James Swain - The Night Stalker

“Who’s up for a game of chicken?” I asked.

“I am,” a Dwarf named Shorty said. Shorty stood six-feet-four and got his nickname because he was always short on cash.

“How fast are you?” I asked.

“Depends who’s chasing me,” Shorty said.

I gave Shorty the money and told him the rules.

“Piece of cake,” he said.

Shorty walked outside the bar. I went to the window, and watched him approach the motorcycle cop. Shorty was acting drunker than he was, his body swaying from side to side. The cop ignored him, and continued to talk on his cell phone.

Shorty lifted the cop’s helmet off the motorcycle’s bars, and went running down the beach as fast as his legs would carry him. The cop jumped off his bike and gave chase.

I headed for the door, and felt something by my leg. It was Buster, and his tail was wagging.

“You’re on,” I told him.

I drove to the Smart Buy in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood well over the speed limit. Rush-hour traffic was going in the opposite direction, and a snaking line of headlights stretched as far as I could see.

I called Burrell, got voice mail, and left a message. The grocery store manager had changed his story about Piper Stone’s killing, then lied about it. Witnesses in murder cases often got facts wrong, but this was different. The store manager had lied about something that didn’t need to be lied about. It said he wasn’t a credible witness, and that nothing that he’d told me, or the police, could be deemed truthful.

I pulled into the Smart Buy and parked by the entrance. The parking lot was filled with water, and looked like a swamp. I waited for Burrell to call me back.

The minutes ticked by. Buster sat on the passenger seat, and I rolled down his window so he could stick his head out. I’d given him a pain pill, and he was acting fine.

I called my voice mail. Sometimes people called me, and my cell phone didn’t ring, and the caller ended up leaving a message. I was hoping that was what had happened now.

There were no messages.

I stared at the front of the grocery. More shoppers were coming out than going in. Most were women, and I guessed they were grabbing food to take home for dinner. Soon there was no one coming out.

I weighed what my next step should be. Part of me wanted to go inside and grill the store manager, only my recent arrest told me this wasn’t a smart idea. I needed to take the proper channels with this, or risk getting myself in more trouble.

Buster let out a menacing growl. A woman pushing a shopping cart had come out of the store, and was heading straight toward us. She was yakking on her cell phone while talking to a small infant riding in the cart. There was absolutely nothing threatening about her.

Buster started barking.

A loud tapping on my window made me jump. I jerked my head sideways. There was a man standing next to my car. It was Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, the store manager.

“Hello,” Vorbe said through the glass.

I quieted Buster down, and lowered my window. Vorbe was carrying his cane, which he leaned against.

“You scared my dog,” I said.

“I am sorry,” Vorbe said. “I came out to my car to get some papers, and I saw you sitting here. Is something wrong?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Vorbe come through the front doors, and guessed he’d come through the back, and walked around the side of the building. Had Vorbe seen me sitting in my car through one of the store’s surveillance cameras, and decided to check up on me? Something told me that he had.

“If you will excuse me, I must get back to work,” Vorbe said.

“Have a nice night,” I said.

“You, too,” he said.

I watched him limp inside. A person’s walk can be as telling as his voice. His was animated, and had a bounce to it, despite his infirmity. My gut told me he was going to make a run for it. I leashed Buster and followed him inside.

The store was dead. The checkout lines were empty, and several cashiers were chatting. Through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of Vorbe heading for the back of the store. He was still moving fast. I hurried after him.

I saw Vorbe push open a swinging door next to the meat section. I was ten steps behind him, and as I reached the door, a big man wearing a bloodied apron blocked me from going any further. A plastic name tag identified him as the store’s meat manager.

“Dogs aren’t allowed in the store,” the meat manager said.

Vorbe was running away. I said the first thing that came to mind.

“I’m legally blind.”

“And I’m Mother Teresa. Get the dog out of here.”

I kept moving forward. The meat manager spread his arms like a linebacker. There was no room around him, and I nudged Buster with my foot. My dog showed his teeth, and the meat manager sprang back.

“You’re asking for trouble,” the meat manager said.

“Go back to your station,” I said.

“Who the hell do you think-”

“Just do as I say.”

The meat manager got out of my way, and I hit the swinging door with my shoulder. Vorbe’s office was in the rear of the store, and I spied a light shining through the open door. I went to the office, and stuck my head in. Vorbe sat at his desk, wiping his sweaty face with a hanky. He looked at me in alarm.

“Can I help you?” Vorbe asked.

I entered, and sat down across from him. “You lied to me.”

Vorbe started to protest. I held up my hand like I was directing traffic.

“You told me a store employee saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters the morning Piper Stone was murdered,” I said. “But you told Detective Cobb that you saw Jed. Why did you change your story?”

Vorbe gave me a scolding look. “I think you misheard me.”

“My ears are fine. You changed your story because you were afraid Detective Cobb would want to speak to that employee, and confirm what you’d said. Only there was no employee to speak to.”

Vorbe shook his head from side to side. The gesture was condescending, and reminded me of a parent scolding a child.

“Sir, you are simply wrong,” he said.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me one story, and Detective Cobb another?”

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“So I misheard you.”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I think. You’re hiding something. Let’s take a trip to police headquarters, and take a polygraph test. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”

Vorbe drummed his fingers on his desk. “I would like you to leave now.”

“Did you kill Piper Stone?”

“Of course not.”

“How about the rest of the women we found in the Pompano Beach landfill? Something tells me they all got there through your Dumpsters.”

A bead of sweat ran down his nose and hit his desk. Busted.

“I think you did,” I said.

Vorbe rose from his chair without the use of his cane. In one easy motion, he lifted his desk clean off the floor, and tossed it onto me. It was heavy, and I struggled to push it away. Tangled in my legs, Buster yelped in pain.

Vorbe pressed the desk against my body. The expression on his face had gone from polite to murderous in the blink of an eye. I tried to draw my Colt, but couldn’t get my fingers free enough to reach into my pants pocket. The meat manager appeared in the open doorway.

“Hey, boss. Is this guy giving you trouble?”

“Yes, Joe,” Vorbe said. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Left it home today.”

“That is too bad. Hold the desk while I call the police.”

“You bet,” the meat manager said.

The meat manager took Vorbe’s place. In horror I watched Vorbe draw a curved knife from his pocket, and grab the meat manager’s head with his free arm. Pulling him close, Vorbe slit the meat manager’s throat the way a farmer slits a chicken’s throat, quick and clean and ruthlessly efficient. The meat manager emitted a choking sound, and I watched blood from his wound join the blood on his apron.