his victims with a knife or a gun. Written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards in Positano, Italy, in 1969, it was recorded that same year at Olympic Studios in London and Elektra Studios in Los Angeles. At the time, the Stones were being billed as the Beatles' evil antithesis, and at their producer's urging, they wrote and recorded many dark songs, including “Sympathy for the Devil,” “Let it Bleed,” and “Paint it Black.” But nothing they recorded compared to the evil of “Midnight Rambler.”
The song was six minutes and fifty-two seconds long and had four distinct tempo changes, each rapidly building upon the next. I could not hear it played without imagining a terrified woman running for her life.
“Two and a half years ago, I went to an apartment complex in Fort Lauderdale where a prostitute named Chantel Roberts lived,” I began. “I'd known Chantel as a teenager when she was living on the streets, and I'd helped her out. We spoke about once a month. When the calls stopped, I decided to check up on her.
“Chantel's neighbors hadn't seen her in a while. I got the super to open her apartment, and there was no sign of foul play. Her car was also parked downstairs. I left the complex not sure what was going on. Driving away, I spotted graffiti on a schoolyard wall across the street and stopped to have a look. The graffiti was the opening lyrics to ‘Midnight Rambler,’ and included the words ‘The one that shut the kitchen door.’”
“The graffiti disturbed me, so I drove back to Chantel's apartment and got the super to open her place back up. In the kitchen was a swinging door, and I saw a man's shoe print to one side of where it had been kicked.
“I kept looking for Chantel but never found her. I knew she hadn't run away or just skipped town. I knew something was wrong.”
“How did you know that?” Linderman asked.
“On her kitchen table was a brochure for Broward Community College, with pencil checks next to classes for cosmetology. I called the school and learned she'd enrolled.”
“So she had dreams,” Linderman said.
I thought of his lost daughter and nodded.
“Yes. Chantel had dreams. Over the next fourteen months, I stopped hearing from other young women I knew in the sex industry, with each vanishing every few months. I'd go to their apartments or houses and find lyrics from ‘Midnight Rambler’ painted on a wall outside. If the lyric referenced something being smashed or broken, I would find that inside the dwelling.
“For a while, the case went nowhere. Then one day, a prostitute named Julie Lopez called, and said her sister Carmella, who was also a prostitute, was missing. I decided to visit Carmella's apartment and do a search. Nothing appeared out of place. Then I went outside and looked around. The lyrics were painted on the parking garage wall. Carmella had disappeared the day before, so I knew her trail was warm.
“I went to Bobby Russo, who heads up the homicide division of the Broward County Police Department, and asked for help. Russo put half his team on the case. One of them tracked down Carmella's cell phone service and obtained a list of phone calls Carmella had made the day she went missing.
“There were over forty messages. Carmella did out-calls, so we knew most of them were johns. Russo's detectives got the names and addresses for every one. We split them up, with each person taking five names.
“Simon Skell was on my list. I went to his house in Lauderdale Lakes and spoke with him. He was cordial and let me look around. I asked about Carmella, and he admitted hiring her for sex a few days before but said he hadn't seen her since. I asked him if he'd let a forensic team search his place, and he said yes.
“At that point, I didn't think Skell was our killer. He wasn't hiding anything and was actually quite friendly. His house was filled with books, and I saw a certificate from Mensa, the genius organization, hanging in his study, which didn't fit the profile of any killer I've ever hunted.
“I started to leave, and he offered me a cold drink. I said sure and followed him into the kitchen. A CD player was on the kitchen table, and I realized that I'd seen stereos and boom boxes and CD players in every room of the house. Skell was also wearing an iPod, and I asked him what kind of music he listened to.
“Skell just stared at me. He has strange eyes that are too small for his face. I saw a darkness in them that hadn't been there before. I knew something was wrong, and I hit the Play button on the CD player on the table, and ‘Midnight Rambler’ came out of the speaker. That's when I knew it was him.”
“Is that when he became violent?” Linderman asked.
I nodded solemnly.
“Did you provoke him?”
It's a question that I'd asked myself many times.
“No,” I said firmly.
“Then why did he become violent?”
“I have a couple of theories,” I said.
Linderman straightened in his chair. “Go ahead.”
“Skell's reaction to being arrested reminded me of many pedophiles I've arrested. They know their lives are about to become a living hell, so they get crazy.”
“Do you think Skell is a pedophile?”
I nodded again.
“But he doesn't have a record for pedophilia,” Linderman said.
“I think he's a closet pedophile,” I said. “Look at the victims he picked. They'd all been robbed of their childhoods and were emotionally immature.”
“Children in adult bodies,” Linderman said.
“That's right. I think Skell knew the consequences of preying on kids were severe, so he targeted immature women as a substitute. He chose women in the sex industry because he knew there would be less concern if they went missing.”
“Perfect victims,” Linderman said.
“Exactly. My other theory concerns Melinda Peters, the prosecution's key witness at Skell's trial. Skell kept her locked in a dog crate and played ‘Midnight Rambler’ on his stereo while standing in the next room. Melinda told me she thought he was masturbating. One day, Skell acted stressed out, and Melinda sensed he couldn't get an erection. She offered to have sex with him, and he let her out of the cage. That's when she bolted.
“I think Melinda's escaping sent Skell over the edge, and he went from being a closet pedophile to being a killer. He started picking up women who'd say they'd have sex with him, and murdered them.”
“So his fantasy changed from torturing women to killing them, with Melinda Peters fueling his rages.”
“That's correct.”
“I read in the newspaper that Skell's house was examined from top to bottom by a team of forensic experts and was absolutely clean,” Linderman said.
“Correct again.”
“So if you hadn't started his CD player, Skell would still be on the loose.”
“Yes.”
There was a brief silence as Linderman digested everything I'd said. Talking about the investigation had made me feel better, and I leaned back in my chair.
“Your turn,” I said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Linderman went to the blinds and darkened the room. I like to work in the light, and he was obviously someone who gravitated toward the dark. When he sat down, I saw weariness in his face and offered to get coffee from the bar.
“That would be great,” he said.
While waiting for my order, I called Jessie and got voice mail. I wished her luck in her basketball game tonight and told her about a dream I had where she was hitting three-pointers from all over the court. The bartender delivered a steaming pot and two mugs on a tray, and I went upstairs and served my guest.
Caffeine takes ten seconds to hit your bloodstream. Linderman's face sparked to life, and I topped off his cup without being asked. He nodded his appreciation and began.
“I happen to share one of your theories, which is that sexual killers like Skell start out as sexual predators
