James Swain: The Night Stalker

Flies.

I found the swarm with my flashlight. Several hundred hovered around a tree on the other side of the clearing, their fluttering wings making them look almost supernatural in the darkness.

I searched the tree with my flashlight’s beam. A pair of brown men’s shoes were the first thing I saw, toes pointed straight down. They were a homeless person’s shoes, and were falling apart.

I slowly lifted the flashlight’s beam. Their owner was still in them. My flashlight settled on his face, and I heard myself gasp.

I have seen the dead more times than is healthy. What I saw hanging from the branches was shocking even to my jaded sensibilities: a white male, no more than five-two, dressed in tattered blue jeans and a torn flannel shirt, his wrists tied to the branches so he appeared to be crucified. His skull had been smashed with a blunt instrument, his face so lopsided that it looked melted. He had been dead for several days; whatever spirit had inhabited his body was long gone.

I drew several deep breaths, then moved closer. Lying on the ground beneath the dead man’s feet was a cheap plastic wallet. I tore a branch off a tree, and used the branch to flip the wallet open. It contained a few wrinkled dollar bills, and a welfare card. His name was Clifford Gaylord.

I tried to imagine what had happened. Sampson’s kidnapper had come into the grove three nights ago, and happened upon Gaylord. Not wanting a witness, he’d knocked Gaylord unconscious and tied him to a tree. Then he’d murdered him.

It made sense, only there were holes. Tying Gaylord would have taken both hands, as would killing him. That would have forced the kidnapper to put Sampson down. He might have tied Sampson to a tree to keep him from running away, or simply put him nearby, where he could keep an eye on the boy.

I searched the ground with my flashlight to see if I was correct. On the other side of the clearing, I found the impression of Sampson’s body in the sugar sand. It was beneath a tree, and faced away from where Gaylord had died.

Buster pawed at a spot next to the boy’s impression. I started to pull him away, then saw something appear in the sand. It was a small cardboard box.

“Good boy,” I said.

I grabbed the box’s lid, and gently pulled it free. It was an empty candy box, covered with ants. Flipping it over, I stared at the label.

Milk Duds.

An alarm went off inside my head. Angelica Suarez had been eating Milk Duds when I’d rescued her from Ray Hicks. It could have been a coincidence, only I didn’t believe in those. I left the box in the sand where I’d found it, and dragged my dog into the clearing. The moon had crept out from behind the clouds, and I shut off my flashlight.

I thought about the three-ring binder I’d found in Ray Hicks’s locker. Hicks had been corresponding on the Internet with someone who called himself Teen Angel. Teen Angel had helped Hicks abduct Angelica Suarez, and Hicks had nearly succeeded. Teen Angel knew what he was doing.

I compared that case to this one. Sampson’s kidnapper had covered his tracks as well as Ray Hicks had. He’d taken Sampson from his bedroom, and had fooled the police so badly that they were pointing the finger at the boy’s father. He’d also used Milk Duds to keep the boy quiet, just as Ray Hicks had.

The cases were connected. Teen Angel had helped Ray Hicks, and I was willing to bet money he’d helped Sampson’s kidnapper as well.

Teen Angel was the link, and I needed to find him.

I called the sheriff’s department’s main number, and identified myself to the operator. I asked her to call Ron Cheeks, and have him call me.

“It’s an emergency,” I said.

Cheeks called me back a minute later.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m across the alley from Jed Grimes’s house,” I said.

“Goddamn it, Carpenter, I told you not to go there!”

I looked at Clifford Gaylord hanging dead in the orange tree. I didn’t know what his story was, but I felt certain that he deserved a better ending than the one he’d gotten. Had I not happened along, he might have hung there for a long time.

“You missed something,” I said.

Cheeks appeared in the grove fifteen minutes later looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. Clutched in his hand was a large Mag-Lite. I showed him Gaylord’s body, and explained what had happened. He pointed across the clearing.

“Stand over there, and tie your dog to a tree,” Cheeks said.

I went to the spot, and wrapped Buster’s leash around the base of a tree. I watched Cheeks inspect the crime scene. Gaylord’s ravaged corpse had a similar effect on him, and Cheeks crossed himself. When he was done, Cheeks came over to me.

“I should throw your ass in jail, but I’m going to give you a break,” Cheeks said. “Get out of here, and don’t stick your nose in this investigation again.”

“Don’t you want to get a statement from me?” I asked.

“No.”

“You want to pretend like I was never here?”

“That’s right. You were never here.”

Cheeks tapped the heavy Mag-Lite on my shoulder, and let me feel its weight. There was a strange look in his eyes, and I wondered if he’d been drinking. In the distance I heard the sound of sirens, followed by the mournful bay of every dog in the neighborhood. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“I called 911, and alerted the Broward news media,” I said.

Cheeks’s mouth dropped open.

“Why?” he gasped.

“Because you’re screwing up, and it’s putting Sampson Grimes’s life in danger. I’m not going to let it continue.”

“You’re going to talk to the press?”

“Only if you don’t play ball.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Sampson’s kidnapper was helped by a guy who calls himself Teen Angel,” I said. “I want you to talk to every pervert in the lockup and county jail, and tell them we’re looking for this guy. Chances are someone knows who he is.”

“What if I don’t?”

I had not forgotten Cheeks’s threat in my office.

“I’ll ruin you,” I said.

Cheeks nodded solemnly. For a moment I thought he was agreeing to my request. He lifted the Mag-Lite off my shoulder, and held it directly above my head. The strange look returned to his eyes.

“Fuck you,” he said.

I raised my arms as he brought the Mag-Lite down. The flashlight hit my forearm, and sent a shock wave through my body. I threw my shoulder into Cheeks’s chest, and sent him staggering backward. Leaping up, Buster grabbed the sleeve of Cheeks’s shirt, and shredded the fabric. Cheeks pulled his arm free, then stuck his hand into his pants pocket. I instinctively went for my Colt.

A deafening sound made us both look skyward. A police chopper had dropped out of the sky, and was shining a spotlight into the grove. Moments later, dozens of birds and other small animals exploded out of the trees.

The chopper hovered directly above us, and lit up the clearing. Cheeks glanced upward, as if willing the chopper to leave. He had lost his chance to hurt me, and brought his hand out of his pocket. I lowered my arm as well.

“I want an answer!” I shouted over the chopper’s din.

Cheeks tossed his Mag-Lite to the ground. The strange look left his eyes, and he was acting normal again. I untied Buster.

“Now,” I said. “Before everyone gets here.”

“All right,” he said.

A half hour later, I pulled into the Sunset Bar and Grill on the northern tip of Dania Beach, parking my car so it faced the ocean.

I pulled back my shirt sleeve, and inspected my arm. Cheeks’s Mag-Lite had left a purple welt the size of a golf ball. It also hurt like hell. Fighting with Cheeks had been a mistake. Cheeks was a cop, and in the long run, he could hurt me a lot more than I could hurt him.