by James Swain
“But this can’t be true,” she said.
“You think he’s lying?” I said.
“He has to be.”
I took Burrell back to Vorbe’s house, and showed her what I’d found.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I awoke early the next morning, and drove to Starke Prison with a headache that no amount of Advil seemed to shake. I could have stayed home, and let the prison officials do what needed to be done. But my conscience wouldn’t let me, so I made the trip.
At a few minutes past noon, a prison escort led me down a long hallway in death row, and slid back a cell door. I entered to find two men waiting for me. One was tall and trim, and wore a starched white shirt, gray slacks, and a black necktie. The other was small and round, and wore a dark suit with a turned white collar. Hanging from his shoulder was a sash with the faces of black, white, and yellow children.
“You must be Father Kelly,” I said.
Father Kelly pumped my hand. “Good job, Jack.”
The taller man also shook my hand. “I’m Warden Jackson. Yes, a fine job.”
“Where’s Abb?” I asked.
“He’s being brought from the infirmary,” the warden explained. “I’m afraid he’s not handling this very well.”
“Did you tell him what happened?” I asked.
“I tried to have a conversation with him last night,” the warden said. “When I told him that the governor had stayed his execution, he collapsed.”
“Where’s his wife?” I asked.
“I spoke with LeAnn this morning,” Father Kelly said. “Her car broke down during the trip here, and she’s stranded in some small town.”
I folded my arms, and went to the door to wait for Abb. Father Kelly and the warden took a bench, and began to discuss the best way to explain to Abb what had happened. I cleared my throat, and they stopped talking.
“I want to tell him,” I said.
“That’s not a good idea,” the warden said. “Abb may get emotional, even violent.”
“He’s my client,” I said. “He should hear this from me.”
The warden looked at the priest. “Tom? What do you think?”
“Jack’s right. He knows the details better than you or I,” Father Kelly said.
The warden exhaled deeply. “Very well.”
Footsteps rang down the hallway, and I pressed my face to the bars. Abb was being marched down the hall by two guards, and wore a white bathrobe, slippers, and handcuffs. He looked drugged, and moved in slow-motion. The guards led him in, and made him sit on the opposing bench.
I stood in front of him. “Remember me?”
His eyes flickered in recognition.
“I found your grandson,” I said.
“Good,” he said hoarsely.
“I also found something else.” From my shirt pocket I removed a mug shot of Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, and showed it to him. “Remember him?”
Abb glanced at the mug shot, and shook his head.
“His name is Jean-Baptiste Vorbe. He ran a grocery store in your neighborhood.”
Abb looked back at me with his dead eyes.
“He was arrested last night. I want you to see what I found in his house.” Taking out my cell phone, I held it up to Abb’s face and hit the play button. I had made a film of the photographs I’d found in the album in Vorbe’s living room. The dead women’s faces were barely discernible on my phone’s tiny screen, and Abb squinted as they flashed by.
“Those are photographs of the eighteen women you were accused of killing,” I said. “I found them in Vorbe’s living room.”
Abb twitched like he’d been jabbed with a pin.
“Vorbe is a serial killer,” I went on. “He killed women in Haiti twenty years ago, then took a boat ride to Florida, and started killing here. He targeted homeless women and runaways who came into his grocery. He offered them jobs, and when they came to his office, he knocked them out, and took them home. After he had his way with them, he put their bodies in the Dumpsters. Then one night, you appeared behind the grocery.”
Abb’s eyes went wide.
“You don’t remember any of this because you were taking a drug called Ambien,” I said. “Ambien is a hypnotic, and can have bad side effects. That night behind the grocery you were sleepwalking. Vorbe’s victim was lying on the ground. You picked her up, carried her around the parking lot, then put her down, and left.”
Abb jerked his head, and looked directly at Father Kelly. The priest nodded confirmation.
“Vorbe decided to frame you,” I said. “He followed you home, and put a box of his victims’ underwear in your garage. The next morning, he got the police, and showed them a surveillance video taken by a grocery store camera. You know what happens after that.”
Abb looked back at me, his face filled with anger.
“The police should have figured this out the day you were arrested,” I said. “You didn’t have a criminal record, and there were plenty of holes in Vorbe’s story. But it didn’t work out that way. I want you to hear why.”
I held up my phone, and again hit play. A film of Jean-Baptiste Vorbe lying in a bed in the emergency ward at the hospital appeared. Pumped up with drugs, he had continued his confession when I’d arrived, and I had filmed it as well.
“When I called the police that morning, I asked for Detective Cheeks,” Vorbe said in his beautiful lilting voice. “At the store we gave free doughnuts to the police, and Cheeks often came in. He was bitter about being passed over for a promotion. I felt certain that he would take this case, and use it to make himself look good.”
“Tell me why you kidnapped Sampson,” I said in the background.
“I had to silence Abb,” Vorbe said matter-of-factly. “I delivered groceries to his wife’s house, and LeAnn and I were friends. When LeAnn told me Abb was going to let the FBI hypnotize him, I decided to kidnap his grandson.”
“You contacted a group of pedophiles online,” I said. “Why?”
“I knew Sampson, and what a problem he could be,” Vorbe said. “I needed help taking him from his bedroom, so I reached out to those men.”
“Did you plan to kill Piper Stone?” I asked.
“No. She came to my office, and asked a few questions. I saw her stiffen, and realized I had tripped up. So I strangled her, and threw her in the trash.”
“Is that when you decided to frame Jed?”
“Yes. It seemed an excellent time,” Vorbe said.
I folded my cell phone. The cell fell silent. Abb stared at me with his dead eyes. It was like he was there, only he wasn’t there. Father Kelly rose from the bench.
“Abb, do you understand what this means?” the priest asked.
“I was sleepwalking when I killed those women,” Abb said.
Father Kelly put his hands on Abb’s shoulders. “No, no, my son! You didn’t kill anyone. You were framed. You’re innocent.”
“What do you mean?” Abb said.
“The grocery store manager is the real Night Stalker, not you,” the priest said. “This has all been a terrible, terrible mistake.”
Abb swallowed hard. Then he looked at the warden.
“You still going to execute me?” Abb asked.
He doesn’t believe it, I thought. Not a single damn word. I guessed that was what happened when you robbed a man of his freedom. He stopped believing in the truth.
Warden Jackson rose, and put his hand on Abb’s shoulder. “On the contrary, Abb. We’re going to release you.”
“Release me?” Abb said.
“Yes,” the warden said. “I spoke to the governor earlier. He believes a terrible miscarriage of justice has taken place, and plans to sign the papers granting you your freedom once they reach his desk.”
“I’m going to go free?” Abb asked.
“Yes, Abb,” the warden said.
Abb closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to weep. Instead, he dropped to his knees, and went into a fetal curl on the concrete fl
oor.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
They didn’t release Abb from prison right away. Too much had happened in the world during his twelve-year incarceration that Abb didn’t know about, and throwing him back into society was not in his best interests. Instead, the state moved him to a minimum security facility a few miles outside of Starke, and had counselors and psychologists work with him, and bring him up to speed. One day I read in the newspaper that he was finally going home.
Not long after, Jessie came to Fort Lauderdale for a basketball game, and decided to see Heather. She asked me to join her. I normally didn’t stay in touch with my clients after a case was closed, but the Grimes family was different, and I wanted to see how they were doing. I said yes, and Jessie and I drove over together.
The Grimes house looked different from the last time I’d seen it. The blinds were gone from the windows, and the “No Trespassing” signs removed from the lawn. I knocked on the front door, and Abb opened it. He’d put on a few pounds, and his hair was shorn and neatly parted. I shed the bag to show him the beer I’d brought, and his eyes lit up.
“Doesn’t that look good,” he said.
Abb led us inside, where we found Heather and Jed sitting on the living room floor playing with Sampson. Jessie got on the floor, and soon I couldn’t tell who was screaming the loudest, Sampson or my nineteen-year-old daughter.
“That beer’s getting warm,” I heard Abb say.
I followed him outside, where we stood in the front yard and drank beer and talked. Mostly about what had happened to him, but also about fishing and college football and all the things that people in this neck of the world tended to talk about. Abb had heard about Buster, and I got my dog out of my car, and coaxed him into letting Abb pet him.
LeAnn came outside and joined us on the lawn. She wore a simple red dress and a touch of makeup, and had a red bow tied in her hair. Her face had lost its anguish, and in her eyes I saw a spark that had not been there before.
“What’s going to happen to Detective Cheeks?” she asked.
Cheeks had been indicted, and I’d heard that the district attorney was going to make an example of him.
“He’s going to jail for a long time,” I replied.
My answer seemed to satisfy her. From the pocket of her dress, LeAnn removed a small white envelope, and handed it to me. I started to put the envelope into my pocket, and she asked me to open it.
I tore the envelope open. Inside was a color photograph of Abb, Sampson, and Jed sitting on Abb’s motorcycle. Their physical resemblance was uncanny, right down to their toothy grins. I slipped it into my shirt pocket.
“That’s a keeper,” I said.
LeAnn kissed me on the cheek. I wasn’t expecting that, or the long hug that came with it. She went back inside without another word.
Abb and I finished drinking the beers. Then, in a quiet voice, he told me how the state was planning to compensate him for the years he’d spent in prison, and pay him for every day he’d been behind bars, adjusted for inflation. He told me the sum, which was over a million dollars, and laughed under his breath.
“One day I’m sitting on death row, the next I win the lottery,” he said.
There was no restitution for lost time. But the money was better than nothing. I slapped him on the shoulder, and told him that I hoped he enjoyed the rest of his life.
“I’m sure going to try,” Abb said. “There’s something I was meaning to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“Those Jane Does I was accused of killing. Were the police able to identify them?”
The question hit me hard, and it took a moment for me to realize why. Abb still cared about those women. He’d always cared, even when he was sitting on death row, awaiting the executioner’s song. He was a good man, and it was a crying shame that no one had seen it before.
“The police found their identification in Vorbe’s bedroom,” I said. “Their families have been contacted and given the news.”
“So it’s all finished and done with,” Abb said.
I nodded. The case was closed, the files put to bed.
“Good,” he said.
Jessie came outside. Her basketball game was in a few hours, and she needed to get back to her hotel. I said good-bye to Abb, and fetched Buster from the bushes. Abb waved to us from the curb as we pulled away.
“Did you have fun?” I asked.
Jessie smiled. I removed LeAnn’s photograph from my pocket, and showed it to her. She said, “Oh, wow,” under her breath, and didn’t speak again until we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate.
“Is this why you do it?” my daughter asked.
She was still holding the photo in her hand.
I pulled my eyes away from the road. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t just save Sampson. You saved all of them, Daddy. Is that why you take the chances you take?”
Traffic began to move, and I put my foot on the accelerator. I did not see myself as a savior, or a saint. I just found missing kids. But if my work also brought families back together, and revealed long-hidden truths, then that was fine by me.
“Yes, honey,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the following people’s help, this book could not have been written. A big thank-you to Lisa Buchholz and Richard Theis, who didn’t mind when I called them at odd hours with questions, and to my rooting section at Ballantine Books—Dana Issacson, Gina Centrello, the incredible Linda Marrow, and Libby McGuire.
Special thanks to Andrew Vita, Team Adam Consultant with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and former Associate Director/Enforcement for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. His help again proved invaluable in writing this book.
And, finally, I owe a long ovation to my wife, Laura, who can look at anything I write, and always find the story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES SWAIN is the author of eight bestselling novels. In 2006, he was awarded the Prix Calibre 36 for Best American Crime Fiction. He lives in Florida with his wife, Laura.
ALSO BY JAMES SWAIN
Midnight Rambler
Grift Sense
Funny Money
Sucker Bet
Loaded Dice
Mr. Lucky
Deadman’s Poker
Deadman’s Bluff
The Night Stalker is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by James Swain
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Cherry Lane Music Publishing for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Don’t Be Cruel,” words and music by Elvis Presley and Otis Blackwell, copyright © 1956 Elvis Presley Music (BMI).
Elvis Presley Music administered by Cherry River Music Co. (BMI).
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Swain, James.
The night stalker : a novel / James Swain.
p. cm.
1. Serial murders—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Florida—Fiction. 3. Prisoners—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.W225N54 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008026628
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-50944-4
v3.0
