The Night Monster (12 page)

The afternoon skies were darkening as I drove up to the guard booth. A man in uniform came out, and glanced suspiciously at me and Buster.

“What can I do for you?” the guard asked.

I handed him my driver’s license. “My name’s Jack Carpenter. I’m here to see Special Agent Linderman. He runs the CARD unit.”

“Hold on.”

The guard called into the building. I popped my trunk in anticipation of being searched. The guard came out and did a quick inspection.

“Have a nice day,” he said.

I did my usual hunt for a parking place. Finding one with shade, I rolled down my windows. Buster curled up on the passenger seat and went to sleep.

Soon I was sitting in Linderman’s office. The office had a nice ocean view, only Linderman chose to sit at his desk with his back to the window. Nearing fifty, he was thin and compact, his gun-metal gray hair cropped short like a Marine’s, his eyes as hard as stones. Before coming to Miami, he’d run the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Division, where he’d profiled the nation’s worst serial killers and mass murderers. Then, five years ago, his daughter Danielle had vanished while jogging at the University of Miami. He’d been looking for her ever since, and had taken the CARD job to continue his search.

We’d met a year ago. We didn’t have much in common except a shared passion for our work. In that regard, we were like brothers. I’d helped Linderman chase down many leads. We had traipsed through mosquito-infested swamps together, and searched abandoned scrap yards. I had seen him break down when we’d found a bone in a shallow hole, only to later discover that it belonged to a dead animal. I’ve heard it said that a person who loses a child dies every day. If that was true, then I’d seen Linderman die many times.

“I need your help,” I told Linderman.

He hit his intercom, and told his secretary to hold his calls.

“I’m listening,” Linderman said.

“Eighteen years ago I got called to an apartment complex where a coed named Naomi Dunn was being assaulted. I got knocked down by the attacker, and he left with Dunn slung over his shoulder. The case was never solved.

“Last night, a Florida State female basketball player named Sara Long was abducted from her motel. It was the same guy who abducted Naomi Dunn. I tried to stop him, and he put me in the hospital.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“The abductor was this huge guy, and incredibly strong. I spent
today running down leads and looking at evidence. This guy has a partner, and I’ve decided that they’re a pair of serial abductors who specialize in abducting athletic young women. I need the FBI to help me find them.”

Linderman’s eyes narrowed. His daughter’s high school graduation photograph sat on the windowsill directly behind him. Danielle Linderman was tall, blond, and athletic, just like the two victims.

“Could this pair have abducted my daughter?” he asked.

His voice was flat and hard. I detected no outer emotion on his face, but I knew it was there, buried deep within him like a smoldering flame. I didn’t want to fill him with false hope, but for all I knew it could be true.

“Yes,” I said.

His eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve spoken with the police several times,” I continued. “Unfortunately, they’re stuck on another suspect. Sara Long’s boyfriend is going to be charged with her abduction.”

His jaw tightened. “You obviously came here with a plan of action. What is it?”

“I’d like you to do two things for me. The cops have located the stolen minivan used in the abduction. The abductors wiped it clean of fingerprints, but there’s a chance they left behind some trace of DNA. I was hoping the FBI would inspect the minivan to see if I’m right.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Where’s the minivan now?”

I gave him the address where vehicles were impounded by the Broward cops.

“What’s the second thing?” Linderman asked.

“The police have checkpoints at all major highways and roads. I’m certain the abductors are lying low, waiting to move Sara. Once they turn on the TV and hear that Sara’s boyfriend is being charged, they’ll know that the checkpoints have been lifted, and will try to move her.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want the FBI to turn on their cameras.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your cameras. I want you to turn them on and look for these guys.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I put my elbows on Linderman’s desk, and gave him my best no-nonsense look. “A few weeks after 9/11, I spotted crews in Broward installing surveillance cameras at the major intersections and toll-booths. I’m a nosy guy, so I took down the license numbers on their trucks, and checked them out. Guess what I found?”

“What?”

“They were all FBI.”

Linderman shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“It didn’t take me long to figure out what was up. Thirteen of the 9/11 hijackers lived in south Florida, so the FBI decided to install street cameras to hunt future terrorists. You probably don’t keep the cameras on all the time. Too expensive to operate and to monitor effectively. But you do turn them on when a suspected terrorist slips into town. Am I right?”

A thin smile crossed Linderman’s face. Then it was gone. That was as much as he gave you.

“You’ve very observant, Jack. Yes, there are surveillance cameras at every major intersection and tollbooth, and a few other places you might not imagine. It’s a secret, so I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Can I ask how they work?”

“The cameras are connected to a computer in this building that has a sophisticated facial recognition program built into its hard drive. We can burn a photograph of a suspected terrorist into the program and ask the computer to tell us when a person who resembles that photo passes in front of one of our surveillance cameras.”

“How well does it work?”

“We’ve nabbed several bad guys trying to slip in through Port Everglades just last month.”

“If I gave you a film of one of Sara Long’s abductors, could you take his photo off the film and put it onto your program?”

“It all depends upon the quality of the film.”

“It’s a surveillance tape from a casino.”

“That should be fine. We’ve used casino footage before.”

From my pocket I removed the two CDs I’d gotten at the Hard Rock, and handed them to him.

“Here you go,” I said.

Linderman slipped the first CD into his computer, turning the screen so it was visible to both of us. The tape of Mouse talking to the girls appeared.

“Any idea who this guy is?” Linderman asked.

“He calls himself Mouse. That’s all I know about him.”

“What’s on the second CD?”

“Another tape of Mouse. This time he’s outside the casino.”

“I’ll send both CDs downstairs, and have a tech burn Mouse’s photograph into our facial recognition program. It would be helpful if we had some idea of the vehicle he’s driving.”

“He’ll be driving something big. Like a van, or a small truck.”

“Why not a car? They could drill airholes in the trunk, and hide Sara there. That’s how most serial abductors move a victim.”

“His partner would have a hard time fitting into a regular car. He’s about six-ten and three hundred pounds.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said he was huge.”

“He’s also a killer.”

Linderman punched a button on his desk. His secretary appeared, and he handed over the CDs and explained what he wanted done with them. She left, and he got on his laptop, and began typing.

“I’m going to send an e-mail to the other CARD teams around the country, and see if these guys might have struck before,” he said. “Give me the details again.”

I repeated my story to Linderman, and he wrote down every word. When he was done, he read back what he’d written, and asked me if I was satisfied.

“Yes,” I said.

Linderman punched a key on his computer and sent the e-mail.

“Now let’s hope someone has seen this pair before,” he said.

I leaned back in my chair and felt the air escape from my lungs. It was the first time that I’d told someone my story, and hadn’t had my sanity questioned.

I was getting somewhere.

purchased two bitter cups of coffee from a vending machine down the hall from Linderman’s office. Linderman was busy on his laptop when I returned, and I came around his desk and placed a cup on his blotter.

“Cream, no sugar,” I said.

“You remembered,” he said.

I took the opportunity to glance at his computer screen. While I’d been gone, he’d sent e-mails to the National Crime Information Center, the Justice Department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the U.S. Marshal’s Service, and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, alerting them to our pair of serial abductors. He was casting a wide net, and leaving no stone unturned.

“Any word from the CARD teams?” I asked.

He checked his e-mail inbox. “Not yet. You’re going to have to be patient. It might be a few days before some of them get back to me.”

“Can’t you goad them along?”

“This is the FBI, Jack. I can’t goad anyone. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Sitting still was not one of my strong points. Nor was being patient. I went to the window. Darkness had set, and a carpet of twinkling
lights stretched clear to the Atlantic. Although I could not see the ocean, I could feel its presence, and it calmed me.

Through my mind flashed everything that had happened that day. The sexy image of Sara Long in a bathing suit on the news stood out. By showing Sara half-dressed, the media would make people think she had somehow been complicit in her assault. No victim deserved that.

In the window’s reflection Linderman rose from his desk.

“You’re driving me up the wall,” the FBI agent said.

“I can sit in the hall if you want.”

“You’ll be poking your head in every thirty seconds, asking to look in my e-mail.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’ll call you when I learn something, okay?”

Linderman was throwing me out of his office. I could have been angry, only there was a flame in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. I’d seen that same flame when we’d hunted together for his daughter. It was the undying passion of someone who refused to quit. He was not going to let me down.

At the door, I asked, “Can I call you later to see how things are going?”

“Of course. And Jack? I’ll make sure the street cameras are turned on.”

I took the elevator downstairs and signed out at the reception area. Outside the temperature had dropped, the heat no longer rising off the macadam like a sauna. I found Buster sitting behind the wheel, an impatient look on his face.

Leaving the FBI Building, I drove on 167th Street west, then headed north on I-95 into Broward in rush-hour madness. Maniac drivers raced illegally down the highway’s shoulders while a posse of highway patrol cars pulled them over.

I checked the time. Jessie’s basketball game had already started. I’d wanted to be in the stands for the opening tip-off, and found myself settling for halftime. I powered up my cell phone to see if she had called.

I had a lone message. I called my voice mail and heard Sonny’s familiar voice.

“Hey, Jack. The excrement just hit the air-conditioning. Call me, man.”

I dialed the Sunset and Sonny picked up. His voice was drowned out by the dreadful singing of the Seven Dwarfs in the background. The same seven drunks had frequented the Sunset since I’d lived there. I called them the Seven Dwarfs because it was rare to see any of them standing upright.

“Hold on,” Sonny said.

Sonny screamed at the Dwarfs. The singing stopped. Sonny came back on.

“Do you miss me?” I asked.

Sonny laughed into the phone. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ralph came by and saw the damage Buster did to your room,” Sonny said. “He figures there’s about three thousand bucks in damages to the walls and furniture.”

“Come on, that stuff was old.”

“You know how Ralph likes to inflate things. He wanted to call the police and press charges, seeing how you never gave him a deposit when you took the place.”

“Oops.”

“I talked him out of it, thank you very much. We went downstairs to the bar, and I got him liquored up. I thought Ralph was going to forget about it, but then this asshole attorney named Frank Yonker came in. He had a subpoena for you.”

“Let me guess what happened next. Ralph and Frank Yonker got to talking, and discovered that they both had a shared interest in tracking me down. Yonker offered his services, and Ralph accepted.”

“Very good.”

“Did Ralph file a complaint with the police?”

“He sure did. Yonker now has two subpoenas with your name on them.”

My exit was up ahead. I flipped on my indicator and drifted into
the right lane. Cars around me blared their disapproval, refusing to slow down.

“You on I-Ninety-five?” Sonny asked.

“How did you guess?”

“I’m a mind-reader. I tend bar for laughs.”

“Look, I want to ask you a favor.”