J ed’s mother’s name was LeAnn Grimes. I’d seen her on the news and still remembered her story. She came from a family of citrus farmers, and was a small woman with a pretty face and nervous hands. She’d sat dutifully behind Abb during his trial, and when the guilty verdict was read, had sobbed uncontrollably.
She lived on Magnolia Lane in west Davie. The house was made of cinder blocks and was rather small, with dark shades covering the windows, and several “No Trespassing” signs displayed prominently on the lawn. I parked across the street. A group of six tourists stood on the sidewalk snapping pictures. They had accents that I couldn’t place, and had come in a van. They were dressed alike, and wore black pants and black T-shirts that featured the infamous picture of Abb Grimes holding his last victim in his arms. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, except they mentioned the Night Stalker over and over, their voices hushed and reverential. Abb had gone to prison over a dozen years ago, yet it was obvious his infamy lived on.
I waited until the tourists were gone before knocking on LeAnn Grimes’s front door. It cracked open, and a white-haired woman with sunken eyes stared at me. It was LeAnn. The years had taken their toll, and robbed her face of its natural beauty.
“Don’t tell me you want your picture taken,” LeAnn said.
“I’m Jack Carpenter,” I said. “Your husband hired me to find your grandson. I’m here to speak with Jed.”
She looked me up and down. “What’s with the mutt?”
“He’s my partner.”
LeAnn opened the front door and ushered me inside. Her movements were slow, as if an invisible weight rested on her shoulders. She led me to the living room, which was dark save for the TV playing in the corner, and dropped onto a couch that had seen better days. I stood in front of the couch, Buster by my side.
“Is Jed here?” I asked.
“He’s taking a shower. Do you have any news about my grandson?”
“Not yet,” I said.
She shut her eyes and placed her hands in her lap. She looked like she was going into a trance, and a long moment passed. I let my eyes wander the room. Most of the furniture was tagged for sale, and I glanced at a lamp on a table. The price was $2,000. It seemed an outrageous amount, and I checked the tags on several other items. They were also in the stratosphere.
“See anything you like?” LeAnn asked, her eyes now open.
“A little expensive for my taste,” I replied.
“The tagged items were my husband’s things,” she explained. “Jed plans to auction them on eBay after the execution. I think I hear him now.”
Jed Grimes entered the living room a few moments later. Boyish and handsome, he stood about six feet and was blessed with a lean, muscular body. He didn’t look old enough to be shaving, much less have a three-year-old son. Seeing me, his eyes narrowed, and I felt him sizing me up.
“This is Jack Carpenter, the man your father hired to find Sampson,” his mother said. “That’s his dog.”
Jed nodded woodenly at me.
“Glad to meet you,” I said.
“I heard you were a cop,” Jed said.
“I was. Not anymore.”
“You bring any cops with you?”
I pointed at Buster. “He’s one. That’s his disguise.”
LeAnn let out a throaty laugh. It brought Jed’s guard down, and I crossed the living room and stuck out my hand. He smiled thinly and shook it.
“We need to talk about Sampson,” I said.
“Let’s go outside,” he said. “My mom’s favorite program is on.”
Jed led me outside to the garage. Buster caught a scent as we entered, and vanished into the back. Square and high-ceilinged, the rafters were adorned with stolen street signs and old license plates. Thumbtacked to the walls were a collection of old Playboy calendars, including a centerfold of Anna Nicole Smith from 1993. The workbench, which took up the back wall, was filled with rusty tools. A thin layer of dust had settled over the floor, and lifted mysteriously each time we moved.
In the center of the garage sat a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle with chrome so shiny that I could see my reflection in it. It was the only thing in the place that was clean and looked well-maintained. Jed leaned against the seat, and faced me.
“You going to sell the bike?” I asked.
“My father wanted me to keep it,” Jed replied. “He’s going to die soon. Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. Did your father tell you to sell the stuff in the house?”
“Yeah. Called it his life insurance policy.”
Jed’s voice was flat, but there was pain in it. I stepped in front of the bike, and looked him in the eye. Most people hate when I do this, but Jed didn’t flinch.
“I have a pretty good idea who kidnapped your son,” I said.
Jed nearly fell down. “You do? Who?”
“Someone in the neighborhood who had a score to settle with your father.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m having a problem moving my investigation forward.”
“Why?”
“Because the police think you’re guilty. Until I can convince them that you didn’t kidnap your son, I’m stuck.”
“The police. ” Jed said the word like it was a curse. He lowered his gaze, and stared at the concrete floor. “What do you want me to do?”
“You could start by answering some questions for me.”
“Go ahead.”
“You tried to burn this garage down four years ago. Why did you do that?”
He swallowed hard. “What’s that got-”
“Just answer me.”
“A kid at school told me my daddy was worse than Ed Gein. I didn’t know who he was, so I looked him up. Ed Gein was a serial killer who made furniture from women’s body parts. They based the movies Psycho and Silence of the Lambs on him. The article said that after Gein was arrested, the local townspeople burned his house to the ground.”
“So you decided to burn your father’s garage,” I said.
Jed nodded. “I was kind of crazy back then.”
“Next question. You failed a polygraph test. Why did you lie to the police?”
“I only lied about one thing.”
I crossed my arms and waited for him to continue.
“I told the police I was at home when Sampson was taken,” Jed explained. “I was actually next door, bumming a joint from my neighbor.”
“You smoke dope?” I asked.
“I quit a year ago,” Jed said. “It was for my friend Ronnie, who was in the house with me. He still gets high.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police that?”
“I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“It was just a joint.”
“My neighbor does a little selling on the side.”
Jed had lied to protect someone else. That happened all the time during criminal investigations, and the police were used to it. I needed to get Jed back to the station house and have him take another polygraph.
“If I told you that taking another polygraph would help rescue your son, would you do it?” I asked him.
Jed lifted his gaze. “Not if Detective Cheeks was there.”
“You have a problem with Cheeks?”
“Yeah. He hates me.”
“Cheeks is in the hospital. I’ll go with you to the police department and be there when they administer the polygraph. I’ll also tell them ahead of time what you did, and ask them not to ask you to finger your neighbor.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Jed pushed himself off his father’s motorcycle and slapped me on the shoulder.
“I’m with you, man,” he said.
Jed walked me to my car. I had expected him to be an emotionally twisted young man, and was pleasantly surprised by what I’d found. He was surprisingly well adjusted, considering the circumstances. How Cheeks or anyone else at the police department could consider him their prime suspect was a mystery.
“I’ll need a few hours to get things set up with the police,” I said.
“I’ll be here waiting,” he said.
I got into my car with my dog. As I started the engine, a car pulled in behind me, and four Asian tourists got out. Like the group I’d seen before, they were dressed in black, and began to photograph the house. I motioned to Jed, and he came to my window.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
“Years. Ever since my father was put in prison,” he replied. “We usually get six or seven groups a day. They come here, then go to the Smart Buy supermarket.”
“What’s at the Smart Buy?”
Jed’s face turned sad, and I realized I’d struck a nerve.
“The Dumpsters,” he said quietly.
I didn’t know what to say. Jed banged his hand on my roof, and went back inside.
I watched the Asians for a while. For them, Abb’s house was a tourist attraction, and it bothered me how much they seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Finally, they got back into their rental car, and drove away. One of them had a map, and was giving directions to the driver. I decided to follow.
They drove three blocks down Magnolia, then turned into the parking lot of a grocery store. As I followed them into the lot, I saw that it was a Smart Buy. Jed had been right: the Asians were going to finish their tour by seeing the Dumpsters where Abb had killed and disposed of his victims.
I followed them around to the rear of the store. The building had a flat roof and peeling orange stucco, and sat on a low parcel of land. In back was a loading dock where trucks brought deliveries. Next to it, the infamous Dumpsters.
The Asian tourists parked next to the Dumpsters and got out of their car. Then they started taking pictures. I parked well behind them, and had a look around.
The old neighborhood. I hadn’t understood what Jessie had meant earlier, but now I did. Abb’s house hadn’t changed in twelve years, and neither had the site of his killings. The place was a time warp.
One of the tourists approached my car. He was smiling and holding an expensive camera. I stared at his T-shirt. On it was a picture of Abb Grimes holding his last victim. The picture had been enhanced, and showed bright red blood dripping out of the victim’s mouth. It triggered a lot of painful memories, and I thought of the seven Jane Does I’d never identified. Those women had suffered and died, and this guy was wearing a T-shirt that exploited them.
“Excuse me,” the man said in broken English.
“You’re excused,” I said.
“Would you take a photograph of me and my friends?”
I shook my head.
“I will pay you,” he offered.
“Not interested,” I said.
The man pulled out his wallet, and dangled a twenty-dollar bill in front of my face. His friends were standing in front of the Dumpsters, smiling and waiting to have their group picture taken. Something inside of me snapped.
“You need to leave,” I said.
“But we are not done,” the man said.
“Yes, you are.”
I opened my door, and hopped out of my car. The man stepped back.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
I drew my Colt, and tucked its barrel down behind my belt buckle. Then I crossed my arms, and gave the guy a menacing look. Cops called this getting western on someone. He got the message and quickly gathered up his friends. They left in a cloud of dust.