the investigation, then jeered them if the case stalled. If this scene was any indication, the police department’s honeymoon with the Broward media was over.
I pushed my way through the crowd, and showed my driver’s license to the uniforms. “Detective Burrell is expecting me.”
One of the uniforms took my license, and made a call on his cell. I felt someone bump me from behind, but I didn’t turn around.
“Isn’t that Jack Carpenter?” a male voice asked.
“I think it is,” a female voice said.
“Jack, it’s Chip Wells, with Action Eleven Eyewitness News,” the first voice said. “Can you tell us why you’re here? Are the police using you to find Sampson Grimes?”
Chip Wells was not a friend. He’d done a series of pieces about me when I’d been kicked off the force that had been less than flattering. Something about his tone of voice told me I was being recorded.
“I’m selling Girl Scout cookies,” I said, not turning around.
“Be straight with us,” Wells said. “People want to know what’s going on.”
“Screw ’em,” I said.
The uniform confirmed that I was expected. He led me around the house, and across the alley to the grove.
“Detective Burrell’s in there,” the uniform said.
The grove had undergone a dramatic transformation. Twelve-foot-high metal poles had been stuck around the perimeter and translucent plastic sheeting spread between them, covering everything inside. As I lifted a flap, a black guy wearing a U.S. Marshals cap came out. His shirt had a dark butterfly of sweat, and ringlets fell from his scalp.
“Who let you back here?” he demanded.
I told him Burrell was expecting me, and he told me not to move.
Soon Burrell appeared. Her cheeks were windburned, making her slate blue eyes look electrified in the ruddy glow of her pretty face. She came from a family of cops; her father, two brothers, and uncle had all worn a badge. She was a tough young woman, and stubborn to a fault. In that regard, we couldn’t have been more alike.
“That was fast,” she said.
“Cheeks left you a real mess, didn’t he?” I said.
“That’s an understatement. What’s with the dog?”
“He’s my partner. He’s good at finding things.”
“Is he friendly?”
“Not really.”
Burrell bravely stuck her hand beneath Buster’s snout, and to my surprise, got licked in return. “I like him,” she said.
We entered the tentlike structure. The air was hot and sticky. As we walked, I stopped to look at eight-by- ten glossies attached to tree branches. Each glossy showed a piece of evidence that had been discovered at that spot, and taken away for examination. It was a clever way to preserve a crime scene, and typical of Burrell’s thinking.
We came to the clearing. In its center was a fireplace ringed with darkened stones. Sitting among the stones were several charred cans, including a thirty-two-ounce can of Dinty Moore stew. The can of stew had bothered me the night before, and I used a stick to fish it out of the fireplace. Burrell edged up beside me.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that thirty-two ounces of stew is more than one person can eat,” I said.
“Do you think Sampson’s kidnapper fed the vagrant before killing him?”
“Yes.”
“I think the other detectives need to hear this.”
The other detectives were my old unit. It was going to feel strange talking to them, but I didn’t see how I had any other choice.
Burrell clapped her hands. “Listen up, everybody. Stop what you’re doing, and come into the clearing. We have a guest.”
Six detectives drifted into the clearing. They were all sweaty and looked drained. I shook their hands and said hello. Their collective reaction to my presence was one of shock. I’d left the force under a dark cloud, and they were surprised to see me back.
“Jack has signed on to help with the Grimes case,” Burrell announced. “He has some insights he’d like to share with us.”
Burrell gave me the floor. I gazed into the detectives’ faces before speaking. Several were trying not to smile, and it made me feel good.
“I’ve been working this case for two days, and here’s what I can tell you,” I said. “Our kidnapper knew the boy and had built a relationship with him. Four nights ago, he came into this grove, had dinner with a vagrant, and killed him. Then he crossed the alley, and coaxed Sampson to climb out of his bedroom window using candy and a toy. He brought the boy back here, and altered his appearance, then left. I’m guessing some things got left behind. Did any of you find a child’s toy during your search?”
Detective Jillian Webster spoke up. “I found a fake light-up cell phone. Still has the price sticker on it.”
“Where was it?” I asked.
“Beneath an orange tree on the west side of the property. I assumed it was tossed there. I bagged it, and put it in the evidence box.”
“Was it directly beneath the tree?” I asked.
“Yes,” Webster said. “Is that significant?”
“Sampson wouldn’t have tossed a toy away, but his kidnapper might have. And his kidnapper wouldn’t have tossed a toy out in the open. He’s way too smart for that.”
Webster’s head rocked back. “He tossed it up in the tree, and it fell to earth.”
“That’s right. I suggest you search every tree in this grove.”
“What else will we find?” Webster asked.
“The boy’s pajamas,” I said. “Sampson’s kidnapper changed the boy’s appearance before leaving the grove. He did a good job, because no one spotted him.”
I paused and let my words sink in. Then I asked if there were any questions. There were none, and Burrell spoke up.
“Let’s start looking for the boy’s PJs,” she said.
My old unit dispersed. The heat had sucked the life out of them, and they were moving in slow motion. I pointed at Buster.
“Let my dog help,” I said.
“Is he good at tracking scents?” Burrell asked.
“The best.”
Burrell made a call on her cell. A few minutes later, a uniform brought a paper bag containing the sheets from Sampson’s bed into the grove. I shoved Buster’s face into the bag. Human beings shed dead skin cells constantly, and each flake carries a microscopic trace of bacteria called an aromatic signature. My dog lived for those odors.
“Find the boy,” I told him.
Buster darted down a row of trees with his nose vacuuming the ground. At the property’s edge, he stopped beneath the last tree in the row, and pawed its trunk. Burrell got beneath the tree, and shook the limbs. A plastic bag came tumbling down, and Buster brought it to Burrell in his mouth. I wanted a camera.
The bag had come from a local grocery store, and was tied with rabbit ears. Burrell slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and untied the knot. Out came a little boy’s pajamas.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.
