A Killer's Touch. Michael Benson
with you?”
Denise: “No.”
Operator: “What’s your address? What’s your home address? Do you know?”
The man’s voice could be heard again: “I told you (unintelligible) cell.”
Denise: “I don’t know. Please just take me to my house. Can you take me to my home? On Latour, please.”
Operator: “Can you see, or do you have a blindfold on?”
Denise: “I can’t see. Where are we?”
There was more unintelligible anger from the man.
Operator: “Can they turn off the radio or turn it down?”
Denise: “I can’t hear you. It’s too loud. Where are we?”
Man: “Give me the phone.”
Denise: “Are you going to hurt me?”
Man: “Give me the phone.”
Denise: “Are you going to let me out now?”
Man: “As soon as I get the phone.”
Denise: “Help me.”
And with that, the connection was broken. Denise had stayed on the phone six and a half minutes. Caller ID told police that the call came from a phone belonging to a Michael “Mike” Lee King. A listing of registered vehicles almost instantaneously corroborated Jenifer-Marie Eckert’s info—King drove a green Chevy Camaro. A new BOLO included King’s name and the presumed license plate number on his car.
When Nate heard about Denise’s 911 call, his brain scrambled for comfort with wishful thinking: It might be a teenager playing a practical joke. Oh, if only that were true.
A recording of the 911 tape was played for Rick Goff, who confirmed, with his heart breaking, that it was the voice of his daughter. It was the most horrible thing he’d ever heard, his beautiful daughter, screaming in terror, trying desperately to give clues that would help them find her. Unable to help her, he almost couldn’t listen to her terrified voice.
And she’d been so smart and done such a good job. She gave her name and the street on which she lived. She managed to give the operator all of that info, while making her kidnapper think she was talking to him.
Plus, she managed to stay on the phone for so long. He was convinced they were going to find her and rescue her. Because they’d had so long to track the call, they would know just where she was. As police would soon realize, however, the kidnapper had a cheaper than cheap cell phone, one that was practically disposable, and it was not equipped with a GPS, which would enable police to track it to a precise location. All they had to sleuth with were the cell phone towers that handled the call. They knew she was close by. Precisely where remained a mystery.
The name Michael Lee King meant nothing to either Denise’s father or husband. Nate was nearly overwhelmed by the randomness of the abduction. They didn’t know him at all, and yet this guy might’ve been stalking his wife for a long time, waiting for the right moment to snatch her away.
Rick started making phone calls. He didn’t know what else to do. He called every cop he could think of, and the Latour Avenue scene became crowded with law-enforcement personnel. Rick even called Howie Grace, a news guy from the local NBC affiliate, WBBH-TV. Grace had known Rick Goff for years, and knew him as a guy who never displayed emotion. But now, he was frantic, almost sobbing.
The Lees’ neighborhood was freshly canvassed; police were now armed with a Department of Automotive Vehicles Identification (DAVID) photo of the suspect.
Not everything the neighbors had to say was immediately helpful. One neighbor said the man in the photo resembled a man who had visited during the summer of 2007 and inquired about the For Sale sign in front of her house.
Only a couple of minutes after the call from Denise ended on an ominous note, at 6:23 P.M., another call came into the emergency center.
Operator: “Police Emergency. Operator Bonnell... . yes, what’s the problem?”
The call was from a woman identifying herself as Sabrina Muxlow, who said she had solid information that her dad’s cousin Mike King had a girl tied up in his car. The dispatcher asked Sabrina for her address and she gave it, a home on Junction Street in North Port.
“How do you know this information?” the operator inquired.
“My father just called me and told me.”
“Now, what would your dad’s cousin be doing with this female?”
“The man [came] over to my dad’s house and borrowed a shovel, a gas tank, and something else.” She knew there was a third item, but she couldn’t remember what it was. After that, King got back in his car and drove off.
The operator began asking for names, but the woman stopped cooperating.
“My father wants to remain anonymous,” she said.
“Where does your father live?”
“In North Port.”
“How did your father know there was a woman in the car?”
Sabrina didn’t know, but she did know the captive woman had tried to escape. “The girl came up out of the car, but my dad’s cousin put her back in the car.” For a moment, her father had seen enough of the woman to see his cousin had her tied up.
Did her father have any idea where his cousin was going with this female?
Sabrina said no.
“Okay, we’ve been looking for this female.”
“You have.”
“Oh, yes, we have a helicopter up looking for her. You are just so wonderful to call on this information.”
“Yeah.”
Seven minutes later, at six-thirty, the emergency operator in Charlotte County received a call from a woman who was driving in her car along a local thoroughfare. She was on her way to visit her sick grandmother in Fort Myers. It was raining, she drove a small car, and she was staying off the interstate as she coursed North Port. There were too many people on I-75 who drove like maniacs. So she was on the parallel road and had to deal with stoplights.
“911. Where is your emergency?”
“I’m on [Route] forty-one going south, and I’m at a cross street right now. I’m on Chamberlain. I just crossed Chamberlain, and I’m on forty-one going south. I was at a stoplight and a man pulled up next to me, and there was a child screaming in the car.”
“What type of vehicle was he in?”
“It’s a blue Camaro, like in the nineties or early 2000s or something.”
“Okay, it was a baby or—”
“No, it was a child.”
“How old?”
“You know, it’s dark, and I turned to look at him. He’s a white male. Sort of light-colored hair. Sort of plump. He’s behind me now, and I tried to slow down so that he can pass me and I could read his license plate.”
“Ma’am, don’t hang up.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.” There was a pause in the conversation, fifteen to twenty seconds, as the dispatch operator relayed the information she had already received. Then she was back on the line. “Okay, where are you now? Forty-one south?”
“I am. I’m going to pass a cross street, and I believe he is still behind me. It’s Jenks Drive. I’m just crossing it and I’m going very slow, like thirty-five miles an hour, on forty-one.”
“And he’s behind you?”
“I believe he is behind