The Perfect Prey

by James Andrus

  Stallings’s phone rang as he stared down at the groggy, uniformed police officer. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Stallings.”

  Patty Levine said, “John, I’ve been trying to reach you. I found a couple of interesting connections between Kathleen Harding and Allie Marsh.”

  “Shit, Patty, I don’t even know if I have a job anymore.”

  Patty said, “The sergeant straightened it all out. You’re in the clear.”

  “Yvonne the Terrible got me out of the trick bag?”

  “She said all you have to do is go a day without smacking anyone.”

  Stallings hesitated, looked down at the dazed Gary Lauer, and said, “That may be an issue.”

  It’d been a long night, and he was tired and sore for several different reasons. The music in the Wildside failed to lift his spirits, and even the sight of all these pretty girls did nothing for him in his current state. Usually a night in the excitement and noise of a club would cheer him. His season as a predator was coming to an end. At least for this year. He still had one prize he was hoping for, and that’s why he was here so late. This wasn’t where the pretty, young Ann tended to hang out, but he’d told her he’d be here tonight. If she showed, he had her in his trap. The only question was whether he would take her tonight or try to prolong the excitement and take her later in the week.

  Normally he wouldn’t worry about details like this, and he’d go on the hunt again immediately, but he was starting to feel the heat. He’d used up this hunting ground and wouldn’t try it again for a long time. He hoped no one figured out his traveling pattern. Maybe in a few more years he could come back here.

  He scanned the crowd filled with blond heads bobbing all over the dance floor. He nodded greetings to every few people as they walked past. Mostly faces he knew from the clubs, very few names came to mind. None of them were potential prey. The males were a lot of guys he’d met who were doing their own kind of hunting. But he was the King Predator, and he knew it. The thrill of the kill kept him going. Then someone caught his eye near the front door and he had to stand on his tiptoes to see her face. It was Ann, and she was hot in tight jeans and a simple T-shirt. He felt the rumble of excitement grow from his toes to his head. It wasn’t only the sexual excitement of seeing her dressed like that; it was the excitement of the season’s last kill.

  Instead of going over to see her, he held his place, wanting her to have to search him out. It would reinforce whatever he told her later. If he said to meet him the next day or night, she’d be more inclined to do it if she had to look for him now. He waited patiently like a big cat on the African plain.

  He heard someone’s voice to his right, but he was so focused on Ann it didn’t register, and he kept staring in the young girl’s direction. Then someone tapped him on the right shoulder, making him flinch as he turned to see who’d interrupted his hunt.

  The young man with greasy brown hair said, “Yo, dude, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  He looked at the young man and recognized him but couldn’t immediately place him.

  The young man said, “Got any more cars we need to push into the water? I sure could use more X.”

  A chill ran down his back as he realized his past had come back to haunt him

  Forty-five

  Yvonne Zuni knew to listen and maybe throw in a smile as Ronald Bell shook his head in exasperation.

  The IA investigator said, “Didn’t we have this conversation yesterday? I said all he had to do was go twenty-four hours without smacking somebody.”

  “I think even you’ll agree under the circumstances he was probably provoked. We can’t have a suspect dictating who’s involved in an investigation and who’s not.”

  “I’m afraid we can when the suspect is a cop and the lead detective on the case punches him in the face. I know it’s all bullshit. I know a muscle-bound motorman like Gary Lauer could handle himself and the only reason he’s making the complaint is to screw up the case. What can I say, he knows how to manipulate the system.”

  “This doesn’t mean I have to take Stallings off the case completely, does it?”

  Ronald Bell wiped his face with his hand and let out a long breath. “He can work the case, but he cannot have contact with Lauer. That’s about the only thing we can do at this point. But it does make me think Officer Lauer has something to hide.”

  Yvonne took a quick look around the hallway on the third floor of the PMB, then stepped toward the tall, attractive detective and gave him a hug and quick peck on the cheek. “Ron, I really appreciate how understanding you’ve been through this whole thing.”

  Bell chuckled and said, “I guess we better make the waiting time a lot shorter for Stallings. Tell him if he can go ten minutes today without smacking someone, he can come back to work.”

  It had been a bit of a wild night, and he’d slept good and late. But despite seeing several decent prospects and all the other craziness, he’d been able to tell Ann to meet him at the beach this evening. He’d been very subtle about his desire to spend a few moments alone and away from loud bands and noisy bars. She had volunteered she’d be able to borrow one of her friend’s cars near dusk and meet him at the quiet beach between Atlantic and Neptune.

  That left the question of the kid who’d helped him push Lisa’s car in the water. All he’d said was hello and then wandered off, but it was one more link he didn’t need. He had the kid’s name and could figure out where he lived easily enough, but he didn’t want to be rash. That was not entirely true. He was holding off taking action on the kid because he thought it might help pass the time until the next spring break and hunting season.

  Now he raced around his apartment in wild anticipation of what would happen tonight. He’d given her one hit of Ecstasy last night and was saving the last one to cover his tracks. This would be so simple and straightforward it wouldn’t matter how many cops were interested in spring break deaths–they’d never figure out what happened to Ann. It was so diabolically simple he couldn’t believe he had never used it before. It offered him everything from exciting sex to the power he’d earned and deserved as the King Predator on the spring break plain.

  He paused for a moment to gaze at his collage of past conquests. That was the one thing he’d need from Ann. He needed her to pose for a decent photograph, preferably in a skimpy bikini. This might be so phenomenal he’d rearrange the photographs with the lovely girl from Central Georgia at the center.

  He opened his souvenir box sitting on the desk. Nothing matched in style or metal, but he knew the story behind each piece. He’d find a prize on Ann’s body somewhere, even if it had to be just a simple earring.

  He closed the box and clapped his hands together, rubbing them back and forth as if he was trying to get warm, but in fact he was trying to dissipate some of the energy building in him. Clearly he couldn’t hunt back here for a couple years now that there was so much interest in Allie Marsh’s death.

  He didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t keep doing it other places.

  John Stallings stared at the sergeant, shook his head, and said, “You mean he suckered me into the confrontation just to get me off the investigation?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Stallings shook his head, amazed at how he had underestimated Gary Lauer and how this kind of ploy had reinforced his growing belief the motorcycle cop had not only provided Ecstasy to college girls, but may have been systematically murdering them. The whole idea turned his stomach.

  Sergeant Zuni said, “This doesn’t excuse your behavior. You got some temper issues, and you and I have to deal with them. But right now I need you to do whatever needs to be done on the Allie Marsh case.”

  Stallings nodded. “I know I let you guys down like I let down Diane Marsh. I also know you went out on a limb for me, and I appreciate it.”

  “While you’re handing out thank-yous, you might want to give one to Ronald Bell. He bent the rules quite a bit to avoid h
aving you suspended like he should’ve in both incidents.”

  “You’re kidding me. Ron Bell helped me? I’m not sure if that’s better than being suspended, but I’ll make sure I say something the next time I see him.”

  Patty Levine appeared at the sergeant’s doorway and said, “We need to talk.”

  They sat around a small conference table in the room next to Sergeant Zuni’s office, and Patty explained what she had learned from the medical examiner. The missing jewelry might not be a big issue, but the fact that the two girls looked so similar, had Ecstasy in their systems, had had sex using Durex condoms, and had died within a week of each other made her think a deliberate, cunning killer was another commonality between the girls.

  Sergeant Zuni said, “I wonder how common missing jewelry on the corpse is. I’ve never really considered the issue before.”

  Patty said, “Funny you should ask, because I checked with the medical examiner last night and he said it was one of those things they always check but wasn’t too common. The scary thing is there’s a homicide victim in the morgue right now who’s missing a nose stud. She’s also blond with blue eyes.”

  Sergeant Zuni said, “Is that the body they found over in the parking garage who’d been stabbed through the chin into her brainpan?”

  Patty just nodded.

  Stallings said, “We need to focus on the two girls we’ve linked. The photos and information from Daytona and Panama City may be interesting and may even be of use later, but right now they’re only distractions. We need to put a full-court press on Gary Lauer.”

  The sergeant said, “What if he’s not the killer?”

  “He’s the only decent suspect we have left. We have narcotics talking to ex-dealers, and we’ve been looking for Jason Ferrell ourselves. It may be a long shot, but it also would set his mother’s mind at ease. I didn’t want to call her until I’ve actually talked to her son.”

  The sergeant stood, nodded, and said, “Get to work.”

  Forty-six

  Tony Mazzetti turned to his partner, Christina Hogrebe, and said, “For a little fat guy, Pudge can be hard to find on the street. I just want to make sure he’s still okay and see if he could be clearer on his tip.”

  Christina said, “He said to look closer rather than farther. Why don’t we go by the scene of the shooting and check around the house itself?”

  “Good call. It’s not like we have a ton of other leads to follow up right now. I don’t want to be around the office anyway. Not with all the shit Stallings has stirred up. We probably have IA detectives all over the place.”

  “Patty told me he’s all clear and back in the office.”

  “What? He unloads on the wrong suspect and hits a cop and gets a pass on the whole thing? That’s craziness.”

  “You sound like you’re disappointed.”

  “I like Stall and everything, but there are certain rules we should all have to follow. That guy steps out of bounds more than a white NBA player, but he skates on any possible punishment. It’s more an issue of fairness with me.”

  “You mean like how overtime is divided fairly as long as you get twice as much as anyone else? Where you get to choose most of your assignments? That kind of fairness?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. It makes you seem petty.”

  Christina Hogrebe was still laughing when they pulled in the driveway of the house near Market Street.

  John Stallings was an interviewer. Every detective had strengths and weaknesses, and clearly his strength was talking to people. All those CSI TV shows had convinced the general public forensics solved all the problems. That was bullshit. Witnesses talked, and detectives still had to interpret results out of the crime lab. So sitting here in the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office crime lab, listening to one of the techs who specialized in chemical analysis, went against Stallings’s nature. Thank God he had Patty with him to interpret everything this geek said. It also seemed to him as if the young scientist had a fairly obvious crush on his partner.

  The young man, in his late twenties, had a lean build and thick glasses. The glasses didn’t help any attempt the young tech made at looking cool. Right now he seemed like one of a dozen other crime lab techs wanting to show off how smart they were.

  The tech said, “There has been a lot of X run through the lab recently. The one pill from the suicide victim, Kathleen Harding, matches exactly the three pills you submitted.”

  Stallings nodded–this comfirmed his suspicion Jason Ferrell had made the Ecstasy Kathleen Harding used and the three pills the redneck meth manufacturer, Leonard Walsh, had provided Stallings. So far he could follow the young crime lab tech easily.

  “All four of these pills were from the same batch. Chemically, they matched perfectly and were made by someone with some skill and training.”

  Patty said, “Does the marking J2A mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve done some research, and it appeared on a number of X tabs, but it has no chemical or pharmacological significance.” The young man flipped several pages on a clipboard. “The Ecstasy pill Detective Mazzetti submitted looks exactly like these on the outside, but chemically it’s much different.”

  There was silence as Stallings and Patty stared at one another. Patty slowly turned to the crime tech and said, “What pill did Mazzetti submit?”

  “The other day Detective Mazzetti turned in an Ecstasy tab under the case number for his triple shooting. I assumed you were all working together on it.”

  “Do you know where Detective Mazzetti found the pill?” He had to work hard to steady his voice. So many years of dealing with the wily detective had made him skeptical of any coincidences.

  The lab tech shook his head.

  “How is it different chemically from the other pills?”

  “It has about one tenth the potency of the other pills. Still has the same marking and colorations. It’s just very weak.”

  Stallings turned toward his partner and said, “We need to talk to Mazzetti right now.”

  Tony Mazzetti stood in the backyard of the house where the triple shooting had occurred the week before. A typical tiny backyard, bordered by a rotting wooden fence and fruit trees that hadn’t been pruned in years. He was trying to get a feel for the yard and where someone would stash drugs or other contraband if they had to. His partner, Christina Hogrebe, had a steel rod she was using as a probe in the soft dirt on the side of the house. They had agreed Pudge’s tip might mean they would have to search the house and grounds more closely. Until they found the street prophet, they had to cover every possibility.

  Mazzetti walked over to the back door, sat on the small stoop, and gazed out over the yard, trying to imagine where he might stash something in an emergency. When he stepped to the yard he noticed an area of disturbed weeds and grass under a scraggly orange tree. He kneeled down and used his finger to dig into the dirt. His cell phone rang, making him stand, reach in his pocket, and pull it out.

  It was Patty and she didn’t even bother greeting him. All she said was, “Tony, where’d you get the Ecstasy pill you submitted to the lab?”

  He had to think what she was talking about, but before he could give her a straight answer his instincts asked, “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  He could hear the frustration in her voice and tried to explain it as best he could. “Jesus, Patty, you yell at me when I don’t submit stuff to the lab, and now you yell at me when I do submit stuff to lab. I’m just curious why you want to know about some nasty homemade Ecstasy tablet.”

  “Because we may have found a link to our case.”

  “You can link a triple shooting with a drug overdose of a spring breaker?”

  “Tony, where’d you get the pill?”

  “From the lady in the house across the street from the triple shooting.”

  “Based on the neighborhood, I’m assuming she’s African American?” She sounded disappointed.

  “She is, but she claimed her white bo
yfriend gave it to her.”

  “Did you see this guy?”

  “Just for a split second. A white guy about thirty with brown hair.”

  “That guy is probably Jason Ferrell. He made the Ecstasy you found in Kathleen Harding’s purse.”

  Mazzetti had walked into the carport of the house while Patty had yelled at him, but now he jerked his head up and stared at Miss Brison’s house across the street. Could her boyfriend–she’d called him Chuck, but she admitted that wasn’t his name–know something that could help him on this case? It didn’t really matter, because a fellow detective who happened to be his girlfriend was asking him for help. Finally Mazzetti said, “I think I know where we can find your X dealer.”

  He loved to feel the cool breeze off the ocean and had already surveyed the park and surrounding beach. There were a few people around but not enough to interfere with any plans he might have with the beautiful Ann. He watched as she pulled the big Buick into the parking space closest to the beach walkway. He parked his Jeep in the corner of the lot so it was obvious when she drove in. He hustled down the sidewalk to greet her.

  She surprised him with a full embrace and a kiss on the lips. He let the kiss linger and felt her tongue probe into his mouth and her hips grind into him. He’d definitely waited long enough for this one. Power surged through his body as he started to realize his potential as a predator.

  Ann said, “You’re right–this place is perfect.” She opened the rear door of the Buick and pulled out a blanket. “And it’s nice and private down the beach a ways.”

  He held out his palm, offering the last hit of Ecstasy. “Just for you.”

  She plucked it out of his hand, held it up to the dimming light of the setting sun, turned to him, and asked, “What does J2A mean?”