The Night Stalker (27 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

I
took Buster for a walk on the beach with my cell phone clutched in my hand. I was tired and my head hurt, and I put both of those things out of my mind.

The motorcycle cop stayed ten yards behind me. He’d put his helmet on his bike, and walked while talking into a cell phone. I caught snippets of conversation, and heard him talking to his wife about an upcoming vacation to the Keys. It was obvious he wasn’t taking his assignment too seriously.

On my way back, I retrieved Chuck Cobb’s homicide report from my car. I needed something to do while waiting for Burrell to call me, and reviewing Cobb’s report was a good way to pass the time.

I went inside. It was Happy Hour, and the Dwarfs noisily lined the bar. I took my usual table by the window, put my cell phone in front of me, and started to read.

“You want a beer?” Sonny called to me.

“Another pot of coffee,” I replied.

“Boo,” the Dwarfs said.

The report was fifteen pages long. A lot had happened the day I’d discovered Piper Stone’s body in the Dumpster, and I found myself stopping every few paragraphs to dredge my memory. Sonny served me a fresh pot along with a frosty mug of beer.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“They made me,” he said.

I glanced at the bar, and saw the Dwarfs raise their glasses.

By the time I had finished the report, it was pitch black outside. I sipped my coffee, which had gotten cold but still tasted good. On the cover page of the report was Cobb’s work number and cell number. I tried both, and Cobb answered his work line.

“This is Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I just finished reading your report on Piper Stone’s murder. There’s an error in it.”

Cobb groaned. “Damn, I’m never going home tonight.”

“Sorry. It’s nothing huge.”

“Lay it on me.”

“On page five, you say that Vorbe, the grocery store manager, told me he saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters, and called the police. That wasn’t what Vorbe told me. He said an employee had seen Jed, and alerted him.”

“You know, I saw that discrepancy as well,” Cobb said.

“You did?”

“Yeah. The store manager’s version of who saw Jed differed from yours. I called him, and we talked about it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you must have heard him wrong.”

The coffee was a few inches from my lips. I put it back down on the table.

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any other discrepancies in our stories?”

“No, just that one. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Do you?”

I stared out the window at the ocean, and thought about it. Most police reports contained errors, or what cops liked to call misstated facts. But this wasn’t an error. Vorbe had told me one thing, and he’d told Cobb another.

“He changed his story,” I said.

“If it makes you feel any better, I talked to the employees at the store, and the manager’s version checked out,” Cobb said. “None of the employees saw Jed hanging around the Dumpsters. It was the manager, and he called the police.”

“So why did Vorbe change his story?”

“He didn’t, Jack. You heard him wrong. Everything else he said checks out with what you said. Haven’t you ever heard someone wrong before?”

I started to reply, then shut my mouth. There was no use arguing with Cobb. He’d already talked to the store manager, and the manager had convinced him that I was wrong. That bothered me even more than the lie he’d told.

“There’s my other line,” Cobb said. “I’ll call you back when I’m done, and we can talk about this some more.”

I folded my phone. Jed had told me that Heather had gone to get food, and was going to surprise him. I’d assumed that meant she was going to a restaurant, but it could have been the local grocery store. I went to the bar. The Dwarfs were slugging whiskey and feeling no pain. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and waved it in their faces.

“Who’s up for a game of chicken?” I asked.

“I am,” a Dwarf named Shorty said. Shorty stood six-feet-four and got his nickname because he was always short on cash.

“How fast are you?” I asked.

“Depends who’s chasing me,” Shorty said.

I gave Shorty the money and told him the rules.

“Piece of cake,” he said.

Shorty walked outside the bar. I went to the window, and watched him approach the motorcycle cop. Shorty was acting drunker than he was, his body swaying from side to side. The cop ignored him, and continued to talk on his cell phone.

Shorty lifted the cop’s helmet off the motorcycle’s bars, and went running down the beach as fast as his legs would carry him. The cop jumped off his bike and gave chase.

I headed for the door, and felt something by my leg. It was Buster, and his tail was wagging.

“You’re on,” I told him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

I
drove to the Smart Buy in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood well over the speed limit. Rush-hour traffic was going in the opposite direction, and a snaking line of headlights stretched as far as I could see.

I called Burrell, got voice mail, and left a message. The grocery store manager had changed his story about Piper Stone’s killing, then lied about it. Witnesses in murder cases often got facts wrong, but this was different. The store manager had lied about something that didn’t need to be lied about. It said he wasn’t a credible witness, and that nothing that he’d told me, or the police, could be deemed truthful.

I pulled into the Smart Buy and parked by the entrance. The parking lot was filled with water, and looked like a swamp. I waited for Burrell to call me back.

The minutes ticked by. Buster sat on the passenger seat, and I rolled down his window so he could stick his head out. I’d given him a pain pill, and he was acting fine.

I called my voice mail. Sometimes people called me, and my cell phone didn’t ring, and the caller ended up leaving a message. I was hoping that was what had happened now.

There were no messages.

I stared at the front of the grocery. More shoppers were coming out than going in. Most were women, and I guessed they were grabbing food to take home for dinner. Soon there was no one coming out.

I weighed what my next step should be. Part of me wanted to go inside and grill the store manager, only my recent arrest told me this wasn’t a smart idea. I needed to take the proper channels with this, or risk getting myself in more trouble.

Buster let out a menacing growl. A woman pushing a shopping cart had come out of the store, and was heading straight toward us. She was yakking on her cell phone while talking to a small infant riding in the cart. There was absolutely nothing threatening about her.

Buster started barking.

A loud tapping on my window made me jump. I jerked my head sideways. There was a man standing next to my car. It was Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, the store manager.

“Hello,” Vorbe said through the glass.

I quieted Buster down, and lowered my window. Vorbe was carrying his cane, which he leaned against.

“You scared my dog,” I said.

“I am sorry,” Vorbe said. “I came out to my car to get some papers, and I saw you sitting here. Is something wrong?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Vorbe come through the front doors, and guessed he’d come through the back, and walked around the side of the building. Had Vorbe seen me sitting in my car through one of the store’s surveillance cameras, and decided to check up on me? Something told me that he had.

“If you will excuse me, I must get back to work,” Vorbe said.

“Have a nice night,” I said.

“You, too,” he said.

I watched him limp inside. A person’s walk can be as telling as his voice. His was animated, and had a bounce to it, despite his infirmity. My gut told me he was going to make a run for it. I leashed Buster and followed him inside.

The store was dead. The checkout lines were empty, and several cashiers were chatting. Through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of Vorbe heading for the back of the store. He was still moving fast. I hurried after him.

I saw Vorbe push open a swinging door next to the meat section. I was ten steps behind him, and as I reached the door, a big man wearing a bloodied apron blocked me from going any further. A plastic name tag identified him as the store’s meat manager.

“Dogs aren’t allowed in the store,” the meat manager said.

Vorbe was running away. I said the first thing that came to mind.

“I’m legally blind.”

“And I’m Mother Teresa. Get the dog out of here.”

I kept moving forward. The meat manager spread his arms like a linebacker. There was no room around him, and I nudged Buster with my foot. My dog showed his teeth, and the meat manager sprang back.

“You’re asking for trouble,” the meat manager said.

“Go back to your station,” I said.

“Who the hell do you think—”

“Just do as I say.”

The meat manager got out of my way, and I hit the swinging door with my shoulder. Vorbe’s office was in the rear of the store, and I spied a light shining through the open door. I went to the office, and stuck my head in. Vorbe sat at his desk, wiping his sweaty face with a hanky. He looked at me in alarm.

“Can I help you?” Vorbe asked.

I entered, and sat down across from him. “You lied to me.”

Vorbe started to protest. I held up my hand like I was directing traffic.

“You told me a store employee saw Jed Grimes hanging around the Dumpsters the morning Piper Stone was murdered,” I said. “But you told Detective Cobb that
you
saw Jed. Why did you change your story?”

Vorbe gave me a scolding look. “I think you misheard me.”

“My ears are fine. You changed your story because you were afraid Detective Cobb would want to speak to that employee, and confirm what you’d said. Only there was no employee to speak to.”

Vorbe shook his head from side to side. The gesture was condescending, and reminded me of a parent scolding a child.

“Sir, you are simply wrong,” he said.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me one story, and Detective Cobb another?”

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“So I misheard you.”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I think. You’re hiding something. Let’s take a trip to police headquarters, and take a polygraph test. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”

Vorbe drummed his fingers on his desk. “I would like you to leave now.”

“Did you kill Piper Stone?”

“Of course not.”

“How about the rest of the women we found in the Pompano Beach landfill? Something tells me they all got there through your Dumpsters.”

A bead of sweat ran down his nose and hit his desk.
Busted.

“I think you did,” I said.

Vorbe rose from his chair without the use of his cane. In one easy motion, he lifted his desk clean off the floor, and tossed it onto me. It was heavy, and I struggled to push it away. Tangled in my legs, Buster yelped in pain.

Vorbe pressed the desk against my body. The expression on his face had gone from polite to murderous in the blink of an eye. I tried to draw my Colt, but couldn’t get my fingers free enough to reach into my pants pocket. The meat manager appeared in the open doorway.

“Hey, boss. Is this guy giving you trouble?”

“Yes, Joe,” Vorbe said. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Left it home today.”

“That is too bad. Hold the desk while I call the police.”

“You bet,” the meat manager said.

The meat manager took Vorbe’s place. In horror I watched Vorbe draw a curved knife from his pocket, and grab the meat manager’s head with his free arm. Pulling him close, Vorbe slit the meat manager’s throat the way a farmer slits a chicken’s throat, quick and clean and ruthlessly efficient. The meat manager emitted a choking sound, and I watched blood from his wound join the blood on his apron.

Vorbe let the meat manager drop to the floor, then placed his hands on the desk. The evil lurking below the surface was now visible.

I was next.

With every ounce of strength in my body, I pushed the desk a few inches, and drew my Colt. I pressed the barrel to the desk and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, and the bullet passed through the wood, and flew past Vorbe’s head.

Before I could fire again, Vorbe ran out of the office.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

I
pushed the desk away, freeing myself and my dog. Running to the open door, I looked across the back of the supermarket. The rear door was wide open, and I could hear Vorbe’s footsteps as he ran away.

“Help me,” the meat manager gasped.

I slipped my gun into my pocket and crouched down beside him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his life slipping away. He clasped my hand.

“Why?” he asked.

It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times as a cop. Why did people kill? What purpose did it serve, except to destroy lives and wreck families? I didn’t know the answer, and probably never would.

I called 911 on my cell. An automated operator put me on hold. While I waited for an operator to pick up, the meat manager closed his eyes. As he drew his last breath, I said a prayer, and watched him die.

I rose to my feet with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Buster was standing by the closet, pawing at the door. I pulled the door open and looked inside. The closet was empty. Something about it didn’t feel right. The interior looked cramped.

I pressed my hand against the back wall, and it came down. Behind the closet was a hidden area about five feet tall, and a few feet deep. Hanging from the wall was a pair of handcuffs attached to a metal chain. Beneath the handcuffs, an air tank.

I had found Vorbe’s holding area.

“Broward County Sheriff’s Department,” a police operator said.

“I need to report a murder.”

“Where are you calling from?” the operator asked.

I gave the operator the details while searching Vorbe’s desk. In one of the drawers I found a brown paper bag. It contained a bottle of clear liquid, a white cloth, and a pair of night vision goggles. I twisted the top off the bottle, and sniffed its contents.

Chloroform.

I had found Vorbe’s kill kit.

“There’s a cruiser on the way,” the operator said.

I took the paper bag off the desk, and went outside to meet it.

By the back doors I found a male employee of the store lying on the floor. He’d been stabbed in the shoulder, and was holding his hand against the bloody wound. He seemed more bewildered than hurt.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The boss attacked me in the parking lot,” the employee explained. “He tried to go through my pockets, so I kicked him in the nuts.”

“What does his car look like?”

“His car is in the shop. He’s been walking to work.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“He lives in the development behind the store.”

I went to the open back door and stuck my head out. It faced the Dumpsters, the sight of so much death and misery. I couldn’t see Vorbe, but I could hear him stumbling through the woods, his feet dragging across the ground.

I removed the handcuffs from the paper bag, and slipped them into my pocket. Then I fitted on the night goggles, and chased after him.

The night goggles turned the world a sickly green, and made me feel like I was a character in a low-budget horror movie. Buster had picked up Vorbe’s scent, and was racing down a path littered with cans and broken bottles. I struggled to keep up with him.

Vorbe appeared a hundred yards ahead of me. He was running while clutching his groin. I saw him hop over an embankment and disappear. My legs picked up speed.

I came over the embankment running almost as fast as my dog. The woods had ended, and a housing development begun, with six-foot picket fences lining the backyards of cookie-cutter tract houses. Vorbe was gone.

I stood at the top of the embankment, and let my eyes scan the fences for an opening. There were none.

“Find the man,” I said to my dog.

Buster ran along the fence, bumping it with his shoulder. A gate popped open, and my dog went in. I drew my Colt and followed him.

The property had a plastic swimming pool and lawn furniture. Reaching the back of the house, I stopped at a pair of glass sliders. Inside I spotted the figure of a man lurking in the darkened living room. It was Vorbe, holding a single-barrel shotgun in one hand, a box of bullets in the other. If he got the shotgun loaded, I was history. I aimed my Colt at the slider and fired.

The sound of my gun ripped through the still night air. I watched the slider turn into a spiderweb, then disintegrate. I kicked out the remaining shards and went inside. Vorbe stood in the living room, trying to load the shotgun. The bullets I’d fired had penetrated the wall behind him. He acted oblivious to them, and to me.

“Put down the shotgun,” I said.

Vorbe kept trying to load. The box slipped out of his fingers, and the bullets scattered across the floor. He dove to his knees.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

His breathing was loud and frantic.

“Put the gun down,” I ordered him.

He didn’t respond. There was a name for this behavior: kill or be killed. I had never experienced it before, and it was scaring the hell out of me.

“Now!” I said.

I didn’t want to shoot him, so I kicked him instead. Vorbe fell on his side, still clutching the shotgun. Then he let out a scream. Buster had grabbed his leg, and was giving it a good gnaw.

“Do it now, or my dog will eat you.”

I had once read that the death people were most afraid of was being eaten alive. The shotgun slipped from his fingers. I grabbed its barrel and tossed it onto a couch.

“Your dog is hurting me,” Vorbe said.

“Not enough,” I said.

I made Buster back off, then told Vorbe to stand. He rose on rubbery legs, and I made him touch the ceiling. He hesitated, then obeyed my command.

“Where’s your knife?” I asked.

“I dropped it in the woods,” Vorbe said.

I made him go into the kitchen. It was small, with a breakfast table and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I removed the handcuffs from my pocket, and tossed them to him. I pointed at the refrigerator.

“Handcuff yourself to the door,” I said.

Again Vorbe hesitated. Buster was beside me, and I nudged him with my foot. My dog snarled, and Vorbe jumped.

“Keep him away from me!” Vorbe said.

“Only if you start doing what I tell you,” I said.

Vorbe handcuffed himself to the refrigerator door. I made him put his other hand on the door, and frisked him. From his pocket I removed the curved knife and tossed it to the table. It was still covered with the meat manager’s blood.

“Guess you didn’t lose your knife,” I said.

I grabbed Vorbe’s handcuffed wrist, and squeezed the cuff. Then I checked the cuff locked to the door. He wasn’t going anywhere.

But I was.