James Swain - The Night Stalker

I went through his file. Lowman had done three years in prison, and been paroled for good behavior. Part of his release had required him to register himself as a sexual predator at his new address. Lowman hadn’t done that. Instead, he’d traveled three thousand miles across the country and set up shop in Fort Lauderdale.

“Where does Lowman work?” I asked.

“Wet and Wonderful,” Cheeks said.

“That figures,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“All of the kids are in bathing suits.”

Florida hadn’t invented theme parks, but it had certainly made them popular. There were theme parks devoted to cartoon mice, old movie studios, the Bible, and underwater dancing mermaids. The theme park where Lowman worked was called Wet amp; Wonderful, and featured hair-raising water rides for kids and the world’s largest swimming pool.

It was a gorgeous day and the park was jammed. As we crossed the parking lot, I tried to determine which was louder-the deafening roar of traffic on nearby I-95, or the high-pitched screams of kids riding the wave machines.

The park’s business office was attached to the ticket office. Cheeks showed his badge to a cashier, and we were ushered into a reception area. We declined coffee and did not take the chairs we were offered.

Soon the park’s female general manager appeared. She had a bluetooth stuck in her ear, a cell phone in one hand, and a walkie-talkie in the other. I wanted to ask her if she juggled, but didn’t think it was the right time for a joke.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” she asked.

“We need to speak to an employee named Lonnie Lowman,” Cheeks said. “I believe he works in your security department.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“We’d like to question him in regard to an ongoing criminal investigation,” Cheeks said, making it as vague as possible.

The GM lifted the walkie-talkie to her face. Before she could radio Lowman, I stopped her.

“Please don’t do that,” I said.

“Excuse me?” the GM replied.

“Tell us where Lowman works, and we’ll go talk with him.”

A wall of resolution rose in the GM’s face. “I’d prefer to bring Lowman here, and have you question him in my office. I have the park’s reputation to think of, not to mention the traumatizing effect an arrest might have on the children in the park.”

“Lonnie Lowman is a convicted sexual predator,” Cheeks said. “Had your human resources department done a proper background check, you’d never have hired him. Tell us where he is, or I’ll drag your ass down to the station as well.”

Broward cops were required to take annual sensitivity training. It was obvious Cheeks had been sleeping through the classes. The GM led us outside, and pointed at an aqua blue trailer sitting behind a water slide on the opposite side of the park.

“He’s in there,” she said.

Back when I was a cop, I’d helped Wet amp; Wonderful beef up its security to prevent child abductions. I knew exactly what was in that trailer.

“Lowman works surveillance?” I asked.

“He runs it,” she said quietly.

“For the love of Christ!” Cheeks said.

“He might be watching us on a surveillance camera right now,” I said.

Smart people can see into the future. The GM’s wasn’t looking terribly bright, and she said, “That’s right, although he’s probably watching the pool or the water slide.”

“Where the kids are,” I said.

She nodded. I looked at the trailer. Lowman had done time for child molestation in Seattle. Even though I had never stepped foot in Washington State, I guessed the treatment he’d received in prison had been the same as it was for child molesters everywhere, and that he’d been routinely bullied and tortured by the other inmates, who’d made his life a living hell. More than likely, he’d taken steps to ensure he never went back to prison, including carrying an illegal handgun, planning an escape route in case of arrest, and having his passport handy.

“Where does Lowman park his car?” I asked.

“In the company lot,” the GM said.

“Would you be able to identify his car from the other employees’ vehicles?”

“Yes. Every employee has a parking pass that they leave on their dashboards. The pass has their name and photograph attached to it.”

“Your security people need to block Lowman’s car from leaving,” I said.

The GM called park security on her walkie-talkie, and told them what she wanted done. Hanging up, she said, “Lowman’s car is being blocked. What else can I do?”

I continued to look at the surveillance trailer. Two grown males walking through a sea of kids would be easy for Lowman to spot. If Cheeks and I weren’t careful, we might end up looking down the barrel of a loaded gun.

“I want you to call Lowman, and divert him until we enter the trailer,” I said. “Think you can do that without tipping him off?”

“Of course,” the GM said.

“Then do it,” Cheeks snapped.

The GM called Lowman as Cheeks and I entered the park.

W et amp; Wonderful was a slab of concrete filled with water-themed attractions and concession stands. We shouldered our way through a sea of kids in wet bathing suits, and soon were wet as well. Cheeks was breathing heavily by the time we reached the trailer.

“You really should start exercising,” I said.

“Shut up,” Cheeks said.

Cheeks clipped his silver detective’s badge to his lapel and rapped loudly on the trailer door. A voice from within told us to enter.

“Remember to go slow,” I said.

“Right,” Cheeks said.

The trailer’s interior was dark and chilly, the walls lined with high-definition digital monitors showing the action outside. Lonnie Lowman sat at a desk with his back to the monitors, talking to the GM on a walkie-talkie. He said, “Let me call you back,” and hung up, his eyes frozen on Cheeks’s badge.

“Lonnie Lowman?” Cheeks asked.

Lowman nodded stiffly. He’d done a makeover since his mug shot, and now sported a short, conservative haircut, drugstore reading glasses, and a cosmetically altered nose. What hadn’t changed were his eyes; green and almost pretty, they darted back and forth between us like a caged animal’s. The hunter had become the hunted.

“We’d like to talk to you,” I said.

“Am I under arrest?” Lowman asked.

“No,” Cheeks said. “Your name came up during an investigation, that’s all.”

Cheeks leaned against the wall, while I stood across from Lowman’s chair. When I was a cop, I’d carried a pack of gum to break the ice during interrogations. It was a tradition I’d continued, and I offered Lowman a stick. He declined, and I stuck one into my mouth while staring at the monitors. There were twelve in all, displayed in a matrix. Six monitored the deep end of the swimming pool, where a giant slide deposited screaming kids into the water. On one of the monitors a girl came down the slide, and hit the swimming pool. The force of the water pulled the top of her bikini off. She came out of the water laughing, and with her mother’s help, got redressed. It was as innocent as eating a hot dog, but not meant to be seen by the eyes of a predator.

“My boss knows about this, doesn’t she?” Lowman asked.

“Afraid so,” I said, trying to control my temper. “If you cooperate, we’ll tell her you’re square, and there will be no harm done.”

I felt Lowman sizing me up. It was like being watched by an un-trustworthy dog. I continued to work my gum.

“All right, ask your questions,” Lowman said.

“Do you go by the name Teen Angel on the Internet?” Cheeks began.

Lowman’s face turned so red it looked like he had hives. “Who told you that?”