James Swain: The Night Stalker

“Where do the maintenance men hang out?” I asked.

“They have a shed behind the gymnasium,” Heller said.

“Show me.”

Heller led me outside behind the school, and pointed at a prefabricated shed nestled behind the gymnasium.

“For what it’s worth, the police searched the shed earlier,” she said.

Not very well, I nearly said.

“Call the police and tell them to get over here,” I said.

With Buster by my side, I ran to the shed. The dog had tuned into my apprehension, and his hackles stood straight up. The shed had a single window, and I cleaned the glass with my fingers, and peered inside.

A lanky guy wearing a green uniform covered in grass stains stood inside the shed. He had a pair of scissors in his hand, and he was giving a radiant, dark-skinned little girl sitting in a chair a haircut. The girl held a box of Milk Duds, and was squirming uncomfortably. I had found Ray Hicks and Angelica Suarez.

“Sit still,” Hicks said in broken Spanish.

“I don’t want my hair cut,” Angelica replied in Spanish.

“Eat some more candy, and shut up,” he said.

“I don’t want candy,” she said.

Angelica threw down the box of candy, and started to cry. Hicks looked nervously around the shed, then violently clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Shut up!” he said.

Drawing my gun, I found the door to the shed, and kicked it three inches above the knob. It came down, and I rushed inside. Buster flew past me, and went straight for Hicks’s legs.

“Let her go,” I said.

Hicks pulled Angelica out of her chair, and held the scissors against her throat. My dog had latched onto his pants, and was tearing the fabric.

“Get your dog off me,” Hicks said.

I yelled to Buster, and he let Hicks go. He came back to my side with a piece of pants in his mouth.

“You a cop?” Hicks asked.

I shook my head.

“Her daddy?”

My grandfather was a Seminole Indian, and my skin was dark enough to make me look Hispanic. I nodded.

“Okay, Daddy, here’s the deal,” Hicks said. “I want you to put your gun on the floor, and kick it over to me. If you don’t, I’ll slit her throat.”

“Only if you promise to release her,” I said.

Hicks dipped his chin. I took that as a yes, and I laid my Colt onto the concrete floor, and kicked it to him. Hicks knelt down and picked up my gun.

“How many bullets this thing got?” he asked.

“Seven,” I replied.

“What kind?”

“Three-eighties.”

“That should get us out of here,” he said.

Hicks let Angelica go. For a moment, the little girl acted confused, and did not know what to do. I spoke to her in Spanish, and told her everything was going to be all right. She ran over to me, and I held her against my legs.

“You got a car?” Hicks asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re going to take a ride. I’ve got a duffel bag over there. I want you to put your daughter in it, and carry her to your car. I’ll follow you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Pull any tricks and I’ll shoot both of you.”

“No tricks,” I promised.

“You learn fast.”

I saw movement in the window behind Hicks’s head. Edwards the security guard was aiming his pistol through the glass at Hicks’s back. He waved for me to get down. I grabbed Angelica and hit the floor.

The gunshot sounded like a cannon going off inside the enclosed space. Hicks lurched forward. A bloody hole the size of my fist appeared in the center of his chest. He touched it with his fingers, and stared at his own blood.

“Shit,” he said.

Everyone dies differently. Hicks went down slowly, like he was sinking into the earth. We made eye contact, and I saw something resembling remorse cross his face. I only moved when I was sure he was dead, and that we were out of danger.

I carried Angelica outside into the blinding sunshine. She was crying, and I kissed the top of her head. This was the reward for the work I did, and it never got old.

Heller ran across the field toward me. One of her shoes flew off, then the other. That didn’t slow her down. I passed Angelica to her, and she clutched the child to her bosom like she was her own.

“It’s over,” I said.

I went back inside the shed. Buster had parked himself next to Hicks, and was snapping at the flies buzzing around him. The security guard stood next to my dog, his face wet with fear.

“Is he dead?” the security guard asked.

I said yes, and pointed at the smoking pistol in his hand.

“I hope you have a license for that thing,” I said.

I stayed in Ocala long enough to give my statement to the police. Then I got onto 1-75, headed south to the Florida Turnpike, and went home.

I lived in Dania, a sleepy town south of Fort Lauderdale known for its dusty consignment shops that sold the world’s best junk. It was pitch dark by the time I reached its deserted streets.

I drove east down Dania Beach Boulevard, then hung a left onto an unmarked road known only to locals. A minute later I pulled into Tugboat Louie’s crowded parking lot. Loud music blared out of the speakers on the side of the building, and I tapped out the rhythm to the Rolling Stones’ “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?” on my steering wheel.

Louie’s was my idea of heaven. It had a good-time bar, dockside dining on a wide canal, and a small marina. It was also where I kept my office. I wanted to see if anyone had written an e-mail back about Sampson Grimes, and I went inside.

Louie’s owner-a hardworking Indian named Kumar-sat on a stool by the front door. Kumar came to work each day wearing black slacks, a white Egyptian cotton shirt, and an oversized black bow tie. Years ago I’d done him a favor, which he seemed intent on forever repaying.

“Jack, Jack, how are you?” Kumar asked.

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“Wonderful, fantastic, I can’t complain. How is your dog?”

“He’s chewing ’em up.”

“Glad to hear it. Listen, there is a man here waiting to see you. I have to assume he’s a policeman because he won’t drink any liquor, just coffee. He’s very unfriendly and keeps looking suspiciously around the room. He’s making everyone very uncomfortable.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“No.”

I glanced into the bar. It was jumping the way only a Fort Lauderdale bar can: the music was deafening, the booze was flowing, and women were dancing in the aisles and on tabletops while letting their inhibitions fly out the door. I spotted Detective Ron Cheeks sitting in the back, wearing a dark suit and shades, the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. I caught his eye, and waved. Within moments, Cheeks was on top of me.

“You and I need to talk,” Cheeks said.

“Sure,” I said. “Can I buy you a burger?”

“In private.”

“It must be important,” I said.

“Life-altering,” he said.

I unhooked a chain to the stairwell, and we marched upstairs. Cheeks was your typical belligerent white male. Mid-forties, divorced, his head anchored on a dinner roll of a neck, his droopy handlebar mustache giving his face a permanent frown. He had taken over the Missing Persons unit after I’d left the sheriff’s department. I didn’t resent him for that, just the fact that he rarely gave me any jobs.

The second floor housed two offices: mine and Kumar’s. My office was long and narrow, and contained a desk with a computer, two folding chairs, and a spectacular view of the canal. As I entered, Buster trotted to the corner and curled into a ball.

“You should get rid of that dog,” Cheeks said.

“What’s wrong with my dog?”

“He bites people.”

“Only bad people.”