The Night Monster (2 page)

Dunn’s abductor should have been easy to find, only the opposite had been true. No crazed giants existed on the books of any Florida police departments, nor any hospitals or mental wards. Over time, I’d extended my search, and contacted police departments and mental hospitals around the country.

I’d found only one match.

His name was Ed Kemper. Kemper was a giant and a sociopath. He’d shot his grandparents at fourteen, then murdered his mother, her best friend, and six other women. By the time I found him, Kemper was serving seven consecutive life sentences in a Vacaville, California, prison and could not have abducted Dunn.

Eighteen years of looking, all dead ends.

I opened Dunn’s file on my lap. Its pages were dog-eared from use. Nearly every page had my handwritten notes scribbled in the margins. Although we’d never met, I had developed a bond with Dunn, and felt like I knew her.

I studied the crime scene photos taken at the apartment. Blood from the abductor’s wounds had been found in every room. I’d sent the DNA to the FBI, who’d stored it in CODIS, a computer system that contained the DNA of a quarter million known violent criminals. Hopefully a match would someday be made, and Dunn’s abductor would be brought to justice.

Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” floated across my room. It was the ring tone to my cell phone, a birthday present from my daughter, Jessie. I grabbed the phone off the night table. Caller ID said
CANDY
.

Detective Candice Burrell now ran Missing Persons, and was a
friend. I made my living these days finding missing kids for police departments, and I was hoping she was calling with a job.

“Hello Detective Burrell,” I said.

“Am I glad you answered,” Burrell said. “I’m in a real jam. Are you busy?”

“My calendar’s wide open.”

“I’m at the courthouse waiting to give testimony in a trial, and I just got a call that an eight-year-old autistic boy has gone missing from Lakeside Elementary School. I need you to go find him.”

I slipped out of bed. A rumpled pair of cargo pants and a Tommy Bahama shirt lay on the floor. Within seconds they were hanging from my body.

“The boy’s name is Bobby Monroe, and he disappeared from his classroom about a half hour ago,” Burrell went on. “Four uniforms are at Lakeside now, and don’t have a clue as to where this kid went. They think he might have been abducted.”

As a cop, I’d dealt with many missing autistic kids. They were seldom targets for abductors, and I had a feeling something else was going on.

“Is the school locked down?” I asked.

“Yes. That was the first thing the principal did.”

“Good. Is Bobby Monroe in a special class for autistic children, or is he mainstreamed?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Many schools in Broward have autistic kids sit in regular classes with nonautistic kids. It helps develop them socially.”

“I think he’s in a regular class.”

“What’s his teacher saying?”

“The regular teacher is sick. There’s a substitute teacher today, and she’s freaking out.”

Autistic children often became distressed by simple changes in their daily routine, such as a change in classrooms or teachers, or even moving something on their desk, like a pencil or an eraser. The picture was getting clearer.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “The appearance of the substitute upset Bobby, so he took off. Most autistic kids go to confined
spaces to vent their anger. Bobby could be hiding in a closet, or maybe squeezed himself into a refrigerator.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

“Tell the uniforms at the school to start looking in every hidden space they can find. Also tell them not to call out Bobby’s name. He’ll hear them, and only make himself harder to find.”

“How soon can you be there?”

I grabbed my gun off the night table, and slipped it into the concealed holster in my pants pocket.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” I said.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Burrell said.

nterstate 595 was the asphalt spine of Broward County, and ran from the ocean’s sandy beaches to the Everglades’ swampy marshes. Soon I was hurtling down it with the wind blowing in my face and Buster hanging out the passenger window.

I was waved through by a guard at the front gate of Lakeside Elementary. The school consisted of three mustard-colored buildings connected by covered walkways. It sat on a barren tract of land, surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence that encompassed the entire property. Leashing Buster, I hurried inside.

A uniformed cop stood outside the principal’s office. His nameplate said D. Gordon. His tanned face bore more lines than a roadmap.

“You must be Jack Carpenter,” Officer Gordon said. “It’s good to meet you.”

I might have left the force under a dark cloud after beating up a suspect, but I still had my fans in the department. I asked Gordon for an update.

“Two groups of teachers and all of the maintenance men have turned the school upside down,” Gordon said. “We haven’t found a trace of Bobby Monroe. I’m beginning to think he’s not here.”

“Do you think he left the grounds?”

“That’s what my gut’s telling me.”

“There was a guard at the front entrance when I drove in. How would Bobby have gotten past him?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think Bobby’s here. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Gordon looked about fifty. Age counted for something when you were a cop. If Gordon’s gut was telling him that Bobby Monroe wasn’t here, he was probably right.

“I want to speak with the kids in his class,” I said.

“Follow me. What’s with the pooch?”

“He helps me find things.”

“Good. We could use some help.”

Gordon led me down a hallway to a classroom doorway. We passed a number of rooms filled with kids that were in lockdown mode. Until Bobby Monroe’s whereabouts were determined, none of the children in Lakewood were going anywhere. Gordon put his hand on the doorknob and glanced at me.

“Be careful what you say to the substitute teacher. She’s a nervous wreck, and I don’t want to send her over the edge.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ms. Rosewater.”

We entered the classroom. Ms. Rosewater stood at the blackboard, a plump, pale, bespectacled young woman with her hair tied in a bun. About thirty kids sat at their desks, facing her. Seeing my dog, they stood up in their chairs and started chattering loudly.

“Class, be quiet,” she said.

Her voice sounded ready to crack. I introduced myself.

“I’d like to speak to the children,” I said.

“By all means,” she replied.

I faced the kids and made Buster lie on the floor. My dog was a brown, pure-bred Australian Shepherd with a docked tail—not a common breed. The kids stared at him like he was some exotic animal in the zoo.

“Good morning. My name is Jack Carpenter, and this is my dog Buster. We’re going to help the police find your missing classmate. Before
we do that, I need to ask you some questions. Who was the last person to see Bobby Monroe?”

A little girl in pigtails sitting in the front row raised her hand.

“What’s your name?”

“Missy.”

“Tell me what happened, Missy.”

“We were going to gym. Miss Rosewater had us line up by the door. Bobby was right behind me. We went into the hall, and I asked Bobby if he was feeling okay. He didn’t say nothing. I turned around, and he was gone.”

“Did he run back into the classroom? Or down the hall?”

“I don’t know where he went.”

“Why did you ask Bobby if he was okay?”

“He was banging his desk and making really weird noises. I thought maybe he had a bellyache.”

I glanced at Ms. Rosewater. “Which desk is Bobby’s?”

The substitute teacher led me to an empty desk in the room’s center. Over the back of the chair hung a blue knapsack, which I opened and quickly searched. A crumbled candy wrapper caught my eye. It was for a bag of peanut M&Ms, and had Harrison Ford’s photo splashed across the wrapper promoting the new Indiana Jones movie. Walking to the front of the room, I held the wrapper in the air.

“Does everyone know what this is?” I asked.

The children nodded as one.

“Good. Which one of you gave this bag of candy to Bobby?”

Their faces turned expressionless. I scanned the room, and settled on a little boy with curly blond hair who wasn’t making eye contact with me. His desk was adjacent to Bobby’s, and I decided he was the culprit. I didn’t like traumatizing kids, but I had to get to the truth. Crossing the room, I knelt down in front of his desk.

“What’s your name?”

“Stuart,” he said, staring at his desk.

“Look at me, Stuart.”

Stuart lifted his eyes, which were moist and met my gaze.

“Did you give this bag of candy to Bobby?”

Stuart hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

“Didn’t your regular teacher tell you not to do that?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why did you?”

“Bobby saw the candy in my lunch bag, and got all excited. He said that if I gave him the candy, he’d recite all the lines from the latest Indiana Jones movie during lunch.”

“Can Bobby do that?”

“Bobby knows all the lines from the Indiana Jones movies and from Star Wars and a bunch of TV shows. He’s super smart.”

It was not uncommon for autistic children to have amazing memories, and I could see Bobby pressuring Stuart to give him the M&Ms.

“Did you see Bobby eat the candy?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” Stuart whispered.

“Is that when Bobby started acting strange?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry if I made Bobby sick. I didn’t mean to.”

In order for autistic children to mainstream, their parents often removed sugar and dairy products from their diets, which helped calm them down. Stuart’s bag of M&Ms had hit Bobby’s nervous system like a bomb, and Bobby had gone on sensory overload and decided to run. Grabbing Bobby’s knapsack from his desk, I walked to the front of the classroom where Buster lay on the floor. I placed the knapsack in front of my dog’s face, and let him get a good whiff. Buster rose from the floor and walked to the back of the classroom. I was right behind him.

Buster stuck his face against one of the windows that faced the playground. The latch was unlocked, and I pushed the window open. The opening didn’t look large enough for a child to climb through, but I knew from past experience that autistic children were capable of just about anything when they were on tilt. I turned to face Officer Gordon.

“How big is the school property?”

“Twenty acres,” Gordon replied.

“What does it back up on to?”

“Mostly woods.”

“I’m going outside to look around. I’d suggest you round up the
teachers and maintenance men who are searching for Bobby, and do the same.”

I headed for the door. Scaling a fence was not difficult for most young boys, and Bobby could have gone just about anywhere. Our chances of finding him grew slimmer by the minute. A thought flashed through my mind, and I turned back to Gordon.

“Do the woods have any freestanding water?” I asked.

“Yes, there’s a large pond.”

“Is it visible from the school grounds?”

“In some spots, yes.”

My shoulder banged the door as I raced from the classroom.

ater has a magical effect on autistic children. It calls to them like a siren’s song. I found this out the hard way when an autistic little boy who’d disappeared from his home was found on the bottom of his next-door neighbor’s swimming pool. It was a lesson I’d never forgotten.

I ran across the playground with Buster on my heels. The morning air was still and hot, and sweat poured down my face and burned my eyes. As I came to the fence that encompassed the property, I noticed a piece of torn fabric hanging in the twisted barbs across the top, and felt myself shudder.

I scaled the fence, and landed on the other side. Buster began digging at the ground in an attempt to join me. I couldn’t wait, and plunged into the woods.

There was no discernible path, the underbrush thick with weeds and exposed tree roots. More than once I nearly fell, only to right myself as I began to go down. In the distance I heard a thrashing sound accompanied by a boy’s muted screams.