Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I have a theory I want to share with you,” I told Linderman.

We'd driven back to the FBI building on Gray Street and were sitting in Saunders's office, talking on a squawk box.

“I'm listening,” Linderman said through the box's speaker.

“I think Skell is part of a gang of sexual predators,” I said. “Skell, a shock jock named Neil Bash, a high school history teacher, and two other men lived in Tampa three years ago, and if my hunch is correct, they preyed on underage girls. When the history teacher got busted and went to jail, the remaining members moved on to greener pastures.”

“You mean Fort Lauderdale,” Linderman said.

“That's right,” I said. “They came to my town and started abducting young women and having their way with them. They picked women who had no families and wouldn't be missed. They also chose women who were emotionally immature, so they could pretend they were underage and indulge in their fantasies.”

“Like role-playing,” Linderman said.

“Exactly,” I said. “Pedophiles do it all the time. But Skell's group was different. Instead of letting the women go when they were done with them, they killed them. My guess is, they realized this was the best way to cover their tracks.”

“Let me see if I get this right,” Linderman said. “You think that Skell and his team became killers in order to hide what they really were.”

“That's right,” I said. “They never stopped being pedophiles. They just found a way to satisfy their sexual cravings with less fear of retribution.”

Saunders was sitting directly across from me, hands on knees, listening intently to our conversation. He shot me a funny look.

“You think these guys kill their victims because it was less dangerous than what they were doing before?” Saunders asked.

“That's right,” I said.

“Don't you think that's a bit of a stretch?”

Before I could answer him, Linderman jumped in.

“Not really,” he said. “The justice and penal systems are less harsh on murderers than on sexual predators of children. This is especially true for first-time murderers. In terms of self-preservation, Skell and his friends made a wise choice.”

Saunders leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath.

“I also think that the team divides up the duties,” I went on. “Bash is the front man. He's a minor celebrity and gets them invited places. Maybe that's where they scout for victims. Bash also protects the other members if they get caught, the way he did with the history teacher, and the way he's doing now by attacking me.”

“Damage control,” Linderman said.

“Exactly. The Hispanic is the abductor. He works for a cable company. He goes to the victim's house and cuts the cable on a pole. Then he gets a call to fix the outage, goes back to the house, and snatches the victim. There's never been a sign of a struggle at any of the victims' houses, so my guess is he's chloroforming them. I also think he's disposing of the bodies.”

“Why?” Saunders asked.

“He has the truck, and works with a partner. It's just a hunch.”

“What about Skell?” Linderman asked. “What's his role?”

“He pulls the strings and directs the action,” I replied.

“The mastermind?”

“Yes. He's got a genius IQ, so it would make sense that he's calling the shots and orchestrating the show.”

The laser print of the gang sat on Saunders's desk. Saunders picked it up and pointed at the blond guy with the perfectly round stomach.

“What about the fourth guy? What's his role?”

“This is just a guess,” I said.

“I like your guesses,” Linderman said.

“The part no one's figured out is how Skell selects his victims,” I said. “How does Skell know which women to abduct? My guess is, the fourth guy is behind it.”

“Any ideas how?” Linderman asked.

“Maybe he owns a restaurant and is secretly bugging the ladies' room,” I suggested. “I knew a restaurant owner in Fort Lauderdale who did that, and told his buddies what their girlfriends were saying about them behind their backs.”

“What a sleaze,” Saunders said.

“So the mystery man in our photograph is the information gatherer,” Linderman said.

“That's right,” I said.

“So we have a front man, an information gatherer, an abductor and disposer, and a mastermind,” Linderman said. “This all sounds good, Jack, but can you prove any of it?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Then, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. The Broward County police charged Ernesto Ramos with Carmella Lopez's murder earlier today. Skell's attorney is standing right now in front of a judge, asking for Skell to be released from prison.”

Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach.

“Are the Broward police going along with it?” I asked.

“I'm afraid so,” Linderman said.

“So, we're too late,” I said.

“There is no timetable on justice,” Linderman replied.

I folded my hands in my lap and did not respond.

“Jack, the FBI is behind you on this,” Linderman said.

I glanced at Saunders, who nodded in agreement.

“Behind me how?” I asked.

“If Skell is released, he'll be watched twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, as well as have his phones wiretapped,” Linderman said. “So will Neil Bash. We'll also take the laser print of the gang and compare the unknown men against photographs of known sexual predators. Assuming we make a match, we'll watch those two men as well. Skell may have won this battle, but he won't win the war.”

It all sounded good, but I wanted to ask Linderman how long he planned to tail Skell and his gang. A few months, a year? At some point the FBI would lose interest and move on to other cases. It was the single greatest weakness of any law enforcement operation. And once they did, a group of monsters would go back to work.

I looked at the wall in Saunders's office. It was bare except for a ticking clock. I found myself blinking. The photographs of Skell's victims that hung in my office had appeared. Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. Tears ran down their faces, and I wondered if I was seeing them from exhaustion, or maybe I was losing my mind.

Reaching across the desk, Saunders squeezed my biceps.

“Jack, you okay?” he asked.

“What's wrong?” Linderman asked through the box.

“Jack's looking a little pale,” Saunders said.

“Give him something to drink.”

Saunders rose from his chair.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“You sure, Jack?” Saunders asked.

I nodded while continuing to stare at the wall. The photographs faded away, leaving only the ticking clock. It was a perfect metaphor for what was about to happen. With the passage of time, the victims would be all but forgotten.

I thanked the special agents for their time and left the office.

I got into my car feeling angry at the world. Buster looked relieved to see me, and I scratched his head.

I decided to drive back to Dania and resume digging for evidence. It wasn't much of a plan, but I didn't see myself having any other choices. Rose was right. I wouldn't be able to live with myself until I knew what Skell had done with the victims.

As I backed out, my cell phone began beeping, indicating I had a message. I pulled my phone off the dash to see who'd called. Caller ID showed a number with a Fort Lauderdale area code. It wasn't one I knew.

I retrieved the message and listened. At first there was nothing. Then I heard a woman's voice. It was far away, as if coming from the bottom of a deep well.

“Jack.”

I hit my brakes hard. It was Melinda.

“Jack, are you there?”

Her voice was strained. I couldn't tell if it was drugs or fear.

“Jack, you gotta help me. Oh, God, where are you?”

I pulled back in to my spot and threw the car into park.

“I'm sorry what I said on the radio. They made me say those terrible things. I know it hurt you, and I'm sorry.”

She started to cry. She sounded messed up, and I decided it was drugs.

“I'll call you back as soon as I can. Please keep your phone nearby. And whatever you do, don't call me back. They don't know about the phone.”

It was classic Melinda. First she led me on, then she pushed me away.

“Good-bye, Jack. Oh, wait.”

In the background I heard a door open and the faint sound of music.

“Oh my God-here they come!”

The message ended. The music had sounded hauntingly familiar. I replayed the message and listened hard. It was the live version of “Midnight Rambler.”