James Swain - The Night Stalker

“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.

T he 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 was a trial in juvenile court. Jed claimed that curiosity seekers were going into the backyard and photographing the garage, so he decided to burn it down. The judge felt sorry for him, and gave him probation.”

“How old was he?”

“Fifteen.”

I gazed across the clearing at the tree where the dead vagrant had been tied. His killing had been committed by someone practiced in deception and cold-blooded murder. It was an unusual mix of skills that were usually honed over time. Jed, who was the same age as my daughter, didn’t seem old enough.

“I want to talk to Jed before you arrest him,” I said. “I’ve known his ex-wife since she was a kid, and I also met with his father yesterday.”

“You think he’ll open up to you?” Burrell asked.

“He might.”

“All right. But I want you to wear a wire.”

I had worn wires before, and had discovered that they often telegraphed themselves through body language and other subliminal signs. I also didn’t like the idea of having cops lurking nearby in a van.

“No wire,” I said.

Burrell shot me a disapproving look. “What if Jed confesses to you, and we don’t record it? What then, Jack?”

“We get him to confess again,” I said.

“I need to hear what he says to you.”

“I’ll tell you what he says, word for word.”

“Why are you being so stubborn?”

“I need Jed to trust me. I can’t do that if I’m sweating through my underwear because there’s a mike taped to my stomach and a bunch of cops sitting outside.”

Burrell considered what I was saying. Then she called Jed’s mother on her cell phone, and arranged for me to meet with Jed at his mother’s house in thirty minutes. She ended the call and gave me his mother’s address.

“I hope you’re right about this,” she said.

There are times when it’s good to own a mean dog. Walking back to my car, I was accosted by Chip Wells and his camera crew, who wanted to interview me for the evening news. Buster was on a leash, and my dog lunged at them so viciously that Wells and his crew ran for cover.

The interior of my car felt like an oven. I rolled my windows down, then took my cell phone off the dash, and punched in my daughter’s cell number. I knew Jessie’s class schedule by heart, and she was on break right now.

“Hey, Daddy,” she answered.

“Is this the best women’s college basketball player in the country?” I asked.

“Did you see the game?”

“I sure did. You were a star.”

“I was voted most valuable player, and got interviewed on cable TV after the game. Believe it or not, he asked me out on a date.”

“Who did?”

“The announcer who interviewed me.”

My daughter’s games were shown on a local cable station, the announcer a blow-dried ex-jock who never stopped talking.

“I’ll kill him,” I said.

“Daddy, please!”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.”

“I saw an old friend of yours last night.”

“Really? Who was that?”

“Heather Rinker.”

“God, I haven’t spoken to Heather in months. How’s she doing?”

“Not so good. Her son was abducted, and I’ve been hired by the family to find him. What can you tell me about Heather’s ex-husband, Jed Grimes?”

“Oh, God.”

“Is he a bad guy?”

“No, he’s just messed up. Jed and Heather were sweethearts in junior high. When they were sixteen Jed got Heather pregnant, then refused to help raise her little boy, so Heather quit school to work at Blockbuster. She finally got her life together, then Jed reappeared and filed for joint custody and won. I spoke with Heather over the holidays, and she told me Jed was actually trying to be a good father.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I met him at a party once. He couldn’t stop talking about his father’s crimes. He was sort of obsessed. I think it had something to do with the old neighborhood.”

“The old neighborhood?”

“Jed’s mother never moved.”

“Maybe she couldn’t afford to.”

“I know, but she didn’t change the house, either. Inside, it’s exactly the same as it was when her husband was arrested. Same furniture, same paint, same everything.”