“Who told you that?”
“I figured it out myself. South Florida is ground zero for child abductions. After Adam Walsh was abducted, the boy’s father couldn’t get any satisfaction from the police or the FBI, so he started his own grass roots movement. One of his missions was to get police departments to create special units to hunt for missing kids. The first departments to do that were in South Florida. You ran the Broward unit for fourteen years, and put hundreds of abductors behind bars. You have more experience than the FBI does when it comes to dealing with these people. That’s why I’m here.”
Carpenter did not respond. Instead he just stared, his eyes boring a hole into her soul. The phone on his desk rang. He answered it, then put the caller on hold.
“Want a burger?” he asked.
The question caught Vick off guard. She had thought he might throw her out.
“Love one,” she said.
“How do you like it cooked?”
“Rare.”
“Two bloody, all the way,” he said into the phone.
The smiling middle-eastern man entered the office holding a tray with two hamburger plates and a couple of sodas. He served them, placed a bowl of table scraps onto the floor for the dog, and left without uttering a word.
Carpenter ate his food while reading the case report Vick had brought. The report chronicled Mr. Clean’s crimes, and included grisly crime scene photographs of the first two victims. It was said that a killer was soulless if he could eat a meal after taking someone’s life. The opposite was true in police work. Cops were routinely subjected to photos of killings and death, which most could eat through without a problem.
Her host finished his meal and the report at the same time. There was a scowl on his face and his eyes betrayed concern. He placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands beneath his chin. His eyes took on a faraway expression.
“That bad?” Vick asked.
“Troubling,” he said.
The word gave her pause. Jack Carpenter did not impress her as a man who was bothered by much. She put her burger down and wiped her chin with a paper napkin.
“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“Mr. Clean is not acting like a serial killer. He’s acting like a serial abductor. Serial killers don’t become serial abductors.”
“They don’t?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen. They’re two different species of criminals.”
“What about Ted Bundy and Simon Skell? They were both serial killers who abducted their victims and later killed them.”
“Bundy and Skell were not serial abductors. Bundy coaxed young women into his car and bludgeoned them to death. The abduction was strictly a mechanism to capture his victim. He was not abducting the girls to keep them.
“The same was true with Skell. Skell and his gang abducted women from their apartments, took them to Skell’s house, and eventually killed them. The women were kept in dog crates and were not fed. From the moment Skell got his hands on those women, he began to kill them, even though the process took a while.
“Your abductor is not following that pattern. He’s profiling violent teenage boys, abducting them, and keeping them for an extended period. He’s not torturing them, and appears to be feeding them well. Why he’s killing them is a mystery, but he’s doing it humanely – one shot in the head with a hollow point bullet at close range. Based upon your report, I’d say he’s forming a bond with them.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It happens with every abduction. The abductor has to care for the victim, and make sure they’re doing okay. As a result, a bond forms. The longer the abduction lasts, the stronger the bond becomes. This never happens with serial killers. They either kill their victims immediately, or kill them slowly. There’s never time for a bond to form.”
“So what is Mr. Clean? A serial killer, or a serial abductor?”
“It appears he was a serial killer who’s become a serial abductor.”
“Have you ever seen that before?”
“No. That’s why the case is so troubling.”
Her host rose and went to the window to look down on the marina. She put her finished plate on his desk and joined him. Down below, the party from the bar had spilled out onto the dock, with a gang of drunken revelers forming a Conga line, their bodies bumping and grinding to the loud music. Her desire to join the party had long vanished; all she longed to do now was solve this unnerving case.
“Why did Mr. Clean change?” Vick asked.
Carpenter stared at the flat water in the marina. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s the same person he was all along, and this behavior is an aberration.”
“That doesn’t explain why he’s abducting violent boys.”
“Yes, it does. In fact, it’s the answer.”
Vick bit her lower lip so hard it made her wince. Carpenter was holding back. Not playing a game, but trying to make her think the way he thought.
“I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me,” she said.
“Mr. Clean is acting out of character. That’s not normal. My guess is, he’s working with a partner who’s calling the shots, and getting him to abduct these boys.”
Vick thought back to the phone call Mr. Clean had made at the convenience store right before abducting Wayne Ladd.
“A Svengali,” she said.
“That’s right. Serial killers can be manipulated, just like everyone else. There’s a second person working with Mr. Clean.”
“A tag-team,” Vick said.
“Is that what the FBI calls them?”
“Yes. One member of a tag-team does the dirty work, while his partner calls the shots. The second person is usually smarter and more manipulating than the first.”
“I think that’s what you’ve got here. Find the partner, and you’ll discover what Mr. Clean’s motive for abducting violent teenage boys is.”
Vick’s body tingled with excitement. At this very moment, Ken Linderman was on a plane to Jacksonville, prepared to track down the man controlling Mr. Clean. Rarely did the pieces of a puzzle fit together so neatly. A faint smile formed on her lips.
Her host turned from the window. His slate-blue eyes were dead, and Vick felt an icy finger run the length of her spine.
“This is your first time dealing with serial killers, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Just a guess.”
Chapter 9
The Bonnet House was one of Renaldo’s favorite places. A thirty-five acre barrier island off Las Olas, the estate was filled with a variety of exotic animals, including chattering Brazilian squirrel monkeys, raccoons and panthers, the animals freely roaming the grounds. He visited often, and would sit at the base of a mangrove tree, watching the animals eat each other.
Late at night, when the estate was closed, daring raccoons would scale the walls, and invade the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and A1A, their icy blue eyes shimmering in the dull street lights. They were scavengers, and would tear apart garbage cans looking for food.
Tourists often fed the raccoons, and let them touch their bodies. Tonight, a brave German stood on the corner with his arms outstretched, and let a family run up and down his body looking for nuts stuffed in his pockets. His wife stood nearby, snapping photos while shrieking with laughter.
Renaldo stood on the corner across the street. He’d seen tourists feed the raccoons before, and always wondered what would happen if the tourist sneezed, or a car beeped its horn? Would the raccoons become frightened, and bite the tourist? It seemed like the natural reaction to such a situation. His only wish was to be there when it happened.
A pay phone began to ring. Renaldo looked up and down Las Olas. It was midnight, the streets empty save for the crazy Germans. He picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Hello, my friend,” the caller said.
“Hello.”