The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [112]
“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