The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [1]
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 grandson 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