The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [33]
Detective Jillian Webster spoke up. “I found a fake light-up cell phone. Still has the price sticker on it.”
“Where was it?” I asked.
“Beneath an orange tree on the west side of the property. I assumed it was tossed there. I bagged it, and put it in the evidence box.”
“Was it directly beneath the tree?” I asked.
“Yes,” Webster said. “Is that significant?”
“Sampson wouldn’t have tossed a toy away, but his kidnapper might have. And his kidnapper wouldn’t have tossed a toy out in the open. He’s way too smart for that.”
Webster’s head rocked back. “He tossed it up in the tree, and it fell to earth.”
“That’s right. I suggest you search every tree in this grove.”
“What else will we find?” Webster asked.
“The boy’s pajamas,” I said. “Sampson’s kidnapper changed the boy’s appearance before leaving the grove. He did a good job, because no one spotted him.”
I paused and let my words sink in. Then I asked if there were any questions. There were none, and Burrell spoke up.
“Let’s start looking for the boy’s PJs,” she said.
My old unit dispersed. The heat had sucked the life out of them, and they were moving in slow motion. I pointed at Buster.
“Let my dog help,” I said.
“Is he good at tracking scents?” Burrell asked.
“The best.”
Burrell made a call on her cell. A few minutes later, a uniform brought a paper bag containing the sheets from Sampson’s bed into the grove. I shoved Buster’s face into the bag. Human beings shed dead skin cells constantly, and each flake carries a microscopic trace of bacteria called an aromatic signature. My dog lived for those odors.
“Find the boy,” I told him.
Buster darted down a row of trees with his nose vacuuming the ground. At the property’s edge, he stopped beneath the last tree in the row, and pawed its trunk. Burrell got beneath the tree, and shook the limbs. A plastic bag came tumbling down, and Buster brought it to Burrell in his mouth. I wanted a camera.
The bag had come from a local grocery store, and was tied with rabbit ears. Burrell slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and untied the knot. Out came a little boy’s pajamas.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The pajamas were taken for an evaluation to a police forensics lab on the other side of the county. Very soon, we were going to know if the DNA samples on the pajamas matched Sampson’s, and if my assumptions about the kidnapping were accurate.
I stood with Burrell by the campfire drinking bottled water. I could tell that she was upset with herself. It was natural for cops to miss clues while conducting searches, only telling her that wouldn’t change how she felt. Twenty minutes later her cell phone rang, and we learned that a match had been made. The pajamas were indeed Sampson’s.
“You’re batting a thousand so far,” she said.
“Don’t forget Buster,” I said.
She glanced at my dog, then tossed her empty bottle into the campfire. “You and I need to be clear about something. You think an outsider did this. I don’t, and neither does the FBI. One thing Cheeks got right: Jed Grimes is responsible, and I’m going to arrest him.”
I tossed my bottle next to hers. “When did the FBI get involved?”
“This morning. I called a special agent in Quantico that I know. He reviewed the evidence, and thinks Jed is guilty as sin. So do I.”
I had worked with the FBI many times. They had an approach that I didn’t agree with. They would come up with a theory, then try to shoehorn all the evidence to make that theory work. It was great, except for the times when they got it wrong.
“What evidence are you talking about?” I asked.
“Jed failed a polygraph that was taken after Sampson was abducted. He also has a history with the police, and has been hauled in fifty times. One of those times was for arson when he was a teenager. He tried to torch the garage behind his mother’s house, which was the same garage where the police found the underpants of his father’s victims.”
“What happened?”
“There