Rizzoli’s building, and we both got out. The air was still, and we stood beneath the building’s canopy. Burrell checked her watch.

  “Where’s a cop when you need one?” she asked half-jokingly.

  “I’ll be your backup,” I said.

  “Are you armed?”

  “Yes.”

  Burrell considered it. “All right, but don’t draw your weapon unless I do. While I’m arresting Rizzoli, I want you to find little Martin Wakefield and get him safely out of the apartment. I’ll deal with the rest.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “And watch your dog. I don’t want him biting anyone.”

  Buster was glued to my leg, and I looked down at him.

  “Hear that, boy?” I said. “No biting.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Jack.”

  Burrell clipped her badge to her purse, and I followed her down a breezeway filled with bikes and baby carriages. She stopped at apartment 78, and banged on the door with her fist. Next to the door was a window with curtains draped across it. The curtains stirred, and a woman’s face appeared. I moved my body to block Burrell from her view.

  “Teresa Rizzoli?” I asked.

  The woman looked at me suspiciously. Italian with a pleasantly plain face, she fit the description Lonna Wakefield had given.

  “Who are you?” she asked through the glass.

  “Sunshine Florists. I’ve got a delivery of flowers for Teresa Rizzoli.”

  Her face melted into a dreamy smile. “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two dozen red roses for Teresa Rizzoli. They’re going to wilt if you don’t get them into some cold water.”

  Rizzoli pulled away from the window, and we listened as the deadbolt on the front door was thrown, and several security chains pulled back.

  “That was mean,” Burrell whispered.

  “Mean works,” I repl
ied.

  Rizzoli opened the door expecting something wonderful. What she got instead was a detective’s badge shoved in her face, and Burrell informing her that she was under arrest for the kidnapping of Martin Wakefield. Rizzoli backed up into the living room of her apartment. She wore a black shift that hung to her ankles, no makeup, and was barefoot. Her eyes shifted between Burrell and me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she protested.

  Burrell removed handcuffs from her purse. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Rizzoli said.

  A baby’s cries came from the back of the apartment, and my dog took off. I started to follow, and Rizzoli sprang toward me with her hands extended like claws. I ducked just in time to save my eyes from being gouged, and wrestled her to the couch. I got her arms behind her back, and Burrell cuffed her.

  “Get the baby,” Burrell said.

  I followed the cries down a hallway to a bedroom and halted in the doorway. The bedroom’s walls were painted sky blue, and contained dancing unicorns and fire-breathing dragons straight out of a fairy tale. The floor was a minefield of baby toys, and I hopped over them to reach the crib in the corner.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I said.

  Martin Wakefield lay in the crib, punching the air with his tiny fists. He didn’t weigh more than five pounds, and had expressive eyes and a head full of dark hair. As I lifted him into my arms, Buster sniffed his diaper and whined approvingly.

  I held Martin against my chest and started down the hall. A door in front of me opened, and a shirtless guy with a beer belly came into the hall. He looked half-asleep, and his eyes went wide in disbelief.

  “What are you doing with my son?” he asked.

  “I can explain,” I said.

  “Like hell you can.”

  He ducked back into the room. Seconds later he reappeared holding a.38 Smith & Wesson, which he aimed at my head.

  “Give me my son,” he said.

  Guns frighten me as much as anyone else. The trick was not to show it.