Sitting at the desk in front of the main computer, Dr. Camp pressed the spacebar and waited for it to come to life. A password was required, which he quickly entered, again waited a moment before finding the search field in the database program and entered the prescription generated from the device and pressed enter.
“This is a long shot, son,” he explained. “We haven’t used these old cases, like what you’ve got here, for quite a few years. When we got the computers back in 2000 after Y2K, we entered most of the old patient files but didn’t get them all. If we’re lucky the guy you’re looking for was one of the old files that got inputted.”
The two listened as the whir of the hard drive searched through thousands of patient files looking for an exact match to the numbers entered. In a matter of minutes the sound subsided and the monitor presented a pair of names up on the screen. Seymour stepped around the desk to get a better look, along with the doctor.
“Well, let’s see what we’ve got. The frame is a mans and I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘reading only’ Rx but I could be wrong.” He looked back at the bloodied student and shook his head. “Isn’t going to be either one of these, both women. Let’s try expanding the search parameters and see what that gives us.”
Seymour paced, wringing his hands, running scenarios through his head of what the fiend was doing with Blanche. They were not encouraging. The doctor entered the numbers again but expanded the parameters slightly to bring more suspects into the queue. Again the hard drive spun and they waited for the list to be generated. This time a longer list and some men’s names appeared on the screen before them. Dr. Camp pressed the print key on the keyboard as the printer hummed to life and a single sheet, with ten names on it, dropped in the tray beside them. The two men perused the list, pointing at names to be scratched and lined through. The result of the exercise left three names:
Archibald Alexander
Spencer Cummings
Ronald Philips
Seymour was disappointed that he did not see the name ‘Rob’ in the list; apparently he was a thief, a kidnapper and a liar. The optometrist typed the first name into the database program that streamlined their office and looked at the results. They were indeed reading glasses. Archibald was 54 years of age and lived in Valdosta.
“Can’t be him, the guy that took Blanche looks to be in his thirties. This guy is too old.”
“Okay, let’s look at the next one.” He pulled up Spencer and a note flashed in the header next to his name — DECEASED. “Can’t be him unless you’re battling a ghost. Must be the last one,” he said, as he entered the search field with Ronald Philip’s name.
Seymour was hopeful that they finally had their man, the thought of where he would go from here and how he would rescue Blanche still very fuzzy in his head. Would sort that out once he found where he had taken her. Information for Ronald filled the screen.
“How old is he?” Seymour anxiously asked.
“Looks to be 68, sorry Seymour. Looks like we’re striking out,” he said, slumping back in the chair and staring at the younger man with disappointment written on his face.
They sat together thinking of what they could do. The information had to be there they just weren’t finding it. Something was barely beyond their fingertips but they couldn’t see it.
“Bring up their addresses,” Seymour said. “The Sheriff’s Office thinks the guy was raised on a farm or still lives on a farm now.”
Dr. Camp did what he was asked, the printer hummed again and a page printed, this time with three names and addresses. The amateur sleuth looked the page over, only one had a rural address but he was deceased. A flash of inspiration hit Seymour like a bolt of lightning bringing a smile to his face.
“What if The Stalker is Spencer’s son? What if the glasses are his but his son was using them as part of his disguise? That’s the only thing that makes sense. Do you have a way to see if you’ve ever seen any of this dead guy’s family?”
“Sure, I’ll just input Spencer Cummings as ‘head of household’ and it’ll print out anybody linked to his account,” the excited doctor said, as he punched the keyboard one more time. “Lester and Maureen Cummings have both been patients here. This Lester must be the guy, let’s see what his chart shows.”
“Lester Cummings. I’ve got you now you piece of crap!” Seymour hissed, his jaw clenched in anger.
“Lester Cummings has not been here for about ten years but he’s now in his thirties and does not wear prescription glasses based on our last exam. This pair has to be his dad’s,” Dr. Camp declared with a sense of accomplishment, lifting the pair in question and returning them to Seymour.
“Do you know where this address is or can you bring a map up on the computer?” he asked the doctor.
He was typing before the young man finished the thought. A moment later the printer was brought back to life, printing a detailed map of the Valdosta area, with a purple line that ran from the doctor’s location to the address on the list of names. Seymour looked it over and moved quickly to the door with the doctor looking on.
“Thanks so much Dr. Camp, you may have saved a life tonight. Call the Sheriff’s Office and tell them what we’ve found and that I’m on my way to Cummings’ place. If I beat them there I’m going for Blanche, tell ‘em not to shoot me.”
“Will do, good luck son,” he replied.
Beverly Davis slowly struggled to clear the fog from her head, the events of the past few hours lost from her mind until she saw the body of Felix lying on the floor near her bed. The ball still firmly stuffed in her mouth prevented her from screaming, yet she tried, her eyes filling with tears and searching the room for signs of the other man. The clock next to the bed read 1:11 a.m., she’d been out for a few hours, and the area of her head where she had taken the blow, still throbbing and sore but her memory was bright. She struggled with the restraints on both her wrists and ankles but was unable to free herself. The phone sat in a charging cradle near the bed on a nightstand. She wormed her way to the table and tried to pick the phone up with her hands bound behind her, in the process the restrained woman knocked the table, sending the phone skidding across the floor, coming to rest against the dead body of her lover.
With the frustration and anger rising in her chest, she closed her eyes and tried to think of what she could do. The thought of crawling to the neighbors entered her mind but it was a long way, the phone was still her best option. She eased herself onto her feet, then her knees and finally onto her front, her head facing the phone and the deceased Felix. She scooted and shimmied until her face was directly over the phone, thankfully it had landed keys up. With her nose she tried to depress the ‘on’ symbol but missed and hit the ‘speaker’ button instead. Again she tried with her nose and could suddenly hear a dial tone coming through the small speaker of the portable phone.
“Good,” she thought, “halfway there.”
With her nose as a battering ram Bev tried to dial 911 with repeated failures. Each time having to start over again with the sequence of, on, three numbers, then off and over again. On the eighth try she finally managed to get 911 dialed correctly.
Living outside the Valdosta city limits her emergency call rang through to the Sheriff’s Dispatch where the young woman had been enjoying a quiet night chatting with Deputy Guest and watching Otis wrestle with a towel from the locker room, eventually tearing it to shreds.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” Bev heard clearly through the phone.