by James Andrus
She really could be the perfect woman.
Twenty-nine
John Stallings knew not to squirm in the hard wooden chair inside the third-floor office of Internal Affairs. He didn’t know if the reason the chair was uncomfortable was to make people squirm or not. He just didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.
There were two detectives questioning him about the circumstances of the raid and what he heard and saw concerning the actual shooting by Luis Martinez. Unfortunately, one of the detectives was Ronald Bell. The tall detective’s suit had a distinguished, high-dollar look to it. So did Bell. Not just in his clothes, which were even nicer than Mazzetti’s, but his whole demeanor. “Polished” was the word that came to mind. Neat, precise, cordial, and smooth.
Now Ronald Bell leaned toward Stallings with his monogrammed shirt rolled up his forearms and his Vineyard Vines tie loosened to give him the common-man look.
Stallings said, “Ron, I told you everything I saw. I was around back with the girl when Luis saved everyone’s life.”
“Oh cut the shit, Stall. If you were out back, how do you know he saved anyone’s life?”
“Because he was there on official business and the suspect had a gun. That could add up to a dead cop. Would you prefer to have a dead cop? Luis did the right thing.”
The dapper detective grunted in frustration and looked down at his notes. Stallings knew it was a ploy to compose himself rather than search for the right question. He felt a certain satisfaction annoying Bell. He was the guy who had pressed Stallings with some harsh questions after Jeanie had disappeared. The I.A. flunky was just looking to get ahead and was acting as a mouthpiece for someone higher up the ladder. It didn’t take the sting out of the inquiry as he grieved over the loss of his daughter.
Stallings remembered when he finally snapped and took a swing at the surprisingly agile detective. The goof had asked, “Why call in a missing person at three in the afternoon Saturday when no one had seen her since noon on Friday?”
Now Stallings knew it was a legitimate question, but at the time stress and the desire to have every swinging dick out looking for her pushed him too far. To Bell’s credit he never said a word about the attempted battery. But just the sight of the man brought up memories he’d tried hard to suppress: the sheriff’s tech unit searching the home computer for e-mails and instant messages that Jeanie might have sent; the crush of media; and, worst of all, the questions he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, like “Can we talk to your wife?”
He shuddered at the thought, then snapped back to reality. As he did, he heard Bell’s voice saying, “So you didn’t think you needed a warrant or to use the SWAT team for the entry?”
Stallings shook his head; he was short of breath and didn’t want to waste any speaking.
Bell paused, then said, “How’d that work out for you, Stall?”
Patty Levine had ignored the order to go home after the shooting and her I.A. interview. There hadn’t been much to say about the incident. They had forcibly entered the house when no one answered the door but they had heard movement inside. They confronted the suspect, who had a pistol in his hand. Luis Martinez fired once, striking the man in the center of the chest. The suspect died. When you stripped away the issues of why they were there, why they had no warrant, how they developed the information, the situation was clear. It was a “shoot” situation. Martinez fired because he saw a threat to his life and the lives of others.
She had avoided Tony Mazzetti during the hectic day because she knew he already felt terrible about his failure to launch. She didn’t know why it had happened but didn’t feel like adding to the guy’s guilt.
Right now Patty had records from Home Depot, tips from the general public, information from suitcase manufacturers, and the medical examiner reports on the three victims all on her desk. The killer’s identity lay somewhere in the details of this pile of data, and she intended to find him.
John Stallings had the contacts with the street people, Mazzetti the drive to push everyone, and she felt like she had the eye for a detail that might break the whole thing wide open. At least that was her hope.
The task force members agreed that the killer had the ability to attract the victim without causing too much alarm. At least at the beginning of the encounter. The vicious knife wounds to Trina Ester showed that she had been frightened and the killer acted out of character. Patty sat and tried to figure out what he had done to spook her. Had he undressed? Tried to undress her? What caused the reaction?
The killer also seemed to fly under the radar, which made her think he might be a maintenance worker or someone else who fit into an area like a fixture and wouldn’t arouse suspicion. That included such a range of people that she didn’t waste time thinking about it. Except he also had access to prescription drugs. The drugstores had been canvassed to see if a large amount of Oxycontin was missing from anywhere and the search determined everyone was missing some. For a drug that helped so many with persistent pain and caused so much heartache for those who abused it, none of the stores seemed to pay attention to their inventory.
Finally Patty shoved some of the tip sheets aside and leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms into her eyes and feeling the events of the day start to drain her. It also gave her a moment to feel the regret of a missed opportunity bubble up in her again as she tried to consider what went wrong in bed the night before.
Then it hit her. In little fragments at first, then as a fully realized, crystal-clear vision: Tony Mazzetti was gay.
John Stallings kicked the slightly deflated soccer ball harder than he had intended as it flew up off the neatly cut grass of his front yard and whacked Charlie in the chest, rocking the young boy.
Charlie gave his dad a confused look, and Stallings raised his hands in apology.
The meeting in the Internal Affairs office had rattled him, and he knew it. The sight of Ronald Bell had sent him racing home to see his family and spend some time with the kids.
It wasn’t just the shooting. A cop had a sense of his own mortality every time he stepped out the front door. A lot of their work was luck and fate as much as training. No, it was the face time with Bell that had brought back the memories of Jeanie’s disappearance and his own issues with the suspicious I.A. investigator. It also reminded him of what the whole family had gone through, and he saw it as a testament to their strength that everyone was still together and functioning. Even Maria had come around in the past few months. After the loss, the allegations, and Maria’s own issues, he’d never believed life could be good again.
But he still couldn’t sit at home comfortably while he knew he had the power to stop the asshole roaming J-Ville and stuffing girls into bags. He knew that after kicking with Charlie and doing some stretches and conditioning with Lauren he’d be up on his computer organizing his schedule to interview the street people and search the city once again.
Charlie set the ball, stepped back, and, running toward the ball and swinging his spindly right leg, launched the ball at Stallings with a slight hook to it. The ball twisted like a knuckleball, cutting an erratic path through the air and striking Stallings directly in the solar plexus. His breath burped out of him in a fast swish and he felt his knees buckle as he went down first on a knee and then onto his back.
He concentrated on taking in first tiny breaths, then longer, more satisfying gulps of air.
Charlie appeared over him with a look of horror on his face.
Stallings held up a hand and waved him off, gasping, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Charlie nodded and said, “That’s what happens when you mess with Stall 2.0.”
Even in pain a smile washed across Stallings’s face as he reached up, grabbed the boy, and hugged him tight.
This was all he needed.
William Dremmel could see the apprehension building in Stacey as she fidgeted and glanced at the retro wall-mounted clock that looked like an Elvis LP record. He’d tried to buy some time to a
llow the drugs to kick in, but the whole scenario felt too much like the disaster with Trina. The difference was that he’d spent a lot of time learning everything about Stacey and had dreamed about the long months of her semiconscious activity, when he’d explain her whole life to her. He’d even planned how they’d spend the evenings watching TV shows on his computer from one of the broadcast sites and the different configurations for the chains to allow proper blood flow in her shapely limbs. The more he considered the plans he had made for young Stacey Hines, the less likely it became that he’d draw his knife and damage that beautiful skin of hers.
He was frozen with indecision when Stacey said, “I think we need to get moving now.” There was a hint of a slur in her words, but they were forceful enough for him to realize time was up. Then an idea popped in his head fully formed and ready: blunt trauma. A blow to the head might do the trick if not delay his research for several days while she recovered. He didn’t like the idea of overt violence on this precious girl, but he saw no alternative.
His eyes scanned the room frantically, finally settling on a lamp with a brass base resting on the end table on his side of the couch. Too hard, with sharp angles that might cut her scalp deeply. He didn’t want another bloody scene that took all day to clean up.
Then he considered the leather TV remote holder that was sitting atop the coffee table in front of him. Too soft. Although it had some heft, he doubted the cardboard under the riveted leather would be sturdy enough to deliver a blow that would lay her out.
Then he noticed the thick plastic-covered coil he used to work out his forearms. It was a simple matter of leaning to the side, almost like he was going to stand up, and grasping it. When Stacey stood and turned toward the door he could swing it and catch her in the lower back of the head. It would certainly stun her if not knock her out completely.
He said, “Yeah, we probably should get going.” Then he leaned across the couch and wrapped his fingers around the coil leaning next to the couch against the wall.
Next to him, Stacey rose to her feet, but he felt a shaky quality to her movement and noticed her waver slightly when she was finally upright.
He was standing with the coil in his hand when he noticed Stacey flail her arms in the air like she was surfing. She let loose with a “Wheeee!” as she turned to him and smiled with a whimsical quality that let him drop the coil, knowing one of the drugs had just hit pay dirt in her brain.
A smile crept across his face at the serene expression Stacey held as she barely maintained her balance. The familiar and now vital thrill shot through his body as he realized his plans had worked and he was about to dramatically advance his research.
More important, he would be able to spend a lot of time with this beautiful young woman.
Thirty
John Stallings missed a presence like Luis Martinez in the Detective Bureau. He was currently on a paid leave of absence because he fired his weapon and killed someone in the line of duty. There was no stigma to this kind of leave. It was standard and required to avoid the tough-guy police mentality. Once you worked with someone you didn’t realize all their qualities until they weren’t around. Aside from being a good cop, Martinez could translate for detectives trying to communicate to people who spoke Spanish, he never complained, and he had a sense of humor that lifted the entire Bureau. Stallings hoped he wouldn’t be too affected by the shooting. But you could never tell.
Shootings bothered everyone, whether they admitted it or not. That was one of the reasons Stallings had stopped watching most TV police shows years ago. No TV cops ever seemed to feel remorse for shooting. In real life that was the definition of a sociopath.
Patty Levine eased up to his desk. She looked tired, but Stallings knew she’d never admit to a problem. That wasn’t like her. This had been her first shooting, and it always took its toll on cops who shot or cops who witnessed the shooting.
Stallings said, “You okay?”
She shrugged.
He smiled and said, “It’ll get worse around here. If we don’t nab this guy in a week, we’ll all have to readjust our lives.”
“I had no idea it could be like this.”
Before he could say anything to reassure her, like senior detectives were supposed to, an analyst rushed past them to Mazzetti and the L.T. in the conference room. They all knew what that meant.
An hour later, six detectives crammed in the conference room viewing the video from a webcam set up at a park near Neptune Beach. The hazy, low-quality footage was designed to show surfers the wave height. The camera was secured on a utility pole in the parking lot and caught just one lane of parking. The twelve-second clip they watched over and over showed a small woman climb into a vehicle, probably a van, next to a white Ford Escort in the lot.
Stallings said, “How’d we get onto this video?”
Mazzetti said, “The manager of a sports bar”-he flipped over a sheet of paper and read out-“the Fountain of Youth, called in a missing waitress.”
“How long has she been gone? Usually a bar manager has employees going AWOL all the time.”
“The guy seemed straight up and concerned. He said the waitress, Stacey Hines, was very reliable and they were like her family here in town. The manager and other employees checked on her all the time.”
“That was enough to search for her?”
“They’ve been watching TV, and she’s only five feet tall.”
One of the other detectives mumbled, “Finally the media helps us out.”
Mazzetti said, “The patrolman who took the missing persons report was on the ball. He ran her name and saw her car had been towed for overnight parking at Neptune Beach. He went to the lot and checked out the car and found her spark plugs had been pulled. We couldn’t ignore it.”
Stallings realized that they had a big break in the case. He just hoped it didn’t cost a young girl her life.
Lieutenant Hester said, “What do you guys think?”
Mazzetti spoke right up. “We found her parents in Cincinnati, and they’re sending us photos and are on the way themselves. The restaurant says she didn’t have any stalkers that they noticed but that her car had broken down there before. One of the cooks said he thought the plugs were pulled but added he wasn’t completely certain. I’d say we have this shitty video of the Bag Man’s vehicle.”
The lieutenant said, “The video only shows a door. Nothing else in the frame. So what do we do with it?”
Mazzetti said, “See about enhancing it. Maybe pick up a detail. Try and find anyone who was at the beach and saw the driver of the vehicle.”
Someone asked, “How?”
Stallings blurted out. “We have to go public. Show the girl’s photo. Ask for help.”
Mazzetti immediately had an answer. “We’re already flooded with leads.”
“What else do you have in mind?”
Mazzetti thought about it, then sighed. “We don’t need someone to leak it this time. I’ll make the call.”
They had another victim.
Stacey Hines felt her head clear but still couldn’t move her arms or legs. The first time she’d awakened in this position she thought she was paralyzed for a minute until she was able to see the chains holding her in place. Each time she had woken up since then it took less time to remember what was happening to her. That also meant it took less time to think of what was going to happen to her.
She was still naked under a thin, wool blanket with a Thanksgiving motif. Pumpkins and Pilgrim hats now haunted her dreams. But she hadn’t given up hope. So far William had taken great care to keep her clean, feed her, and make her comfortable. She tried not to think about what he did after he dosed her with the drugs that made her pass out. He also liked to tell her all the details of her own life. He talked about her brief stint at Youngstown State University, citing her 2.1 grade point average, and then saying, “Sounds like someone was a little immature for college.” It was like he had been there.
She had no id
ea if it was night or day or how long she had been restrained in the little bed. The initial terror she’d felt was now more of a chronic fear. It must’ve been some psychological coping mechanism, because she would’ve gone crazy quickly the way she felt the first time she woke up in chains. The tiny room held no clues either. Just her bed, a lamp, and a small, hard plastic portable toilet he had slid under her twice a day. She didn’t even shudder at him wiping her after each use of the toilet. It was so clinical and nonsexual on his part, and she was so terrified about other things that she barely resisted the action anymore.
The truly scary thing was that she knew that he was the Bag Man. He hadn’t said it, and she hadn’t asked, but she knew whatever he had planned for her she would end up crammed in a suitcase. She knew she had to do something to get away. He would never just let her go.
As she considered possible courses of action, William unlocked the door and walked in holding a tray of food, including the protein shake he required her to drink every day.
William smiled and said, “Good morning, sunshine. Time for nourishment.”
This guy put a whole new meaning on the word “creepy.”
Patty Levine looked up from her desk as she was closing up files for the night. Things had returned to normal in the days after the shooting-as normal as a giant serial homicide case could be. It was dark outside, and she hadn’t eaten since mid-morning. The three Xanax she’d taken during the day had kept her calm as well as thirsty, and the water suppressed her appetite. Now she was ready to cut loose and eat. Preferably a buffet with lots of pasta and mashed potatoes. The way she felt right now the guy who wrote the South Beach Diet could kiss her ass.
Her stomach had felt like acid a few hours earlier, but some over-the-counter Zantac cleared it up. She wondered if that was something she needed to add to her prescription arsenal. Why not? She’d found relief in every other area of her life from some little pill.