The Night Stalker (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
sucked down coffee while driving through downtown Dania. The town’s main traffic light was blinking red, and in the shadows dark figures lurked, some with sleeping bags thrown over their shoulders, others pushing shopping carts filled with junk, the homeless on parade.

Pulling out my cell phone, I retrieved Burrell’s cell number, and hit Send. I knew Burrell wasn’t happy with me, but I wasn’t going to let that affect how I handled this. She needed to know what I knew.

Burrell’s voice mail picked up. I ended the call, and hit redial. I kept doing that until I was heading north on the Florida Turnpike. When I was a few miles from the Pompano Beach exit, Burrell answered the call, her voice thick with sleep.

“Hello…?”

“It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said.

“For the love of Christ, what time is it?”

“Four in the morning.”

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you about the case.”

Burrell snapped awake. “Listen to me, and listen good. You’re off the case, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Please don’t argue with me. It wasn’t my call.”

“Whose call was it?”

“The mayor’s. He decided you were a liability.”

“Am I?”

“Please don’t make me have this conversation,” Burrell said.

“Did you stand up for me?”

“Of course I stood up for you. I did everything I could. I just couldn’t tell you to your face. So I let Special Agent Whitley give you the bad news.”

“How do you know Whitley?”

“I worked with him a few months ago.”

“I still want to talk to you about the Grimes case.”

Burrell let out a noise that was half-shout, half-scream. “You’re not listening to me!”

“Whitley is wrong about Jed Grimes,” I said. “Jed didn’t commit these crimes. Someone else did, and they’ve killed before. We’re dealing with another serial killer.”

“Really? Where’s your proof?”

“The victims are my proof.”

“I’m not buying it.”

A giant flock of seagulls loomed over the turnpike. There were several hundred of them, maybe more. It looked like a scene straight out of
The Birds,
their incessant cawing loud enough to awaken my dog.

“What’s that noise?” Burrell asked.

“Birds,” I said.

“Where are you? The beach?”

“I’m driving north on the turnpike.”

“And I’m going back to sleep,” Burrell said “Now stay off the case.”

Burrell hung up on me before I could reply. I weighed calling her back, but decided there was no point. Her mind was made up. The Pompano Beach exit was in my headlights, and I dug the change for the toll out of my pocket.

The Pompano Beach landfill was the largest in south Florida, and was where garbage from Broward and Palm Beach Counties was brought to be buried. It was one of the few areas of the county not at sea level, and the man-made hills of garbage towered over many office buildings in town, and were covered in grass that was country-club green. During the day, thousands of birds feasted on the garbage, then flew back to their nests when the sun went down.

I drove down a gravel road and parked in front of the gate. I had been to the landfill many times as a cop. It was the last stop when I was looking for a missing person who might be dead. I was hoping an employee would remember me, and I wouldn’t have to lie through my teeth to get in.

The guardhouse door opened, and a white-haired guard emerged. Although he was older, the starched white shirt and necktie told me he took his job seriously.

The guard came over to my window, and shone a flashlight into my face. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I used to run the Broward County Sheriff’s Department’s Missing Persons unit.”

“Didn’t your daughter play basketball?” the guard asked.

“You’ve got a good memory. She’s now at Florida State on a full scholarship.”

“Jessica Carpenter.”

I smiled and nodded.

“You must be very proud of her,” the guard said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m working with the Broward police on a missing kid’s case,” I said. “I was wondering if I could come inside, and have a look around.”

“There’s a lot of garbage back there. What are you looking for?”

“Commercial garbage from Davie. It’s from a supermarket.”

“That would be section P. If you’d like, I can draw you a map.”

“That would be great.”

The guard drew me a map on a sheet of paper. The landfill was divided into sections that were identified by letters of the alphabet. Going into the guardhouse, he hit a switch, and the gate slid back. I waved to him and drove inside.

Following the guard’s map, I drove down a bumpy dirt road that cut between the hills. It was pitch dark, and my car lurched uncertainly every few feet. There were no other people back here, and I found myself petting Buster as I drove.

Soon I came to a wood sign that read “Section P.” The area was in the process of being filled, and several unfinished mountains of garbage stood in front of me. I grabbed my flashlight from the glove compartment, and got out with my dog.

Landfill excavation was a vital part of homicide investigations, and excavation teams used metal detectors, ground-penetrating radar, and Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR) technology to look for clues. When it came to looking for bodies, they also used dogs.

I led Buster to the freshest hill, and let him loose. He spent a minute peeing on everything in sight, then scurried up the side of the hill. I followed cautiously, my feet slipping on the mushy ground.

Reaching the top, my dog began to run in circles, having a field day with all the strange and wonderful smells. Then, he disappeared, and for a scary moment I thought he’d fallen down a hole.

Hearing his panting, I followed him down the other side of the hill. He was running fast, and I struggled to catch up. He ran straight to an older hill covered in grass, and went halfway up the side. Then he began digging with his front paws.

“What you got, boy?”

His digging turned frantic. Buster was the kind of dog that would do something until you stopped him, or it killed him. I ran back to my car and popped the trunk. I needed something to help him dig. All I found was a tire iron.

I drove back to the front gate, and found the guard sitting inside the guardhouse, reading a novel. He took off his glasses, and came outside.

“I need to borrow a shovel,” I said.

“You want some help?” he asked.

I should have said yes—another pair of hands would have made my task a lot easier—but I was afraid of getting anyone else involved. I wasn’t supposed to be here, and the fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better.

“No, but thanks anyway,” I said.

I drove back to section P. Buster was still at it, and I plunged my borrowed shovel into the hill, and began to help.

There is no more difficult labor than digging a hole. Soon, sweat was pouring down my face, and I could barely see. I stopped to wipe the sweat away, and looked to the east. The sky was lightening, and I could feel the air beginning to warm up.

I went back to work, and pulled out the plastic bags buried in the earth, and sliced them open with the blade of my shovel. The smell they emitted was disgusting. Each time I inhaled, it felt as if a hole was being eaten into my brain. But I didn’t stop.

Nor did my dog. Buster had locked onto a scent, and each time a bag came out of the hill, he stopped what he was doing to sniff the contents. It was hard to say who was more driven, him or me.

I was still digging when the sun came up. My shoulders were aching, my breathing labored. There was garbage strewn all around me, and the gulls had swooped down from the sky, and were picking at it.

I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake. I had pulled a huge portion of the hill apart, and there were no other bodies hidden in the garbage. Then I heard a car backfire, and saw a pickup truck pull up to the hill.

Four Mexicans jumped out, shovels in hand. They wore bandannas on their heads, and had smiles on their faces. I spoke to them in Spanish, and learned that the guard had sent them. I told them what I was looking for, and their smiles disappeared.

Together, we dug for another hour and a half, and took the hill apart. By now my muscles were screaming, and my mind was telling me to quit. I went and leaned against the pickup truck, and one of the Mexicans came over to see what was wrong.

“This is no good,” I said.

My shovel was lying on the ground. He picked it up, and tried to give it to me. I didn’t understand the gesture, and he pointed at the sky.

“Look,” he said.

I shielded my eyes with my hand, and stared upward. Hundreds of gulls were circling overhead, forming a cyclone of white.

“So what?” I asked him.

The Mexican pointed directly overhead. I had to squint, but finally saw it. A large black bird among the gulls, looking down at us.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Vulture,” the Mexican said.

I took the shovel from his hands, and went back to work. Forty-five minutes later, we discovered the first body.

PART THREE

DON’T BE CRUEL

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
he body was of a woman who appeared to be about five-four, with wispy black hair and a silver cross hanging around her neck. Her eyes and skin were gone, and her mouth was twisted in a horrible smile. I was no expert on pathology, but I saw no signs of bullets or knives or blunt instruments having been used, and I guessed that she’d been killed the same way Piper Stone had died.

The vulture that had been circling overhead had landed on a garbage hill no more than thirty feet away. The Mexicans had taken turns throwing bottles at it, but the bird would not leave. I turned my back on it as I called Burrell.

“You need to get up to the Pompano Beach landfill,” I said when she answered. “Tell the guard at the front gate you know me, and ask for Section P.”

There was silence on the line, and for a moment I thought we’d been disconnected.

“What did you find?” Burrell asked.

“Another victim,” I said.

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“For the love of Christ,” she said.

I ended the call, then spent a minute petting Buster. My dog had bloodied his paws ripping through the earth, and now lay at my feet, exhausted.

Burrell arrived a half hour later. With her was Special Agent Whitley. They got out, and Burrell handed me a cup of coffee. I thanked her with a nod.

I led Burrell and Whitley to the body. I had covered it with a blanket that I’d found in the trash. I shooed the gulls away, and pulled the blanket back. Whitley took a tube of Vick’s from his pocket, and dabbed some beneath his nostrils. Burrell did the same, and offered me the tube. I shook my head.

“How can you stand the smell?” she asked.

“You get used to it,” I said.

Whitley knelt down to study the corpse. He wore a navy windbreaker with FBI printed in blazing white letters across the back. I wondered if he’d put the windbreaker on to remind me that he was still in charge of the investigation. He pointed at a number of items lying on the ground beside the body.

“Did you put these here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did they belong to the victim?”

The garbage bag in which I’d found the corpse had contained several personal items. These included a lipstick, some coins, and two pieces of inexpensive jewelry.

“I think so,” I said.

“How can you tell they were hers?” he asked.

“The lipstick is good, and the jewelry is wearable,” I said.

“So they’re not garbage.”

“That’s right.”

Whitley picked through the items. “Anything else you want to share?”

“She’s either a runaway or a homeless person,” I said.

“Did you ID her?”

“I didn’t have to ID her.”

“Then how do you know that for certain?”

I pointed at the victim’s feet. “She’s wearing a pair of cheap Keds. That isn’t a fashion statement. She was dirt poor.”

Whitley examined the victim’s sneakers. One of the sneakers had a slight bulge in it. Taking rubber gloves from his pocket, he snapped them on, and tugged the sneaker off the victim’s foot. Then he held the sneaker up, and gave it a shake. Out dropped a Florida driver’s license and several folded bills. He picked both up from the ground. The victim’s name was Mary McClary, and she hailed from West Palm Beach. I’d dealt with hundreds of missing persons cases as a cop, and names that rhymed had always stood out.

“I remember her,” I said. “She left home at age sixteen. Her father ran a moving and storage business. He called me every day for a few months.”

“So she was a runaway,” Whitley said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Was she seen around Fort Lauderdale?” Whitley asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That was why I was looking for her.”

Whitley looked at Burrell, and I saw a knowing look pass between them.

“Like father, like son,” Whitley said.

“Do you think Jed Grimes did this?” Burrell asked.

“Yes, I do,” Whitley said. “He’s taking over his father’s legacy. I’ve seen a couple of cases like it in my career. It’s called savage spawn.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Whitley had decided that Jed Grimes had killed this woman, even though there was no evidence linking him to the crime. Worse, Burrell had fallen under his spell, and was going along with it. I exploded.

“Savage spawn,” I said. “That sounds like the name of a movie. Do you think you can get us all parts?”

Whitley placed the driver’s license into an evidence bag, then removed his gloves and tossed them on the ground. His eyes were on fire.

“You’re not funny,” he said.

“And you’re a jackass,” I replied.

We rushed each other at the same time. I got my hands on his windbreaker, and spun him around. Whitley’s legs got tangled up, and he fell onto a pile of garbage, ripping his pants and messing up his haircut. He cursed me.

Burrell grabbed my arm and pulled me over to her car. She wagged a finger in my face. “Stop this or I’ll cuff you, Jack.”

“Whatever you say,” I said.

Five minutes later an unmarked white van came rumbling into Section P, and disgorged a sheriff’s department excavation team consisting of six men. Each man wore rubber gloves and a surgical mask, and carried a black duffel bag filled with equipment.

A flatbed truck carrying a pair of bobcats came in behind the van. The bobcats were unloaded, and Burrell directed their drivers to start tearing apart the hill where I’d discovered the body. I stood off to the side with Buster and watched. My clothes stank of rotting garbage and sweat and death, and I guessed I’d have to throw them away.

Over the next hour, the bodies of five more women were discovered in the hills in Section P. The bodies were lined up next to Mary McClary’s body, and covered with blankets. The scene was starting to resemble a disaster area.

I heard a loud noise and looked to the sky. A helicopter circled overhead, the markings on its underbelly belonging to a local TV news station. Burrell had her hands full, and I didn’t want to be filmed or give her any more grief.

I hustled Buster into my car, and got behind the wheel. As I started to pull away, Burrell ran over to me.

“Jack!” she called out.

I hit the brakes, and made Buster climb into the back. Burrell opened the door, and slid onto the passenger seat.

“I want you back on the case,” she said.

“You do?” I said.

“Yes. I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

“What about the mayor?”

“Fuck the mayor,” Burrell said.

I looked through my windshield at Whitley, who was helping the evacuation team examine the bodies. During our scuffle, a piece of rotten fruit had gotten stuck in his hair, and ruined the image that he seemed so bent on cultivating.

“What about Mr. Hollywood?” I asked.

“Believe it or not, Whitley wants you back on the case, too.”

“He does?”

“Yes. He thinks you have amazing instincts.”

“Even if I think Jed Grimes is innocent?”

“Yes. The fact that we disagree doesn’t mean we can’t work together. I need you, Jack. Please say yes.”

It had been a long time since anyone had told me that. I looked across the seat at Burrell, and saw that she meant every word of it.

“Okay,” I said.