The Night Stalker (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

H
ollywood had a way of distorting the truth that most cops didn’t like. The movie based on Whitley’s exploits was a good example of that.

Whitley regularly visited federal prisons around the country and interviewed serial killers who were willing to talk about their lives. These interviews were tape-recorded, and had allowed Whitley to build profiles that helped him catch serial killers still at large.

One day Whitley had paid a visit to the Attica Correctional Facility in upstate New York to interview a serial killer named “Nasty” Nate Savage. Savage had brutally killed eight people in the Buffalo area, several of whom he’d decapitated. When he’d been caught, Savage had been carrying a head in a bowling bag.

Savage was literally a giant, and stood an inch under seven feet and weighed over three hundred pounds. Because of the threat he posed to other inmates, he was kept in solitary confinement, where he spent his days reading comic books and playing solitaire.

Whitley’s interview of Savage had lasted several hours, with Savage talking freely about his killing spree. Then, in a sudden shift, Savage had begun to act out his attacks, and had demonstrated to Whitley how he’d ripped the heads off his victims’ bodies. Sensing that his life might be in danger, Whitley had pressed the call button for the guards.

“They’re changing shifts,” Savage had explained when the guards had failed to appear. “Might be a while before they come and get you. It’s just you and me, pal.”

Whitley had tried to shift the conversation to Savage’s childhood, but the serial killer was having none of it.

“You know, I could go batshit in here, and you’d be in trouble,” Savage had said. “I could screw your head clean off your body, and put it on the table to greet the guards. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Whitley had reacted with surprising calm. He’d warned Savage that he’d be in serious trouble if he murdered a federal official. Already serving ten consecutive life sentences, Savage had burst into laughter.

“What are they gonna do, take away my cigarettes?” he’d asked.

What had followed was a contest of wills. For each of Savage’s vicious taunts, Whitley had thrown up a roadblock, and used his extraordinary behavioral insight to keep the killer at bay. At one point Savage had jumped out of his chair, to which Whitley had said, “You don’t think I’d meet you without some way to defend myself, do you?”

“What you got?” Savage shot back. “A nail clipper?”

“Something a little more powerful than that,” Whitley had said.

Whitley had feigned reaching for a sidearm, and Savage had retreated. Moments later, two guards entered the cell and took Savage away.

That was the story Hollywood had bought. But it wasn’t what had ended up on the silver screen. In the movie, Savage had been a sympathetic character filled with justifiable rage. Taking Whitley hostage, he’d escaped from Attica, and gone home and killed everyone who’d ever wronged him, including his sadistic stepfather and a local bully. For the finale, he’d jumped into Niagara Falls as the police were closing in.

I had seen the movie, and left the theater wanting my money back. The cops had been the bad guys, while Savage was the hero. Whitley’s name had been in the credits as technical adviser. It had made me think the guy had sold out.

Whitley suggested getting something to eat. We went to a nearby fast-food restaurant in his rental, and ate fried chicken sandwiches in the parking lot. I bought french fries for Buster, which I fed him through the seats.

“Detective Burrell contacted me yesterday after you discovered the dead guy in the orange grove,” Whitley said. “Based upon the information she shared with me, I knew I’d better come down here. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in time to save Piper Stone.”

I’d never heard a cop say what Whitley had just said. I put my sandwich down on the wrapper lying in my lap. “Do you think you could have saved her?”

“Yes, I do,” Whitley said.

“Would you mind telling me how?”

“By having Jed Grimes arrested. Jed killed the homeless guy in the grove, and he was going to kill someone again—all the signs were there. Stone happened to be the unlucky one.”

“What signs?”

“Serial killers aren’t born, they’re made. If you accept that theory, then you can see the signs that tell you that someone is becoming one. Jed Grimes is an evolving serial killer. A tortured childhood, a string of arrests, likes to set fires, hates his father, and has a grudge against the law. It’s textbook.”

I wrapped up the rest of my sandwich, and tossed it into the bag on the floor. Whitley had told me he wanted to talk about Jed Grimes, but that wasn’t true. He wanted to lecture me about Jed, and tell me where I’d gone wrong. I didn’t like it, and I said, “Abb Grimes received a ransom note in prison. The note told Abb to stop talking to the FBI or his grandson would die. Are you telling me Jed sent that note?”

“Yes,” Whitley said.

“What the hell for?”

“Part of Jed’s evolution into a killer involves stepping free of his father’s shadow. That can only happen when Abb Grimes is dead. My guess is that when Jed found out his father was trying to stall his own execution, he decided to kidnap his son.”

Stall his execution.
The words hit me hard.

“Was that Abb’s motivation for talking to the FBI?” I asked.

“Yes. Death row inmates do it all the time.”

“So you think Abb doesn’t care about his grandson’s safety?”

“I doubt he does,” Whitley said.

“And that he’s just a monster.”

“That’s right.”

I stared through the sun-soaked windshield while thinking about my meeting with Abb. I’d come away believing that he cared about his grandson’s welfare. So far, nothing that Whitley had said had convinced me otherwise.

“You think I got played for a fool, don’t you?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Whitley said.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

Whitley turned in his seat. We were close enough for me to see the road map of lines in his face. His brown eyes were hard and un-yielding. “As of this afternoon, I’m officially handling the homicide portion of this investigation, while Detective Burrell is handling the search for the missing little boy. I know you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in this, but I need you off the case.”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the teeth, and spent a moment composing myself.

“You don’t want to hear what I have to say, or the conclusions I’ve come to?”

Whitley picked up a paper napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth. He was looking at me the way an adult looks at a child.

“You still believe Jed is innocent, don’t you?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Then no, I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

If Whitley hadn’t been with the FBI, I would have knocked the smug look off his face. Instead, I thanked him for lunch, got out of the car with Buster, and walked back to the Smart Buy to get my borrowed pickup truck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he sunlight was beginning to fade as I pulled into the Sunset’s parking lot, and I knew I didn’t have much time left. Walking down to the shoreline, I pulled off my clothes, and dove headfirst into a wave.

The water was tepid, and tiny schools of minnows tickled my legs as I headed out to my regular spot. I’d gone swimming here the day my marriage had fallen apart, and it had given me the strength to get on with my life. The backstroke was my specialty, and I flopped onto my back, and began doing laps.

I searched for a cloud in the sky but couldn’t find one. My body was tired and I could not find the rhythm to my stroke. I’d been looking for missing kids nearly all my adult life, and I’d never been forced to leave a case before it was finished. It made me angry enough to scream, so I did.

Soon it was dark, and I decided to head in. Reaching the shore, I found a cold sixteen-ounce Budweiser half-buried in the sand next to my dog. I popped the top and let the beer pour down my throat. Then I threw my clothes back on, and went inside the Sunset. The bar was quiet, and I found Sonny watching the evening news.

“Where are the Dwarfs?” I asked.

“Over at the jai alai fronton, losing their money,” Sonny replied.

I took a stool, and watched the TV. The news was showing the manhunt taking place in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood, the police using bloodhounds and policemen on horseback to scour the alleyways and backyards in search of Jed Grimes. Toward the end of the segment, an aerial shot taken from a helicopter appeared, and showed bags of garbage lying on the ground next to the Dumpsters behind the Smart Buy.

The shot made me think back to my discovery of Piper Stone’s body. Before her killer had tossed Stone into the Dumpster, he’d removed a bag of garbage, and put it on the ground. Then he’d tossed Stone in, and covered her with the first bag. It hadn’t seemed significant to me at the time, but now it did.

The segment ended, and I slapped my hand on the bar. Sonny thought I wanted another beer, and placed a fresh can in front of me.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I swore.

“What’d I do?” Sonny asked.

I pointed at the TV. “I meant the killer.”

“Oh. What about him?”

“I was there at the grocery, and I missed something. The killer had the presence of mind to cover his tracks. That’s not normal.”

“It’s not?”

The beer had rushed to my head, and I took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “Not with a murder like this. The guy just strangled a woman. His heart is racing a hundred miles an hour. What is his mind telling him to do?”

Sonny scratched his chin and gave it some thought. “Run?”

“That’s right, run. Only he had the presence of mind
not to.
Instead he took the time to remove a bag of garbage from the Dumpster, put it on the ground, then put his victim in, and cover her up. What does that tell you?”

Sonny wasn’t too quick on the draw, and he gave it some more thought.

“That he’s a master criminal?”

“He’s more than that,” I said. “Even master criminals lose their cool when they’re committing a crime, especially a cold-blooded murder. This guy didn’t lose his cool.”

“You make him sound like a genius,” Sonny said.

I looked down at the water-stained bar while playing back everything I knew. Whoever was responsible for these crimes had out-smarted the police every step of the way. He planned his crimes meticulously, and he didn’t leave clues.

“He
is
a genius,” I said quietly. “Only the police haven’t figured that out yet.”

“What a surprise,” Sonny said. “Drink your beer.”

The second beer went down way too easily, as did the third. Soon the Dwarfs appeared, and the place got noisy. I went upstairs and stretched out on my bed with Buster curled up beside me. Shutting my eyes, I was soon floating in that hazy area between sleep and reality.

“Jack.”

The voice came out of nowhere. I opened my eyes, and found myself standing behind the Smart Buy next to the Dumpsters. Unearthly shadows danced across the property beneath a full moon.

“Jack.”

I spun around, trying to determine where the voice had come from.

“Jack.”

I looked at the Dumpsters. The milk crate I’d used that morning was still there. I stepped onto it, and flipped open the closest Dumpster’s lid. The interior was filled with black garbage bags that shimmered eerily beneath the moonlight.

“Jack.”

A bag in the back caught my eye. A woman’s face was pushing through the plastic. I pulled the bag toward me and tore it open.

“Hold on,” I said.

As the plastic came away, Piper Stone’s face materialized. Her mouth was still frozen, her neck ringed by her killer’s hands. Her eyes snapped open.

“Jack!”
she said.

I tried to reply, but the words were frozen in my mouth. Stone sat upright, and put her hands around my forearms. I tried to pull back, but her grip was like iron.

“Help me,”
she said.

Her eyes were hollow and black. Suddenly the other bags in the Dumpster came to life, the plastic shredding to reveal more dead women lying inside. They sat up, and stared at me with their lifeless eyes.

“Jack!”
they all said.

I looked into their faces. The other dead women were young, and their necks had been ravaged by a killer’s hands. The women started to cry, the tears rolling silently down their cheeks. I could not help myself, and began to cry as well.

A pounding on my door snapped me awake. The moon was peeking through my window, and Buster was up on my bed, licking my face.

“It’s open,” I said hoarsely.

Sonny stuck his head in. “You okay?”

I took several deep breaths. “Never better.”

“I heard you yelling, and thought maybe something was wrong.”

“Was I really yelling?”

“Only like someone was sticking a knife in you. Come downstairs and I’ll buy you a beer. I was just cleaning up.”

“What time is it?”

“About three-thirty.”

“Was I really loud?”

“Shit, yeah. I almost called the cops.”

My room had grown chilly, and I draped the bedspread over my shoulders, and followed Sonny downstairs. I took a stool at the bar, and tried to pull myself together. Stone’s haunting voice still rang in my ears. I could feel her hands, and the hands of the other dead women, clutching me like they were never going to let go.

Sonny served me a beer. “This will make you feel better.”

“You think so?” I asked.

“It’s always worked for me.”

I took a swallow. The beer was cold and good, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I pushed it away.

“What was I yelling?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Something about being sorry.”

“Being sorry about what?”

Sonny began to wipe down the bar. “It was weird. You were yelling ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and your voice kept getting louder. Finally I ran upstairs and woke you up.”

I thought back to the dead women. Each one had seemed real, and not just a figment of my imagination. So real that I’d felt compelled to tell them that I was sorry.

Then I understood what my nightmare had meant, and jumped off my stool.