The Night Stalker

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T here is always a glimmer of light when I search for a missing person. That light is sparked by the hope that the person is still alive, and that I’m going to find them safe and unharmed, and reunite them with their loved ones.

There is no light when I’m dealing with the dead. The color is always black, and sometimes it’s so deep and penetrating that it swallows up everything around it.

I felt swallowed up in black as I drove away from the landfill. It was a feeling that I had to shake, and I drove due east until I reached the ocean. The beach was filled with people, and I stripped off my shirt, and jumped into the water. I splashed around until I got my sanity back, then lay on the beach for a few minutes and let my pants dry. Then I put my shirt back on, and went looking for something to eat.

I found a McDonald’s and bought breakfast. As I was sitting in my car unwrapping an egg biscuit, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Sally Haskell, my former colleague who now ran security for the Walt Disney World Corporation in Orlando. I tossed Buster my food.

“Hey Sally,” I answered.

“Hey, Jack. How’s it going?” Sally replied.

“I’m working a case, and need your help.”

“I know. I got an e-mail from Candy Burrell. I’ve been trying to reach her with no luck, so I figured I’d give you a try. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for a little boy named Sampson Grimes. He’s being held by a couple of drug enforcers in Fort Lauderdale. I got my hands on a photo of the kid taken inside a hotel room. One of your employees once helped me identify a hotel room from a photo, and I was hoping to use him again.”

“That was Tim Small, our resident interior designer,” Sally said.

“Is he available?”

“I’d like to help you, Jack, but Tim is dying of pancreatic cancer. He’s in home hospice.”

I leaned back in my seat. Ever since I’d started searching for Sampson, I’d been surrounded by the dead and dying. “How bad is he?” I asked.

“I spoke to his nurse a few days ago. He’s got a week at best.”

“Will you call him, anyway?”

Sally let out a gasp. “Jack, the man’s at death’s door. I’m not going to intrude on him at a time like this.”

“Please.”

“Jack! For God’s sake, what’s come over you?”

Buster was eyeing the hash browns sitting in my lap. I wasn’t hungry anymore, and gave them to him. “The little boy I’m searching for is in mortal danger. If I don’t find this kid soon, I’m afraid I never will.”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t make the call. Tim’s in horrible shape. I can’t put this kind of strain on him.”

I took a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“If you knew you were about to die, and someone came to you, and begged you to help save a little kid’s life before you checked out, would you do it?”

“Jack, don’t do this…”

“Would you?”

“Jack!”

“I sure as hell would. Instead of making the decision for Tim Small, why don’t you let him make the decision himself?”

Sally went silent. We’d butted heads many times when we’d worked together, and it had been like fighting with my sister, with lots of verbal pushing and shoving, and one of us usually getting our feelings bruised. But in the end we’d remained friends, and Sally knew that I wouldn’t push her unless there was good reason.

“All right, Jack, I’ll call him, but I can’t make any promises,” Sally said.

“Thanks, Sally,” I said.

I drove up and down A1A smelling the salty ocean breezes while playing with the radio. I ended up listening to a talk show whose sponsor was a local moving company. It made me think of Mary McClary’s father, whom I’d spoken to so many times. He’d been a decent man and a loving father, and I wondered if the Broward cops had contacted him with the tragic news about his daughter. Or would he hear about it the way so many families of the missing did, from the TV?

I decided to call him myself, and spare him any unnecessary grief. Pulling off A1A, I got the number for McClary Moving amp; Storage in West Palm Beach from information, and dialed it. A receptionist answered, and patched me through to the boss’s office. McClary picked up on the first ring.

“This is Frank McClary,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. McClary,” I said. “This is Jack Carpenter.”

Light jazz was playing in the background. Frank McClary killed the music, then in a tentative voice said, “You’re calling with news about Mary, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s not good,” I said. “A woman’s body was discovered this morning in the Pompano Beach landfill that was carrying your daughter’s driver’s license. The police will have to make a positive identification, but I wanted you to know.”

McClary put down the phone and started to weep. The sound tore at my heart. After a few moments, he came back on the line.

“My daughter is with the Lord,” he said.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do the police have any idea who did this?”

I hesitated. The police did have a suspect, only I knew it wasn’t the right one. I didn’t want to give Frank McClary any conflicting information, so I said, “The case is wide open, Mr. McClary. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Pray that they catch him,” I said.

McClary fell silent, and I heard him blow his nose. Then he said, “I got a call from one of Mary’s friends about a year ago. Mary had contacted her, and said that she was trying to get off the streets and find work. I took that as a positive sign, and told myself that one day Mary would call, and that she’d tell me she’d gotten her life straightened out.”

Mary McClary had been looking for a job. It made me wonder if that was how she’d met her killer. “Did your daughter’s friend say what kind of work?” I asked.

“Not that I remember.”

“Did your daughter have any training?”

“No, she dropped out of high school.”

“Did she work during the summer or on weekends?”

“She did some babysitting in the neighborhood, but that was about it. No, wait. Mary worked as a waitress and part-time cashier one summer at a hotel on the beach. She made a lot in tips, so I guess she was good at it.”

McClary’s voice cracked, and he again started to weep. I didn’t like putting him through this, but I’d learned something important. His daughter might have tried to get a job at a restaurant before she died. I again told him I was sorry, and got off the line.

I left the McDonald’s and drove back to the beach. I sat with my car facing the ocean and my windows down. I did not know what was worse, finding Mary McClary’s body, or telling her father. They both ripped at my soul.

My wife believed that for every good deed there is a reward. Mine came a few minutes later when Sally Haskell called me back.

“Tim Small said he’ll help you,” she said.