Midnight Rambler (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

T
he city of Coconut Grove was a funky jungle of overgrown foliage, gourmet restaurants, and late-night bars. It was a far cry from the rest of Miami, which had been scraped clean by development, and I cracked the passenger window to let Buster sniff the many strange and wonderful odors.

I followed Tommy down Tigertail Avenue. The street was a mix of eclectic office buildings and Bahamian-style homes nestled behind protective stone walls. Tommy drove past Jorge Castillo's address and parked farther down the street. I parked in front of Tommy's car and lowered my windows, not wanting Buster to die of heatstroke while I was gone.

Tommy, Margolin, and I met on the cracked sidewalk outside of Castillo's house. There was no sign of the Miami police, which was irritating but not unusual. The city's crime rate was high, and cops were always busy answering calls.

Tommy came up with a plan. While he and Margolin knocked on the front door, I would watch the back of the house to make sure Castillo didn't escape with the baby. As we started to separate, a black BMW 745 came down the street and parked in front of our cars. It was Vasquez, and Tommy let out an exasperated breath.

“This guy is going to fuck this up.”

“Let me handle him,” I suggested.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I walked down the sidewalk to the BMW. I should probably have let Tommy deal with Vasquez, but I was afraid Vasquez would start arguing and cause a scene. Not being a cop had its advantages, and I confronted Vasquez as he got out.

“Get back in your car,” I said.

“You don't have the right to tell me what to do,” he said indignantly.

I wagged my finger in his face. “This is my case, whether you like it or not. Either you get in the car, or I'll throw you in the trunk. It's your call.”

Vasquez looked at me with murderous intensity. Sweat was marching down his face, the loss of his baby driving him insane.

I softened my voice.

“Let us handle this. Please, Mr. Vasquez.”

His face suddenly cracked.

“I want my baby,” he said, tearing up.

“I know you do. So do I. We all do. Just do as I say. It's for the best.”

He nodded his head woodenly and climbed back into his car.

I returned to where Tommy and Margolin were standing. They'd drawn their weapons and were ready to make the rescue.

“You carrying any heat?” Tommy asked.

“It's back at my office,” I said.

“Sure you want to do this? This guy has done time, Jack. He might be armed.”

My adrenaline was pumping, and I felt better than I had in a long time.

“I'm not backing out,” I said.

“Okay. See you in a few.”

Tommy and Margolin hopped the front wall and walked up the path. At the same time I walked through the next-door neighbor's property and opened a gate into Castillo's backyard. His house was a Spanish-style single-story, the barrel-tiled roof turned black from age. The grass hadn't been mowed in a while, and was knee high.

I cautiously approached the back door. It was ajar, and I pushed it open farther and stuck my head in. Three voices were talking in Spanish at the front of the house. Margolin, Tommy, and a man with a booming voice, whom I assumed was Jorge Castillo. My wife was Mexican, and I knew enough Spanish to understand what was being said. Castillo had invited Margolin and Tommy inside to have a look around. It could mean only one thing. He'd spotted us on the sidewalk and ditched the Vasquez baby.

I did a quick search of the backyard. Lying in the grass were the remains of a window-unit air conditioner and some rusted junk, but no place to hide an infant. Going to the gate, I put my fingers to my lips and let out a harsh whistle. Within moments Buster was out of the car and on the other side of the gate.

“Find the baby, boy. Find the baby.”

I opened the gate, but my dog did not come onto Castillo's property. Instead, he stayed in the neighbor's yard and threw his front paws onto a large plastic garbage pail that I'd walked by moments ago.

“Good boy.”

I made him get down and gently tugged off the lid. The sports section of
El Nuevo Herald
lay on top of some bags of garbage. I gently pulled the newspaper away, and there she was, Isabella Vasquez, wrapped in a blue beach towel, her eyes firmly shut.

She did not appear to be breathing, and an invisible fist tightened inside my chest.

I ran my fingertip down the side of her angelic face, then said something meant only for God's ears. Her eyelids parted, and she looked up at me in wonder.

“Hey, kiddo.”

I lifted her from the pail and held her protectively against my chest. When my daughter was born, I stayed home for two weeks and let my wife recover while I took care of her. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

This was a close second.

I entered Castillo's backyard cooing to Isabella. I am one of those people who never grows tired of looking at babies. As I neared the house a large Hispanic male whom I assumed was Castillo marched through the back door. He was wearing a sleeveless black muscle shirt and carrying an old-fashioned Colt Peacemaker by his side. The gun was as big as anything Clint Eastwood ever carried in the movies, and I retreated backwards into the yard.

Castillo followed me, then fired a single round into the house.

Through a window I could see Tommy and Margolin standing in the kitchen. They both hit the floor.

Castillo faced me. He pointed at the baby as if I was supposed to understand.

“No,” I said firmly.

He aimed the Peacemaker's smoking barrel at my head.

“No,” I repeated.

Our eyes locked. It was the first good look I'd gotten of him.

Fleshy jowls, skin savaged by acne, a flattened nose. A face only a mother could love. Or not.

“Give me the baby,” he demanded in broken English.

“How much did they pay you for her?” I asked.

Castillo aimed at my left ear. I didn't want to lose it, or go deaf, but I wasn't giving this soulless bastard this child. Not now, not ever.

“Ten grand? Fifteen?” I asked.

Castillo lined up his shot. “Last chance.”

“Sorry.”

There was a swishing sound in the grass. It sounded like a giant snake, and Castillo looked fearfully around him. Then he let out a startled scream.

I ducked as the gun discharged. Castillo continued to scream, and he did a complete revolution. Buster had bitten Castillo in the ass and was hanging off him like a Christmas ornament.

Fear-biters don't bark before they bite. My vet said that was what made Buster so dangerous and why he should be destroyed. Personally, I see it as an asset.

Two of Miami's finest appeared in the backyard with their weapons drawn. They cornered Castillo and disarmed him. I kept my distance, content to hold Isabella against my chest and let the scene play itself out. One of the cops said, “Is that your dog?”

“Sure is,” I said.

“Make him let the guy go, or I'll have to shoot him.”

Buster's hackles were up, and he looked twice as big as his sixty pounds. I slapped his nose, and he released Castillo and pinned himself to my side.

Margolin and Tommy came out of the house, covered in dirt.

While Tommy explained the situation to the cops, Margolin came over to me. She could not stop admiring the baby.

“She's beautiful. Look at those golden locks of hair.”

“Want to do the honors?” I asked.

She almost said yes, then shook her head.

“You do it.”

“You were first responder,” I reminded her.

“You cracked the case. You deserve it.”

“That's very nice of you,” I said.

Margolin put her hand on my cheek and looked deeply into my eyes. She was the kind of woman I find attractive, and her smile ignited emotions buried deep within me. As she walked away, my eyes followed her longer than they probably should have.

Babies are perfect; ask any parent. I walked up the street to Vasquez's BMW, admiring Isabella. I had saved a lot of kids, and it never got old.

Exhaust was coming out of the BMW's tailpipe, and the windows were shut tight. I still wore my wedding ring, and I used it to tap on the driver's window. Vasquez was deep in prayer and lifted his head.

“You can come out now,” I said.

Vasquez got out of the car saying, “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” with tears streaming down his face. I handed him his daughter, and he nearly dropped her. I realized he'd never held his child before, and showed him how to do it.

“Keep her head up,” I said.

“Like this?” he asked, cradling her head with his hand.

“That's it. Don't worry. She won't break.”

Holding Isabella against his chest, he pulled out his cell phone to call his wife. I started to walk away, and he stopped me.

“I'm sorry for what I said at the hospital,” he said.

“Don't worry about it,” I said.

“I was wrong.”

“Heat of the moment.”

He took out a business card and shoved it into my hand.

“That's my card. My cell phone number's on the bottom. Call me if you ever need anything.”

“That's not necessary, Mr. Vasquez.”

“I mean it. Anytime, day or night, call me. I won't ever forget this.”

I pocketed the card. When I was a cop, a lot of people I helped find loved ones made me similar offers, and I always turned them down. But times had changed. My life was a train wreck, and I needed all the friends I could get.

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez,” I said.

I followed Tommy and Margolin to police headquarters in downtown Miami to get my money. Tommy paid me out of petty cash and did not make me sign a receipt. Then he and Margolin offered to buy me brunch.

I was tempted to say yes. I was hungry, and I wanted to celebrate with them. It was not every day that things went this well.

But there was the matter of the homicide trial that I was expected to appear at tomorrow. I was the prosecution's key witness, and I needed to spend time going over my testimony. I'd been told by the prosecutor that I would be grilled by the defense and would need to be ready.

I asked them for a rain check. Tommy said okay, while Margolin just smiled with her eyes. She was a nice lady, and if I hadn't been clinging to the falsehood that my wife and I would someday reunite, I would have asked her on a date.

Outside, in the visitors' parking lot, I found a uniformed cop standing beside my car. It was the same cop who had threatened to shoot my dog if he wouldn't let Castillo go.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“That's some dog you've got,” the cop said.

I didn't know if he meant this as a compliment, and grunted under my breath.

“You thinking of breeding him?” the cop asked.

“Actually, I was going to neuter him.”

“Get puppies first,” he said.

“You want one?”

“Yeah. I'll give you a hundred bucks for one of the males.”

“He's a purebred Australian shepherd,” I said.

“Two hundred,” he countered.

I was desperate enough for cash to take the guy's name and number. As I climbed into my car, Buster stuck his head into my lap.

“You just might get laid,” I told him.

CHAPTER FOUR

“
S
tate your name,” the bailiff declared.

“Jack Harold Carpenter,” I replied.

“Place your left hand on the Bible, your right hand in the air.

Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

My fingertips rested lightly on the Bible's cracked leather cover. I hadn't given testimony at a trial in six months, and I felt out of place standing in a courtroom. My navy Ralph Lauren suit was too large for my thinned-down, six-foot frame, and the skinny necktie I'd purchased at a thrift shop that morning didn't adequately hide the monstrous coffee stain on my white cotton shirt. Although my life had changed drastically since my departure from the police force, its purpose had not, and I straightened my shoulders.

“I do,” I replied.

“Please be seated,” the bailiff said.

I took the hard wooden chair in the witness stand and felt the previous witness's warmth. Wilson Battles, the silver-haired judge presiding over the case, acknowledged me with a nod. I'd testified in his courtroom before, and I nodded back.

Then I looked at the jury of eight women and four men. Their faces were hard, filled with skepticism and doubt. I was not a popular person. Back when I was a detective, I put a murder suspect named Simon Skell into the hospital for an extended stay.

The case was still discussed in the newspapers and on TV. One editorial had called me a stain on the conscience of the community. But that wasn't why I was here. Before my fall from grace, I had been a damn good cop and had pulled plenty of monsters off the streets. One of those monsters was sitting in this courtroom.

By the time my testimony was over, I wanted there to be no doubt in this jury's minds as to who that monster was, and what he'd done.

Lars Johannsen sat at the defense table flanked by two high-priced defense attorneys. Lars was a big Swede with a face shaped like a milk bottle and a shock of blond hair. He stared coldly at me. His petite wife sat behind him in the spectator gallery, tearfully shredding a Kleenex.

The prosecutor stepped forward to begin her questioning. Her name was Veronica Cabrero, and she wore heavy makeup and an emerald-green dress that clung to her body like Saran wrap. Around the courthouse she was called the Cuban firecracker, and she had been fined for contempt by several judges for outbursts in their courtrooms. I would do just about anything for her.

“Mr. Carpenter, you were formerly chief investigator of the Broward County Missing Persons unit, correct?” she began.

“Yes,” I answered into the microphone perched by my chair.

“How long did you hold this position?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Would you say you're an expert at locating missing people?”

I'd heard it said that an expert was someone who lived a hundred miles away. The truth was, I enjoyed finding missing people and had never wanted to do anything else. When people went missing, there was always the hope of finding them alive. And even the tiniest ray of hope looked bright compared to the blackness of most police work.

“Yes,” I said.

“The afternoon of Abby Fox's disappearance, you were the first policeman to arrive at Lars Johannsen's house,” she went on. “As chief investigator, did you normally handle cases like this?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Usually one of my people.”

“Why did you take this case?”

All good testimony is rehearsed, and mine was no exception. Facing the jury, I explained how years earlier I'd found Abby Fox working the streets of Fort Lauderdale as a teenage prostitute. She'd been tossed out of her house by her parents and was what people in law enforcement call a “thrownaway.” I'd gotten her into a shelter and, over time, helped her get her life together. Since then, we'd talked on a regular basis, and I knew that she'd gone to work as a nanny for a big Swede who'd been giving her funny looks. When the call came in that she was missing, I took it.

“Please describe what you found when you arrived at Lars Johannsen's house,” Cabrero said.

Lars had met me at the front door. He'd explained how Abby had left five hours earlier to buy groceries and had not returned. I immediately got the color and model of Abby's car from him and issued a tri-county alert for the vehicle.

An hour later, Abby's car was found parked near a wooded area a few miles from Lars's home. I decided to conduct a search using several sheriff 's deputies, plus some neighbors who'd volunteered to help. I also let Lars tag along.

The search was conducted by the book. Everyone lined up six feet apart in the woods, took one giant step, stopped and visually inspected the ground, then repeated the process. After a few hours, everyone had started to slow down.

Then something odd happened. Lars sped up and started plowing through the woods. As a result, the rest of the search party also sped up. It felt like a ploy, and I instructed the deputies to remain with the group while I stayed behind to search the area.

It did not take me long to find Abby's shallow grave. She'd been buried in a shaded area behind a stand of thick cypress trees. I cleared away the earth with my hands until her head was uncovered. She was an attractive girl, and the ring of purple bruises around her neck made me choke up.

There was also a white handkerchief covering her eyes. The placement of the handkerchief told me a lot. It said that the killer had known Abby and had feared her gaze, even in death.

I caught up to the search party, found Lars, and took him to my car. I told him that I'd located Abby's body and watched his reaction. When he refused to meet my gaze, I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and showed it to him. It was in a plastic evidence bag, which I dangled in front of his nose.

“Whose fingerprints do you think we'll find on this?” I asked.

Lars looked away. The truth was, his fingerprints on the handkerchief wouldn't have proved a thing. It could have been Abby's handkerchief, which he might have touched at some time. Only Lars hadn't known this, so he broke down and confessed. A voice-activated tape recorder in the glove compartment had recorded everything.

“Is that when you arrested him?” Cabrero asked.

“Yes,” I said.

I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. I had avoided looking at the jury while speaking, but I looked at them now. Their icy resolve had melted away. I'd swayed them.

“Did Lars Johannsen tell you why he killed Abby?” Cabrero asked.

“No,” I said.

“Do you have any theories why he did it?”

One of Lars's defense attorneys sprang to his feet.

“Objection!” he said.

“Sustained,” Judge Battles said. “Ms. Cabrero, this courtroom is no place for theories, despite the witness's obvious credentials.”

“I'm sorry, your honor,” Cabrero said. “I have no further questions.”

“Your witness,” Battles told the defense.

I
did
have a theory as to why Lars Johannsen strangled Abby Fox, and it went like this: Lars matched the description of a guy who'd been picking up prostitutes in Fort Lauderdale and brutalizing them. It had gotten so bad that Vice had set up a sting operation in an attempt to catch him.

My theory was that Lars knew about the sting and had decided to lie low. But over time, his cravings became too strong, so he hired Abby to watch his daughter. In Abby he saw a perfect victim. She was young and attractive and had no family. By having her in his employ, he could abuse her whenever he wished—what cops call one-stop shopping.

Only Lars's plan had a flaw. Abby had gone through intensive counseling, and along with no longer being a prostitute, she was also no longer a victim. She was her own person, and when she rebuffed Lars's advances, he flew into a rage, strangled her, and buried her body in the woods.

I didn't have a shred of proof to support this theory, just sixteen years of dealing with scum like Lars to know I'm right. Lars had hurt many women before Abby and, if let back into society, was going to hurt many more.

The shorter of Lars's defense attorneys approached the witness stand. I disliked defense attorneys who work in pairs. They reminded me of tag teams in wrestling matches, with neither member strong enough to go solo.

This one was named Bernie Howe. Howe had a clogged-sinus voice and a hair transplant that looked like rows of miniature cornstalks. Clutched in his hand were several sheets of paper, the top of which I was able to read upside down. It was a certificate of death, commonly called a COD, from Starke State Prison.

“Mr. Carpenter,” Howe began, “isn't it true that when Lars Johannsen confessed in your car, you in fact were physically assaulting him, and inflicting such pain that he was forced to say that he'd killed Abby Fox?”

“No,” I replied.

“Isn't it true that you put your hands around the defendant's neck, choked him for over a minute, and threatened to kill him if he didn't confess?”

“No.”

“Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that without your taped confession, there is no other solid evidence linking my client to this crime?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Carpenter, two weeks after my client was arrested, you were thrown off the police force, correct?”

Cabrero jumped to her feet and started to object. With a stare, I killed the words coming out of her mouth. The defense had only one tactic, and that was to turn the case against Lars Johannsen to one against me. I was ready for it. Cabrero sat back down, and I answered the question.

“I wasn't thrown off the force,” I replied.

“But you were asked to step down,” Howe said.

“I resigned.”

“So you did remove yourself from the force.”

“That is correct.”

“Before you resigned, didn't the police conduct a hearing where you were accused of assaulting a suspected serial killer named Simon Skell, also known as the Midnight Rambler, who spent two weeks in the hospital as a result of a beating you inflicted upon him?”

“Yes.”

“Isn't it true that you fractured Samuel Skell's nose, jaw, and arm; knocked out several of his front teeth; threw him through a window; and fractured three of his ribs during that beating?”

“He attacked me during his arrest.”

“Please answer the question.”

The injuries that I'd inflicted upon Simon Skell had been in the newspapers enough times that I imagined every person in the courtroom could recite them from memory.

“Yes,” I said.

“Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that while you ran the Missing Persons unit of the Broward County Police Department, you conducted a personal vendetta against people committing violent crimes of a sexual nature?”

“No, I did not.”

Howe flipped over the sheets of paper in his hand and shoved them beneath my nose. “Do you recognize these, Mr. Carpenter?”

I looked down and studied the pages.

“No,” I said.

“You're saying you don't know what they are?”

“No, I didn't bring my glasses.”

The jury rewarded me with a few thin smiles. Scowling, Howe displayed the sheets to them. “These are certificates of death issued by the warden at Florida State Prison in Starke for three sexual predators who Jack Carpenter sent there. These certificates were found thumbtacked to Jack Carpenter's office door the day he left the police force.”

Howe faced me. “You put them on your door, didn't you, Mr.

Carpenter?”

“That's correct,” I said.

“Would you care to explain why?”

“If a bad guy died in the joint, I usually let the other detectives know. We liked to keep up on that sort of thing.”

Howe bore a hole into me with his eyes. “Isn't it true, Mr. Carpenter, that you sent information to the warden at Starke that was so damaging to these men's reputations that it eventually led to them being murdered by other inmates?”

“I'm sorry, but which men are you're talking about?” I asked.

Howe read off the three men's names from the CODs. Finished, he glanced up at me with a smug look on his face.

“Recognize them, Mr. Carpenter?”

“They sound familiar, but I'm not sure,” I said.

Howe looked to the judge's box. “Your Honor, the witness is being evasive.”

“Mr. Carpenter, you are required to answer the question,” Battles said in a scolding voice. “Do you recognize the three names Mr. Howe just read, or don't you?”

Howe was accusing me of ethical misconduct. It was a hard charge to make stick, and it would have been easy for me to deny that I'd set those three men up. But I had something else in mind.

“Your Honor, I honestly don't remember if I did or not,” I said. “Perhaps the defense would be so kind as to jog my memory.”

Battles was a thirty-year veteran of the legal system and had seen his share of artful dodges in the courtroom. He studied me before replying.

“How would you propose Mr. Howe do that?” Battles asked.

“Have the defense read aloud the crimes these three men committed. I'm sure that once I hear what they did, I'll remember them and can tell Mr. Howe if I sent information to the warden at Starke that was inappropriate.”

A disapproving howl came out of Howe's throat. The last thing he wanted was to have his client associated with the heinous crimes committed by the three men whose names were on those CODs.

Battles silenced Howe with a wave of the hand. Then he removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. There were many people in the Broward legal system who did not approve of the things I did as a cop. But there were also many who did. I had always wondered which side of the fence Battles stood on.

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Battles said. “Mr. Howe, read the crimes.”