James Swain: The Night Stalker

Abb gazed up at her and nodded.

One of the guards slid back the cell door. Stone and I started to leave. I saw Abb look directly at me. Something resembling hope flickered in his eyes. I decided to level with him.

“Your grandson’s case is three days old,” I said. “That’s a long time when it comes to a kidnapping. I need to do a lot of groundwork, and talk to a lot of people.”

“What are you trying to say?” Abb asked.

“I may not find Sampson before they execute you.”

“Four days isn’t enough?”

“I won’t know until I start looking.”

“I was hoping you-”

I cut him off. “I don’t make promises.”

“But-”

“That’s the deal,” I said.

Abb cast his eyes to the floor. He had asked me here because he did not want to go to his death knowing he’d caused an innocent child to suffer. I had to think it was one of the more decent things he’d done in his life.

“Okay,” he muttered.

He was still staring at the floor when we left.

W e walked back to the prison’s main reception area. Stone had her personal items and cell phone returned, while I was given back my Colt 1908 Pocket Hammerless, which I slipped into the concealed holster in my pocket.

The parking lot was hot, the air still. Stone’s sleek BMW sports car was parked beside my aging Acura Legend. From the glove compartment she removed my fee for finding Sampson, and had me sign a receipt for it.

“I’d like you to give me a progress report every day,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

Stone made a call on her cell phone. I listened to her talk to another lawyer about filing an appeal asking the governor to halt Abb’s execution. I didn’t like lawyers, but I had to give her credit. She was going to fight until the bitter end. I said good-bye and she nodded.

I got into my car. I’d left the windows down, yet the interior was still warm. My dog, who was curled on the passenger seat, opened his eyes. He climbed into my lap, and we spent a few moments getting reacquainted.

I’ve heard it said that bad things come in threes. The day I’d gotten thrown off the force, my wife walked out on me, and I’d gone to the Humane Society to find a new companion. I guess it said something about my luck that I’d come home with Buster, a chocolate Australian Shepherd who mistrusted everyone but me and a few of my friends.

Buster was not an easy dog to be around. He had a temper, and some funny quirks. But he also had a nose like a bloodhound, and had saved my ass plenty of times on jobs. He was part of the team, and went where I did.

The two-lane road outside the prison was as straight as a shotgun blast. I pushed the Legend up to eighty, and kept it there. Taking the kidnapper’s photo of Sampson Grimes from my pocket, I stuck it on the wheel, and stared at it as I drove.

I have spent much of my life looking for missing kids, and helping kids in trouble. There’s a reason for that. Back when my daughter, Jessie, was a little girl, a pervert exposed himself to her on the beach during a weekend outing. Luckily, I was able to rescue my daughter before the pervert did anything else.

What I remember most about that horrible day was my own fear. It replaced every other feeling in my body, and it flipped an invisible trigger inside my head that’s never gone off. When I hear a baby crying, I run to the sound. When I happen upon a lost child in a mall or a parking lot, I help the child find her parents. And when I know that a kid needs help, I do everything in my power to help him. Sometimes that means breaking the rules and stepping on people’s toes. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but it happens. And like my dog, I don’t see myself changing anytime soon.

I pulled into town. Although Starke was in north Florida, it was truly a Southern town, with a Wal-Mart-sized Baptist church on its main drag, and pickup trucks covered in NASCAR bumper stickers and Confederate flags. I drove around until I found a copy store, and went inside with my dog.

The owner was a possum-shaped man with straw-colored hair and blotchy skin-what locals call a cracker. I asked if he had a computer that I could send an e-mail from, and a scanner.

“You came to the right place,” the owner said.

He led me to the back room. His computer may have been the first one ever made, and was bigger than most TVs. He booted it up, and went into his Hotmail account. Then he showed me how to work the scanner, which sat on the desk beside it.

“I’d like to pay you for this,” I said.

“Doesn’t cost anything to send an e-mail,” he replied. “That’s a fine dog you’ve got. Does he hunt?”

“Just people,” I said.

He smiled, thinking I was joking.

“I’ll be out front if you need me,” he said.

He walked out of the room. I sat down at the desk, and removed the kidnap photo and ransom note from my pocket. I placed both into the scanner, and scanned them into the computer. Then I composed a letter explaining how I’d come into their possession, and the things that Abb Grimes had told me.

When I was finished with my letter, I took out my cell phone, which, along with allowing me to take pictures and send e-mails, contained a memory bank of e-mail addresses important to me.

Opening the e-mail memory bank, I typed into the computer the e-mail address of every law enforcement agency in Florida that I worked with. This included the FBI, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the U.S. Marshals, and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I also included Detective Ron Cheeks, who now ran the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit. Rescuing kidnap victims wasn’t easy, and I was going to need all the help I could get.

When I was done, I hit send, and everything on the computer screen disappeared. The store owner had been more than helpful, and I removed a ten-dollar bill from my wallet, and stuck it beneath the coffee cup on his desk.

I grabbed my dog, and went to the front of the store where the owner sat behind the counter reading a newspaper. I thanked him again.

“Come back anytime,” he said.

Starke had every fast-food restaurant you could name. I bought two value meals at Burger King, and ate lunch with my dog. Buster had lousy table manners, but I put up with them. I didn’t like eating alone.

We were splitting an oatmeal cookie when my cell phone rang. I pulled the phone off the Velcro patch on the dashboard hoping it was someone responding to my e-mail.

Caller ID said ANDY VITA. Vita was the Florida point man with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I gave Buster the rest of my cookie, and answered the call.

“Carpenter here.”

“Hey, Jack, it’s Andy Vita. You busy?”

“Just finishing my lunch. What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with the principal of Oakwood Elementary School in Ocala. A four-year-old Honduran girl named Angelica Suarez disappeared from Oakwood this morning, and the cops are pulling their hair out trying to find her. The principal said you helped them with their abduction prevention program, and I was wondering if you remember the setup.”

Back when I was a cop, I’d traveled around Florida and helped dozens of elementary schools establish procedures to protect them from child abductors.

“I remember Oakwood,” I said. “It was tight as a drum.”

“I think we’re dealing with a pro,” Vita said.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because the kid vanished without a trace. One minute she was sitting in the reception area of the principal’s office, waiting to be assigned to a pre-kindergarten class, the next minute she’s gone.”

“She’s new to the school?”