The Night Stalker

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

H ollywood had a way of distorting the truth that most cops didn’t like. The movie based on Whitley’s exploits was a good example of that.

Whitley regularly visited federal prisons around the country and interviewed serial killers who were willing to talk about their lives. These interviews were tape-recorded, and had allowed Whitley to build profiles that helped him catch serial killers still at large.

One day Whitley had paid a visit to the Attica Correctional Facility in upstate New York to interview a serial killer named “Nasty” Nate Savage. Savage had brutally killed eight people in the Buffalo area, several of whom he’d decapitated. When he’d been caught, Savage had been carrying a head in a bowling bag.

Savage was literally a giant, and stood an inch under seven feet and weighed over three hundred pounds. Because of the threat he posed to other inmates, he was kept in solitary confinement, where he spent his days reading comic books and playing solitaire.

Whitley’s interview of Savage had lasted several hours, with Savage talking freely about his killing spree. Then, in a sudden shift, Savage had begun to act out his attacks, and had demonstrated to Whitley how he’d ripped the heads off his victims’ bodies. Sensing that his life might be in danger, Whitley had pressed the call button for the guards.

“They’re changing shifts,” Savage had explained when the guards had failed to appear. “Might be a while before they come and get you. It’s just you and me, pal.”

Whitley had tried to shift the conversation to Savage’s childhood, but the serial killer was having none of it.

“You know, I could go batshit in here, and you’d be in trouble,” Savage had said. “I could screw your head clean off your body, and put it on the table to greet the guards. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Whitley had reacted with surprising calm. He’d warned Savage that he’d be in serious trouble if he murdered a federal official. Already serving ten consecutive life sentences, Savage had burst into laughter.

“What are they gonna do, take away my cigarettes?” he’d asked.

What had followed was a contest of wills. For each of Savage’s vicious taunts, Whitley had thrown up a roadblock, and used his extraordinary behavioral insight to keep the killer at bay. At one point Savage had jumped out of his chair, to which Whitley had said, “You don’t think I’d meet you without some way to defend myself, do you?”

“What you got?” Savage shot back. “A nail clipper?”

“Something a little more powerful than that,” Whitley had said.

Whitley had feigned reaching for a sidearm, and Savage had retreated. Moments later, two guards entered the cell and took Savage away.

That was the story Hollywood had bought. But it wasn’t what had ended up on the silver screen. In the movie, Savage had been a sympathetic character filled with justifiable rage. Taking Whitley hostage, he’d escaped from Attica, and gone home and killed everyone who’d ever wronged him, including his sadistic stepfather and a local bully. For the finale, he’d jumped into Niagara Falls as the police were closing in.

I had seen the movie, and left the theater wanting my money back. The cops had been the bad guys, while Savage was the hero. Whitley’s name had been in the credits as technical adviser. It had made me think the guy had sold out.

Whitley suggested getting something to eat. We went to a nearby fast-food restaurant in his rental, and ate fried chicken sandwiches in the parking lot. I bought french fries for Buster, which I fed him through the seats.

“Detective Burrell contacted me yesterday after you discovered the dead guy in the orange grove,” Whitley said. “Based upon the information she shared with me, I knew I’d better come down here. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in time to save Piper Stone.”

I’d never heard a cop say what Whitley had just said. I put my sandwich down on the wrapper lying in my lap. “Do you think you could have saved her?”

“Yes, I do,” Whitley said.

“Would you mind telling me how?”

“By having Jed Grimes arrested. Jed killed the homeless guy in the grove, and he was going to kill someone again-all the signs were there. Stone happened to be the unlucky one.”

“What signs?”

“Serial killers aren’t born, they’re made. If you accept that theory, then you can see the signs that tell you that someone is becoming one. Jed Grimes is an evolving serial killer. A tortured childhood, a string of arrests, likes to set fires, hates his father, and has a grudge against the law. It’s textbook.”

I wrapped up the rest of my sandwich, and tossed it into the bag on the floor. Whitley had told me he wanted to talk about Jed Grimes, but that wasn’t true. He wanted to lecture me about Jed, and tell me where I’d gone wrong. I didn’t like it, and I said, “Abb Grimes received a ransom note in prison. The note told Abb to stop talking to the FBI or his grandson would die. Are you telling me Jed sent that note?”

“Yes,” Whitley said.

“What the hell for?”

“Part of Jed’s evolution into a killer involves stepping free of his father’s shadow. That can only happen when Abb Grimes is dead. My guess is that when Jed found out his father was trying to stall his own execution, he decided to kidnap his son.”

Stall his execution. The words hit me hard.

“Was that Abb’s motivation for talking to the FBI?” I asked.

“Yes. Death row inmates do it all the time.”

“So you think Abb doesn’t care about his grandson’s safety?”

“I doubt he does,” Whitley said.

“And that he’s just a monster.”

“That’s right.”

I stared through the sun-soaked windshield while thinking about my meeting with Abb. I’d come away believing that he cared about his grandson’s welfare. So far, nothing that Whitley had said had convinced me otherwise.

“You think I got played for a fool, don’t you?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Whitley said.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

Whitley turned in his seat. We were close enough for me to see the road map of lines in his face. His brown eyes were hard and un-yielding. “As of this afternoon, I’m officially handling the homicide portion of this investigation, while Detective Burrell is handling the search for the missing little boy. I know you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in this, but I need you off the case.”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the teeth, and spent a moment composing myself.

“You don’t want to hear what I have to say, or the conclusions I’ve come to?”

Whitley picked up a paper napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth. He was looking at me the way an adult looks at a child.

“You still believe Jed is innocent, don’t you?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Then no, I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

If Whitley hadn’t been with the FBI, I would have knocked the smug look off his face. Instead, I thanked him for lunch, got out of the car with Buster, and walked back to the Smart Buy to get my borrowed pickup truck.