By Michael Benson

<CENTER>A beautiful younger lady . . .

Denise Amber Lee used to be a 21-year-old fortunately married mom of 2 little boys. She had her complete existence sooner than her...until an interloper broke into her Florida domestic. inside of a couple of brief hours she used to be savagely terrorized, murdered, and buried bare in a shallow grave close to a desolate swamp.

<CENTER>A wicked KILLER . . .

Michael King, a 38-year-old out-of-work plumber, used to be a ticking time bomb. For years, associates known as the police on King, complaining that, between different issues, he'd thrown battery acid of their pool and slashed their tires. Denise's destiny used to be a ways worse. In a scary act of cruelty, King certain her with duct tape, raped her again and again, then shot her dead.

<CENTER>A TRAGIC FAILURE. . .

Incredibly, Denise controlled to name 911 twice in the course of her abduction. Eyewitnesses and her distraught husband also known as, yet a sluggish, inefficient method tragically failed her....

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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.

A fifth mirror had once been mounted next to the others, but it had been removed. Its outline was still visible. A large painting of a reclining tiger was mounted on the opposite wall. There was light gray wall-to-wall carpeting throughout the house, and the walls were painted the color of eggshells. A broom rested against a corner of the foyer. Nearby were two pairs of sneakers—one size eleven and a half, one size twelve—and a pile of laundry, all clothes for an adult male. On the floor in a hallway, near the bathroom door, was a balled-up pair of jeans.

Toys were everywhere. On the floor, on the furniture, in the tub. One closet was filled to capacity with nothing but disposable diapers. Nate said there was no sign of theft, no sign of forced entry, but Denise’s keys were on the couch, another indication that she had left the house under duress. She left her purse behind—with her cell phone on. Women never leave their purse behind. That meant she either left on foot, or was in a car with someone else. “The only thing that isn’t normal is she isn’t here,” Lee said.

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