No One Can Hurt Him Anymore. Scott Cupp
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“NO ONE CAN HURT HIM ANYMORE”
CAROL J. ROTHGEB AND SCOTT H. CUPP
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 EPILOGUE AFTERTHOUGHTS AFTERWORD ABOUT THE AUTHORS BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION! Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to Dr. Richard Zimmern . . . A.J.’s guardian angel . . .
Acknowledgments
First of all, I would like to thank my editor of Hometown Killer, Gary Goldstein, for recommending me to Miles Lott, the editor of “No One Can Hurt Him Anymore”—and for his confidence in me—making it possible for me to be a part of this project.
And Scott Cupp—not only for being a joy to work with but, more important, for everything he’s done in his career to bring justice to those who would do harm to the youngest and most vulnerable in our society.
My love and gratitude to my children—Jeanne, David, and Dana. Once again, I had their unwavering support, love, and encouragement.
And, as always, my love to my granddaughters—Mallory, Chelsea, Miranda, and Sarah. My hope is that they will know that their dreams can come true.
Most of all, I want to thank with all my heart F. Peter “Pete” Dixon, retired homicide prosecutor, for supporting me, encouraging me, and loving me through this difficult project. If it hadn’t been for his guidance and honesty, I don’t know if I would have made it. He is truly The Wind Beneath My Wings.
—Carol J. Rothgeb
To my brother, George, the smartest and bravest man I know.
For my children—Kaitlin, Elizabeth, and Scotty—and the wonderful future that awaits them.
I want to specifically acknowledge three people: Judge Joe Marx, without whom the cases would never have been won; State Attorney Barry Krischer, who supported me before the filing of the charges, during the time it took to get the cases tried, and has supported me as this book made its way to print. This case is also a testament to the fine police work of the men and women of the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, which was exemplified by the hard work, dedication, and persistence of lead detective Michael Waites.
—Scott H. Cupp
PROLOGUE
His name was A.J.
He loved Ninja Turtles and Steven Seagal movies.
He was ten years old and small for his age. He had tousled brown hair, watchful brown eyes, and a look of perpetual apology on his baby face, as if everything he did—or thought—required one. A.J. had a sixth sense about anger and aggression. He could see it in the twitch of an eye or the tilt of a head. He had mastered “body language.” He had endured. Scars—psychological and physical—were his constant companions.
This was as happy and secure as it ever got for A.J.: He was walking his dog. To be sure, the animal was truly a mutt, but no ordinary dog—not to A.J. The peaceful look on his face revealed that they had a bond. Neither of them had anywhere else to look to for friendship—much less love.
In truth, the dog had it better.
It was 1:30 in the morning and cool outside—almost cold. A.J. wore a stained T-shirt and pants a size too small. He laughed out loud as he tried to keep up with the dog.
The neighborhood was veiled in darkness, but A.J. wasn’t afraid. At least, not of walking his dog at such strange hours. Going back home—that’s what he feared more than anything.
The dog took him full circle around the neighborhood and they finally ended up in front of their residence—nearly indistinguishable in the row of look-alike houses. The dog stopped, sharing A.J.’s reluctance.
Maybe if he used the patio door, they wouldn’t notice him coming in....
CHAPTER 1
No more pain . . . no more humiliation . . . no more fear . . . it was finally over. No one could ever hurt him again. In the cold, still water, in the middle of the spring night, he had finally found peace.
David Schwarz struggled to wake up enough to understand what his wife was saying to him—and why she was shaking him. After a moment, he realized that Jessica was telling him that his ten-year-old son, A.J., was missing. Now wide-awake and alarmed, he stumbled to the kitchen, with his wife right behind him—insisting that she had already looked everywhere and he was nowhere to