The Night Stalker (28 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY

T
here was a prize for the work that I did. I got to see things first.

I quickly searched the interior of Vorbe’s house. Like most houses in south Florida, it did not have a basement, or an attic, and the rooms were relatively small.

The living room and dining room, which were connected, held nothing of significance. In the back were two bedrooms. The first contained an unmade single bed, a chest of drawers, and a picture of the Virgin Mary hanging above the bed’s headboard. I banged on the closet door, but did not find any hidden spaces.

The second bedroom had been converted into a photographer’s studio. The windows were covered by blinds, the walls by black backdrops, which made the space unusually dark. A tripod and camera sat in the room’s center, and photographer lights were mounted on the walls and the ceiling.

I searched the den last. A wide-screen TV consumed one wall, a bookcase the other. The bookcase’s shelves were lined with cheap knickknacks. I tried to pick one up, and discovered it was glued down. So were the others. Grabbing the bookcase with both hands, I pulled it away from the wall.

There was a hidden door behind the bookcase, and it was dead-bolted. Buster stuck his nose to the sill, and let out a whine. I took the door down with a kick.

Buster started to go in. I hooked him by the collar, and pulled him back. I didn’t want him contaminating whatever was inside the room.

I pulled the broken door out of the way, then cautiously entered. The room’s interior was black, and I scratched the wall for a light switch. Finding none, I took another step forward, then heard a static-filled voice.

I listened hard. It was a police operator talking to a cop in a cruiser. Vorbe had been using a scanner to monitor patrol cars in the area.

I moved forward, the darkness as frightening as any imagined monster. Something touched the tip of my nose, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I reached out, and grabbed the thing that had touched me. It was a beaded metal cord that hung from the ceiling. I tugged on it, and a fluorescent light flickered to life.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I found myself standing in a two-car garage. The garage door had been replaced by a brick wall, while the other three walls had been lined with cork, soundproofing the interior.

I did a slow one-eighty. On the other side of the garage was a long wooden table with a young woman lying across it, her arms and legs bound by leather straps. Her skin was pale and white, and her eyes were tightly shut.

It was Heather Rinker.

I crossed the room and stood beside her. My hand gently touched her forehead. Her skin was ice cold, her body lifeless. The memory of Heather playing one-on-one with Jessie in the driveway of my old house flashed through my mind.

Buster jumped up on the table. Before I could pull him down, he began to lick Heather’s face. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at me.

“Oh, my God, Mr. Carpenter,” she whispered.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. My fingers undid the straps holding her prisoner. Heather tried to sit up, only to fall back on the table.

“Take it easy,” I said.

“Where is Mr. Vorbe?” she asked.

“In the other room.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“He’s not going anywhere. Tell me what happened.”

“I went to the grocery to buy some food, and he invited me back to his office for coffee. The next thing I remembered was waking up here.”

“Where’s Sampson?”

“In the closet. Sampson wouldn’t stop fighting with him, so Mr. Vorbe tied him up. He tried to save me, Mr. Carpenter. My baby tried to save me.”

Going to the closet, I opened the door. Sampson sat on a chair inside the closet, his arms and legs tied down with twine. A piece of duct tape covered his mouth. I had seen people die this way, and I choked back the rage building inside me.

“Hi, Sampson. My name is Jack,” I said.

Sampson looked at me, blinking tears. I put away my gun so as not to scare him any further, and gently pulled away the duct tape. Buster appeared by my side.

“This is my dog. His name is Buster. Do you like dogs?”

Sampson nodded. Buster entered the closet, and licked Sampson’s face.

“Where’s my mommy?” he asked.

“She’s right here. I’m going to take you to her.”

“Mommy!”

“I’m here, honey,” Heather called back. “Everything’s okay.”

I undid the twine while looking into his perfect little face. Every stupid thing I’d said and done in the last several days now seemed worthwhile. Sampson crawled into my arms, and I carried him across the garage to his mother. It was a perfect ending, until I heard Vorbe scream from the other side of the house.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“
P
lease don’t leave us, Mr. Carpenter,” Heather begged me.

I heard a second scream, louder, more intense. I had to find out what he was doing. I snapped my fingers, and Buster lay dutifully on the floor.

“My dog will protect you and your son,” I said.

I ran back into the house. Passing through the living room, I saw dots of blood on the tiled floor that hadn’t been there before. The shotgun was missing from the couch, as was the box of bullets.

My eyes followed the bloody trail. It went through the living room to the broken slider, and out to the backyard. I nearly let out a yell. I’d handcuffed Vorbe to the refrigerator, something I’d done with countless suspects. He couldn’t have freed himself.

I entered the kitchen clutching my Colt with both hands. The handcuffs were still attached to the handle on the refrigerator door. Lying on the floor beneath them was Vorbe’s blood-soaked hand, along with the butcher knife he’d used to cut it off.

I made it into the living room before I threw up. Through the broken slider I could hear the shrill cry of police sirens carrying through the warm night air. They were too far away to bring me any comfort.

I took several deep breaths, and tried to get my strength back. My eyes fell upon a photo album lying on the coffee table. There had been no examples of Vorbe’s work hanging in the studio, and I flipped the album open to the first page. A young woman stared back at me. Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth wide open. She was dead.

I riffled through the album. It was filled with head shots of other dead women, their poses identical to the woman on the first page. There appeared to be two dozen photos in all, although there could have been more.

I went outside, and tried to determine where Vorbe had gone. I didn’t think he’d gone back to the supermarket, and I went around the side of the house to the front yard.

Standing on the curb, I gazed up and down the street. It was lit up by streetlights, and I saw a gang of long-haired kids trying to break their necks on skateboards and a few older couples walking dogs. Then it hit me what Vorbe was going to do.

He was going to steal a car.

With a car, he could hit the highways and disappear in rush-hour traffic. Florida had thousands of miles of back roads, and most criminals knew how to navigate them. I was going to lose him if I didn’t act fast.

I looked in the street for blood. I found a few drops and followed them to an intersection at the block’s end, where I saw a mob of men in shorts and T-shirts standing in a driveway, beating the daylights out of someone. As I ran toward them, my cell phone rang. It was Burrell.

“I got your message. What’s going on?” she asked.

“I found our killer. It’s the grocery store manager.”

“Where are you?”

I looked over my shoulder, and read the names off the signs on the corner.

“I’ll be right there,” Burrell said.

The men had surrounded Vorbe, and were trying to capture him. Two of the men were pointing handguns at him, the rest throwing punches and kicks. Vorbe was fighting back using a Brazilian form of martial arts called capoeira, his body spinning like a top. His bloody stump was wrapped in a towel, the wrist tied with an electrical cord in a makeshift tourniquet. It didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

I edged into the crowd. These guys didn’t know me, nor I them.

“Where’s his shotgun?” I asked.

A blond guy chugging a beer nodded toward the grass. “Son-of-a-bitch knocked my wife down as she was getting out of her car with the groceries. I came out, and took his gun away. Then the fun started.”

I watched Vorbe take his punishment. He continued to swirl around the mob, using his one good hand and his feet to fight back. For each blow he delivered, he got three in return. It was suicide.

Then I realized what Vorbe was trying to do. Each time he got near one of the men with a handgun, his hand darted out. He was trying to steal a weapon, and each time he tried, he got a little closer to succeeding.

I couldn’t let him get a gun. Or kill someone.

Or escape.

Everything happened for a reason. Mine was to be here and stop Vorbe.

I aimed my Colt at his legs and fired.

The mob jumped back in unison. Vorbe stopped spinning and stared at the blood gushing out of his right thigh. He screamed and grabbed his leg.

I tackled Vorbe to the pavement and held him down. The wound in his leg was flowing freely. He struggled, making it worse.

“Take it easy,” I told him.

He stopped fighting back. I tore off a piece of my shirt, folded it into a square, and pressed it against the wound. Then I looked into his eyes. I have stared at evil before, and it’s always the same. Cold, hard, unfeeling.

“I want you to talk to me,” I said.

Vorbe was trying to fight back the pain, and didn’t reply.

“I want you to tell me about the women in the album in your living room,” I said.

Still no reply.

“The police will be here soon. I want you to tell me about them.”

He laughed under his breath, taunting me.

I could hear sirens circling the neighborhood. Soon the cruisers were going to find us. I knew what would happen next. The police would arrest Vorbe, and he’d lawyer up, and never say another word to anyone again. It was how evil men tortured those who hunted them. I’d come too far to let that happen.

“Last chance,” I said.

Vorbe stared at me, not understanding.

I lifted the compress from his wound. Blood gushed out like a geyser and flowed freely down the driveway. Fear flowed through his eyes.

“My leg,” Vorbe gasped.

“First tell me about the women in the album,” I said.

I held the bloody compress in front of his face. It was the only thing that was going to stop the bleeding, and keep him alive. I wasn’t going to let him die, just like I hadn’t let Cheeks die, only Vorbe didn’t know that. It was my last card, and I was going to play it.

“Tell me about the women, or I’m walking away,” I said.

“But I’ll die,” he gasped.

“Shit happens.”

Vorbe blinked, and then he blinked again.

I used my cell phone to tape Vorbe’s confession. The phone let me record Vorbe while filming him at the same time. It was hard to believe what Vorbe was saying, and I didn’t think I would have believed it, had I not been inside his house, and seen his garage and photo album with my own eyes.

Burrell pulled up in her Mustang. An ambulance soon followed. I waited until the medics were wheeling Vorbe into the back of the ambulance before I pulled Burrell aside, and played Vorbe’s confession for her. When it was done, she shook her head.

“But this can’t be true,” she said.

“You think he’s lying?” I said.

“He has to be.”

I took Burrell back to Vorbe’s house, and showed her what I’d found.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

I
awoke early the next morning, and drove to Starke Prison with a headache that no amount of Advil seemed to shake. I could have stayed home, and let the prison officials do what needed to be done. But my conscience wouldn’t let me, so I made the trip.

At a few minutes past noon, a prison escort led me down a long hallway in death row, and slid back a cell door. I entered to find two men waiting for me. One was tall and trim, and wore a starched white shirt, gray slacks, and a black necktie. The other was small and round, and wore a dark suit with a turned white collar. Hanging from his shoulder was a sash with the faces of black, white, and yellow children.

“You must be Father Kelly,” I said.

Father Kelly pumped my hand. “Good job, Jack.”

The taller man also shook my hand. “I’m Warden Jackson. Yes, a fine job.”

“Where’s Abb?” I asked.

“He’s being brought from the infirmary,” the warden explained. “I’m afraid he’s not handling this very well.”

“Did you tell him what happened?” I asked.

“I tried to have a conversation with him last night,” the warden said. “When I told him that the governor had stayed his execution, he collapsed.”

“Where’s his wife?” I asked.

“I spoke with LeAnn this morning,” Father Kelly said. “Her car broke down during the trip here, and she’s stranded in some small town.”

I folded my arms, and went to the door to wait for Abb. Father Kelly and the warden took a bench, and began to discuss the best way to explain to Abb what had happened. I cleared my throat, and they stopped talking.

“I want to tell him,” I said.

“That’s not a good idea,” the warden said. “Abb may get emotional, even violent.”

“He’s my client,” I said. “He should hear this from me.”

The warden looked at the priest. “Tom? What do you think?”

“Jack’s right. He knows the details better than you or I,” Father Kelly said.

The warden exhaled deeply. “Very well.”

Footsteps rang down the hallway, and I pressed my face to the bars. Abb was being marched down the hall by two guards, and wore a white bathrobe, slippers, and handcuffs. He looked drugged, and moved in slow-motion. The guards led him in, and made him sit on the opposing bench.

I stood in front of him. “Remember me?”

His eyes flickered in recognition.

“I found your grandson,” I said.

“Good,” he said hoarsely.

“I also found something else.” From my shirt pocket I removed a mug shot of Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, and showed it to him. “Remember him?”

Abb glanced at the mug shot, and shook his head.

“His name is Jean-Baptiste Vorbe. He ran a grocery store in your neighborhood.”

Abb looked back at me with his dead eyes.

“He was arrested last night. I want you to see what I found in his house.” Taking out my cell phone, I held it up to Abb’s face and hit the play button. I had made a film of the photographs I’d found in the album in Vorbe’s living room. The dead women’s faces were barely discernible on my phone’s tiny screen, and Abb squinted as they flashed by.

“Those are photographs of the eighteen women you were accused of killing,” I said. “I found them in Vorbe’s living room.”

Abb twitched like he’d been jabbed with a pin.

“Vorbe is a serial killer,” I went on. “He killed women in Haiti twenty years ago, then took a boat ride to Florida, and started killing here. He targeted homeless women and runaways who came into his grocery. He offered them jobs, and when they came to his office, he knocked them out, and took them home. After he had his way with them, he put their bodies in the Dumpsters. Then one night, you appeared behind the grocery.”

Abb’s eyes went wide.

“You don’t remember any of this because you were taking a drug called Ambien,” I said. “Ambien is a hypnotic, and can have bad side effects. That night behind the grocery you were sleepwalking. Vorbe’s victim was lying on the ground. You picked her up, carried her around the parking lot, then put her down, and left.”

Abb jerked his head, and looked directly at Father Kelly. The priest nodded confirmation.

“Vorbe decided to frame you,” I said. “He followed you home, and put a box of his victims’ underwear in your garage. The next morning, he got the police, and showed them a surveillance video taken by a grocery store camera. You know what happens after that.”

Abb looked back at me, his face filled with anger.

“The police should have figured this out the day you were arrested,” I said. “You didn’t have a criminal record, and there were plenty of holes in Vorbe’s story. But it didn’t work out that way. I want you to hear why.”

I held up my phone, and again hit play. A film of Jean-Baptiste Vorbe lying in a bed in the emergency ward at the hospital appeared. Pumped up with drugs, he had continued his confession when I’d arrived, and I had filmed it as well.

“When I called the police that morning, I asked for Detective Cheeks,” Vorbe said in his beautiful lilting voice. “At the store we gave free doughnuts to the police, and Cheeks often came in. He was bitter about being passed over for a promotion. I felt certain that he would take this case, and use it to make himself look good.”

“Tell me why you kidnapped Sampson,” I said in the background.

“I had to silence Abb,” Vorbe said matter-of-factly. “I delivered groceries to his wife’s house, and LeAnn and I were friends. When LeAnn told me Abb was going to let the FBI hypnotize him, I decided to kidnap his grandson.”

“You contacted a group of pedophiles online,” I said. “Why?”

“I knew Sampson, and what a problem he could be,” Vorbe said. “I needed help taking him from his bedroom, so I reached out to those men.”

“Did you plan to kill Piper Stone?” I asked.

“No. She came to my office, and asked a few questions. I saw her stiffen, and realized I had tripped up. So I strangled her, and threw her in the trash.”

“Is that when you decided to frame Jed?”

“Yes. It seemed an excellent time,” Vorbe said.

I folded my cell phone. The cell fell silent. Abb stared at me with his dead eyes. It was like he was there, only he wasn’t there. Father Kelly rose from the bench.

“Abb, do you understand what this means?” the priest asked.

“I was sleepwalking when I killed those women,” Abb said.

Father Kelly put his hands on Abb’s shoulders. “No, no, my son! You didn’t kill anyone. You were framed. You’re innocent.”

“What do you mean?” Abb said.

“The grocery store manager is the real Night Stalker, not you,” the priest said. “This has all been a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Abb swallowed hard. Then he looked at the warden.

“You still going to execute me?” Abb asked.

He doesn’t believe it,
I thought. Not a single damn word. I guessed that was what happened when you robbed a man of his freedom. He stopped believing in the truth.

Warden Jackson rose, and put his hand on Abb’s shoulder. “On the contrary, Abb. We’re going to release you.”

“Release me?” Abb said.

“Yes,” the warden said. “I spoke to the governor earlier. He believes a terrible miscarriage of justice has taken place, and plans to sign the papers granting you your freedom once they reach his desk.”

“I’m going to go free?” Abb asked.

“Yes, Abb,” the warden said.

Abb closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to weep. Instead, he dropped to his knees, and went into a fetal curl on the concrete floor.