James Swain - The Night Stalker

“I’m on one of the pharmaceutical websites,” Rose said. “I’ll look at the popular drugs beginning with Z first. Okay. It’s not Zantac, or Zaroxolyn, or Zestril, or Ziac. Wait a minute. How about zolpidem tartrate?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sleeping drug to treat insomnia. According to the site, it was tested in the United States in the mid-1990s, then issued a patent, and is now being sold as Ambien. The site says that some patients exhibit odd behavior, including delusions and sleepwalking. How was Abb Grimes acting when he took it?”

“His wife said the drug made him crazy.”

“Sounds like a match. I’ll ask our records department to find out which clinics in Broward were involved in the trials, and do a trace on where they keep their records.”

“You should have been a detective,” I said.

“I did the next best thing,” my wife said.

“What’s that?”

“I married one.”

I told Rose that I loved her, and then she was gone.

I found Buster sleeping on the floor as I entered the Sunset. I scratched behind his ears, and his eyes popped open, and his tiny tail began to wag.

“I think he’s feeling better,” Sonny said from behind the bar.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“He growled at the postman. You want a beer?”

“Espresso if you have it.”

“What does this look like? A fern bar?”

“Give me a pot of coffee, then.”

Sonny served me a pot of coffee, and I asked him if I could use his computer.

“I’m sure not using it,” Sonny said.

I headed into the back room, which contained a small desk with a computer, and cartons of Budweiser stacked to the ceiling. The Internet access was dial-up, and I sucked down two cups of coffee while waiting for it to connect. Soon I was online, and I called Burrell’s cell phone.

“I was just punching in your number,” Burrell said. “You wouldn’t believe how many restaurant employees in LeAnn’s neighborhood have broken the law. I’ve pulled out records of thirty of the really bad ones.”

“Can you e-mail them to me?” I asked.

“I’ll send them right now. Give me your e-mail address.”

The bar’s e-mail address was taped to the frame of the computer. I read off the address, and a minute later, the records appeared as an attachment to an e-mail. I clicked on the attachment with the mouse, and they appeared on the screen.

I have a nose for sniffing out creeps that’s been developed from dealing with the worst scum that society has to offer. I used that instinct as I pored through the records. Each contained the suspect’s name, last-known address, mug shot, and criminal history. It was a true rogue’s gallery, with crimes that included rape, murder, aggravated assault, and kidnapping. Looking at each record, I asked myself if this was our killer.

Thirty minutes later, I was done.

I had eliminated twenty-eight of the suspects for reasons ranging from being too young, to living in another state until a few years ago. The remaining two suspects were better fits. Both were in their mid-thirties, and had done time in prison for kidnapping and violent sexual assault. Each man had been given a psychological evaluation in prison, and deemed sociopathic. Both were also Broward natives. I called Burrell on my cell.

“I’m down to two,” I told her.

“Which ones?”

“Johnnie Lee Edwards and Thaddaeus Prosper. You need to have both pulled in for questioning. I’d also have their homes searched.”

“Anything else?”

I stared at each man’s mug shot. “Can I be there when you question them?”

“I can’t get you into the building, Jack. Hell, I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“Can I listen in? I just want to hear how they answer the questions.”

“That’s doable. Don’t turn your cell phone off.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

I took Buster for a walk on the beach with my cell phone clutched in my hand. I was tired and my head hurt, and I put both of those things out of my mind.

The motorcycle cop stayed ten yards behind me. He’d put his helmet on his bike, and walked while talking into a cell phone. I caught snippets of conversation, and heard him talking to his wife about an upcoming vacation to the Keys. It was obvious he wasn’t taking his assignment too seriously.

On my way back, I retrieved Chuck Cobb’s homicide report from my car. I needed something to do while waiting for Burrell to call me, and reviewing Cobb’s report was a good way to pass the time.

I went inside. It was Happy Hour, and the Dwarfs noisily lined the bar. I took my usual table by the window, put my cell phone in front of me, and started to read.

“You want a beer?” Sonny called to me.

“Another pot of coffee,” I replied.

“Boo,” the Dwarfs said.

The report was fifteen pages long. A lot had happened the day I’d discovered Piper Stone’s body in the Dumpster, and I found myself stopping every few paragraphs to dredge my memory. Sonny served me a fresh pot along with a frosty mug of beer.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“They made me,” he said.

I glanced at the bar, and saw the Dwarfs raise their glasses.

By the time I had finished the report, it was pitch black outside. I sipped my coffee, which had gotten cold but still tasted good. On the cover page of the report was Cobb’s work number and cell number. I tried both, and Cobb answered his work line.

“This is Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I just finished reading your report on Piper Stone’s murder. There’s an error in it.”

Cobb groaned. “Damn, I’m never going home tonight.”

“Sorry. It’s nothing huge.”

“Lay it on me.”

“On page five, you say that Vorbe, the grocery store manager, told me he saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters, and called the police. That wasn’t what Vorbe told me. He said an employee had seen Jed, and alerted him.”

“You know, I saw that discrepancy as well,” Cobb said.

“You did?”

“Yeah. The store manager’s version of who saw Jed differed from yours. I called him, and we talked about it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you must have heard him wrong.”

The coffee was a few inches from my lips. I put it back down on the table.

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other discrepancies in our stories?”

“No, just that one. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Do you?”

I stared out the window at the ocean, and thought about it. Most police reports contained errors, or what cops liked to call misstated facts. But this wasn’t an error. Vorbe had told me one thing, and he’d told Cobb another.

“He changed his story,” I said.

“If it makes you feel any better, I talked to the employees at the store, and the manager’s version checked out,” Cobb said. “None of the employees saw Jed hanging around the Dumpsters. It was the manager, and he called the police.”

“So why did Vorbe change his story?”

“He didn’t, Jack. You heard him wrong. Everything else he said checks out with what you said. Haven’t you ever heard someone wrong before?”

I started to reply, then shut my mouth. There was no use arguing with Cobb. He’d already talked to the store manager, and the manager had convinced him that I was wrong. That bothered me even more than the lie he’d told.

“There’s my other line,” Cobb said. “I’ll call you back when I’m done, and we can talk about this some more.”

I folded my phone. Jed had told me that Heather had gone to get food, and was going to surprise him. I’d assumed that meant she was going to a restaurant, but it could have been the local grocery store. I went to the bar. The Dwarfs were slugging whiskey and feeling no pain. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and waved it in their faces.