Midnight Rambler Read Online Free Page A

whenever he wished—what cops call one-stop shopping.
    Only Lars's plan had a flaw. Abby had gone through intensive counseling, and along with no longer being a prostitute, she was also no longer a victim. She was her own person, and when she rebuffed Lars's advances, he flew into a rage, strangled her, and buried her body in the woods.
    I didn't have a shred of proof to support this theory, just sixteen years of dealing with scum like Lars to know I'm right. Lars had hurt many women before Abby and, if let back into society, was going to hurt many more.
    The shorter of Lars's defense attorneys approached the witness stand. I disliked defense attorneys who work in pairs. They reminded me of tag teams in wrestling matches, with neither member strong enough to go solo.
    This one was named Bernie Howe. Howe had a clogged-sinus voice and a hair transplant that looked like rows of miniature cornstalks. Clutched in his hand were several sheets of paper, the top of which I was able to read upside down. It was a certificate of death, commonly called a COD, from Starke State Prison.
    “Mr. Carpenter,” Howe began, “isn't it true that when Lars Johannsen confessed in your car, you in fact were physically assaulting him, and inflicting such pain that he was forced to say that he'd killed Abby Fox?”
    “No,” I replied.
    “Isn't it true that you put your hands around the defendant's neck, choked him for over a minute, and threatened to kill him if he didn't confess?”
    “No.”
    “Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that without your taped confession, there is no other solid evidence linking my client to this crime?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Carpenter, two weeks after my client was arrested, you were thrown off the police force, correct?”
    Cabrero jumped to her feet and started to object. With a stare, I killed the words coming out of her mouth. The defense had only one tactic, and that was to turn the case against Lars Johannsen to one against me. I was ready for it. Cabrero sat back down, and I answered the question.
    “I wasn't thrown off the force,” I replied.
    “But you were asked to step down,” Howe said.
    “I resigned.”
    “So you did remove yourself from the force.”
    “That is correct.”
    “Before you resigned, didn't the police conduct a hearing where you were accused of assaulting a suspected serial killer named Simon Skell, also known as the Midnight Rambler, who spent two weeks in the hospital as a result of a beating you inflicted upon him?”
    “Yes.”
    “Isn't it true that you fractured Samuel Skell's nose, jaw, and arm; knocked out several of his front teeth; threw him through a window; and fractured three of his ribs during that beating?”
    “He attacked me during his arrest.”
    “Please answer the question.”
    The injuries that I'd inflicted upon Simon Skell had been in the newspapers enough times that I imagined every person in the courtroom could recite them from memory.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Mr. Carpenter, isn't it true that while you ran the Missing Persons unit of the Broward County Police Department, you conducted a personal vendetta against people committing violent crimes of a sexual nature?”
    “No, I did not.”
    Howe flipped over the sheets of paper in his hand and shoved them beneath my nose. “Do you recognize these, Mr. Carpenter?”
    I looked down and studied the pages.
    “No,” I said.
    “You're saying you don't know what they are?”
    “No, I didn't bring my glasses.”
    The jury rewarded me with a few thin smiles. Scowling, Howe displayed the sheets to them. “These are certificates of death issued by the warden at Florida State Prison in Starke for three sexual predators who Jack Carpenter sent there. These certificates were found thumbtacked to Jack Carpenter's office door the day he left the police force.”
    Howe faced me. “You put them on your door, didn't you, Mr.
    Carpenter?”
    “That's correct,” I said.
    “Would you care to explain why?”
    “If a bad