by James Andrus
Sergeant Zuni said, “I need to make a quick stop before heading out to the scene. How did he find her?”
Patty finished swallowing and shrugged. “That’s just John. He figures out stuff the rest of us don’t even know is important.”
“I’ve heard he has his own methods of getting information.”
Patty knew to keep her mouth shut.
Sergeant Zuni said, “I believe in letting cops work, but there are rules. Some of law, some of conduct, but I want everyone to follow the rules.”
“Don’t you think some rules are stupid?”
“Like the one about not dating someone who has the same supervisor as you?”
Patty just stared at the new boss.
Then Sergeant Zuni said, “Get your stuff together. No matter how he did it, your partner found the girl’s body. Now we all have to pitch in and help.”
Tony Mazzetti rolled up at the old municipal airport before the crime scene van. He was lucky his girlfriend was in the loop and had dropped him a line before Sergeant Zuni called to order him over to the scene. He felt a real satisfaction in telling his sergeant he was already on the way. He’d even stopped to pick up his usual partner, Christina Hogrebe, from her little house in Dames Point, then shot across the Dames Point Bridge, cutting south to the airport.
Christina was a rising star at the sheriff’s office. The youngest full-time homicide detective ever, she had the instincts of an old-time street cop wrapped up in a package few men could ignore. There was a rumor a year back that Mazzetti and she were an item. He let it slide because it kept people from guessing why he hadn’t had a date in a while. Christina heard it and didn’t care. If information wasn’t being used to put someone’s ass in jail, she barely acknowledged it. He finally had to step up and deny it because someone asked how he and Christina could date and still work in the same squad. It made him wonder if anyone would care if he went public with Patty. He doubted it. He was homicide and she was missing persons. Usually.
They were screaming south on St. John’s Bluff Road when Christina said, “Tony, either slow it down or put on the lights, but I don’t want to buy it because you’ve got a hard-on to beat the new sergeant to the scene.”
“Who says I care about shit like that?”
“Hello, I think I just did. C’mon, admit it, big guy-working for a woman intimidates you.”
“What’re you talking about? I worked for Rita Hester and still do.”
“But I hardly think of her as a woman.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Not that she’s not attractive, but she’s been a boss a long time. And you’d have to admit she could kick your ass if she wanted to.”
Mazzetti just nodded at that. Lieutenant Rita Hester could kick just about anybody’s ass.
Christina said, “But the new sarge is a little different. She’s like a china doll, all small and beautiful. And she’s hands-on. She even corrected one of my reports in red ink yesterday.”
“Sounds like you’re the one with a problem.”
Christina shook her head. “I don’t mind correction or criticism if it makes me a better cop.”
“You saying I do mind it?”
“You tell me.”
“I listen to your suggestions all the time.”
“But you’re still senior partner. The sarge can order us around all day and doesn’t have to ask about opinions. She takes ‘em or leaves ‘em as she sees fit.”
“What’s your point?”
“That the sarge has you spooked.” She smiled as she chomped on the bubble gum that was always wedged in her molars.
It was tough to get upset with anyone who looked like her and had that kind of delivery.
Yvonne Zuni took a minute to survey the scene before she got out of her nice new Dodge Charger. Being new to the unit she was still trying to get a feel for how everyone worked and interacted with each other. She knew Mazzetti’s type: brash, arrogant, efficient. And Patty Levine was smart, professional, and insecure. It was John Stallings who gave her a hard time. She couldn’t get a decent read on him to save her life. She’d heard all the rumors. He was tough, resourceful, and he paid little or no attention to the SO policies. That was something they might butt heads over. The new sergeant was smart enough to realize that Stallings was an old friend of the lieutenant’s. That could be tricky too. She also knew his personal story. He wasn’t living at home right now, even though he didn’t broadcast it. She’d listened to two of the secretaries gossip about it, each with her own plans to scoop him up if he stayed on the market much longer. The sergeant figured that the split was a delayed result of his daughter’s disappearance. Marital problems were a well-known side effect of family tragedy. She knew it from personal experience.
She watched as Stallings directed the crime scene people toward the body of the young woman. He also seemed to deal well with that loudmouth Mazzetti. The two exchanged a few words, but she noticed that Stallings had enough sense to let Mazzetti walk toward the scene alone.
The sergeant wanted to see if she could have the two men work together. As long as her detectives followed the rules they’d all get along like a big happy family. And she was the mother. She missed being a mother.
Fourteen
Stallings’s last major case had been a serial killer who had murdered one of the runaway girls he’d returned home several times over the years. That case was so big that a task force had been formed to stop the killer. No one would be forming a task force for this poor girl. It would be Mazzetti and Christina Hogrebe all the way. Unless Stallings could find a good enough reason for Sergeant Zuni to assign more detectives.
He realized this was a quirk with him. He got so entangled in cases involving young women that he couldn’t think about anything else. He knew it had to do with Jeanie. He didn’t care. This was one impulse he didn’t intend to fight.
He and Patty stood straighter as the sergeant walked their way and talked into her cell phone at the same time. No detective sergeant alive could go thirty seconds without getting a phone call. It was one of the rules of police work.
Finally she closed the small cell and looked up at the two detectives. “You did a great job of finding her, Stall. I’m just sorry it turned out this way.”
Stallings nodded.
“Anything obvious around the body?”
He shook his head. “She’s clothed, no obvious signs of trauma. But I didn’t get too near.”
The sergeant looked up at him but said nothing.
Stallings was struck by her clear green eyes and high cheekbones. She could be a runway model if she wanted and was a few inches taller.
Mazzetti stomped over, muttering about the crime scene techs. The homicide detective always built up an excuse in case he couldn’t clear a case. Sometimes he’d claim the crime scene techs screwed up the scene. Other times he’d blame the arriving unit for trampling a scene. In the past he’d said the media coverage inhibited his investigation. There was always something that derailed an unsuccessful investigation. Stallings knew a lot of every case was fate. To find a minute piece of evidence had an element of luck in it. To find the right person to interview and to have them tell the truth was incredibly lucky. He used the term “luck,” but in the last few years he knew there more to it than luck. He’d come back to his early Catholic school roots and realized there were higher forces at work in the universe. Maybe it was all the A.A. meetings with Maria or his need to feel that someone was watching over his Jeanie, but he had come to the conclusion that there was, in fact, a God. He also felt, much like the old saying, that God favors those who are prepared, so he left as little to chance as possible. But it was always that last tip or piece of fiber evidence or security video that solved a case. Those things were in God’s hands.
Mazzetti briefed the sergeant, but he didn’t know anything yet either. Like any decent homicide detective he had a list of things he was going to do right away and most of those, at least for right n
ow, concerned the crime scene and subsequent autopsy.
Mazzetti said, “Who knows, this girl might’ve died of alcohol poisoning. Happens all the time with these wild-assed spring breakers.”
Sergeant Zuni turned her head slowly and said, “Is that what you want to tell her mother? She’s staying at the Marriott downtown.”
Mazzetti didn’t answer.
“Maybe we could hold off on the conjecture until we have some kind of evidence to support theories.”
Mazzetti nodded.
The sergeant turned to Stallings. “Have you found anything in your interviews or the victim’s background to indicate drug use or heavy drinking?”
Stallings hesitated to mention that one of Allie’s traveling companions had admitted to them trying Ecstasy. He didn’t want the death dismissed so easily. But he had to be open in a case like this. “One of her friends said someone had given them X.”
“Did she know the supplier?”
“No, she’d never met him. It was someone Allie had met. Maybe more than once during the week.”
“That could be important. Do we know where she was last seen?”
“Probably the Wildside the night before last. That’s our best information now.”
The sergeant nodded as she considered this information. She turned to Mazzetti. “Finish the scene and autopsy. Stall and Patty will determine if anyone saw her at the Wildside and talk to the bartenders and staff there.”
Mazzetti said, “You want us to treat this like a homicide? It’s probably an overdose. It’s like natural causes for spring breakers. If we investigated every overdose we’d never have time to work the real homicides and we’d have a shitload of open cases.”
The sergeant said, “There may be extenuating circumstances in this case. You don’t know all the facts or all the issues. This could end up being a high-profile case.”
Mazzetti got that glazed look on his face like he did when he was about to go before the cameras, then said, “But Christina and I are the lead, right?”
The sergeant said, “For now.”
He ran hard, invigorated by his recent kill. Like any predator, he had to keep his skills up, and a run like this along Neptune Beach in the middle of spring break did two things: it kept him in tip-top shape, and it offered him a look at all the blond prey hanging around. He knew that the first sunny, relatively warm day in a week would bring the crowds out to the beach, and he needed a little sun. He had his shirt off to show his pecs and wore the smallest pair of shorts he had.
His eyes scanned the crowds as he raced by. This was a fitness lap and a chance to let the young girls see him. In ten minutes he’d jog at a reasonable pace to inspect the prey more closely.
He preferred to meet his prey in bars. It seemed more anonymous and safer in a dark, crowded club. That wasn’t a strict rule. He’d met Kathleen from South Carolina in a cafe. But the more he thought about it, the beach was a good choice too. As long as he found a girl away from her group. Anything to make his identification more difficult.
He made the wide loop of the parking lot and street, then ran back down onto the hard packed sand of the beach. He kept a measured pace, his eyes sifting through the throngs of women on the beach. The ones with dark hair were easy to pass by, but the blondes made him slow down. On this pass he saw five good possibilities. All blond hair and blue eyes. Size and shape were secondary. On his next pass he’d assess possible witnesses. Were they with groups or boyfriends? Were they with one or two girlfriends? He had his prey picked out for the next loop.
He was breathing hard by the time he reached the north end of the beach again. He slowed to a near walk as he approached the first girl he’d singled out on his last pass-through. She was sprawled on a bright green blanket and turned on her side as he approached. She had bright blue eyes, short blond hair, a fairly serious acne problem, and cellulite on her hips. But the reason he kept running was her boyfriend on the towel next to her. The boyfriend placed a hand on her back, and he could tell they weren’t in a platonic relationship.
The next three girls were all surrounded by hordes of sorority sisters or cheerleaders or some other chattering, perky group.
Finally, he spied one girl reading a paperback book about three quarters of the way down the beach. She appeared to be alone on a single towel. She wore cute black-framed glasses that seemed to accentuate her blue eyes, and she absently fingered her wavy blond hair draped over her right shoulder. She wore a one-piece bathing suit, but she had a muscular body. Something a predator like himself could admire. He slowed to a trot, then a walk, making a show out of checking his pulse by placing two fingers on his neck and looking at his watch, carefully stopping well before his intended target.
He continued to check the immediate vicinity to make sure she was alone and no one was paying any attention. It seemed clear as he eased up the beach slightly from the waterline.
He stopped a few yards from her and sat down to stretch in the sand. As he turned toward her, she looked up and smiled. It filled him with excitement. She had a great smile, and he knew he’d taken the first step.
“Whatcha reading?”
She glanced down at the cover as if she couldn’t remember. “Patricia Cornwell.” She made a face, but he wasn’t sure if she liked the book or it was a little gross.
He said, “I read a lot of history.”
“Like who?”
In fact he’d only read one book recently and it was about Iwo Jima. He remembered the author. “James Bradley.”
“Flags of our Fathers.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’m a little bit of a bookworm.”
He cut loose with a big smile. She had a cute silver nose stud. “What’s your name?”
“Holly.”
“Where are you from?”
“Right here. I go to North Florida.” The University of North Florida sat in the southeast section of the city of Jacksonville.
He started to focus on the tiny nose stud, thinking what a great memento it would make. Then he said, “You don’t have to come far for spring break.”
“But it’s more fun to travel.”
“Do bookworms like to travel?”
She had a sly smile when she said, “Bookworms like a lot of things.”
He had found his prey.
Fifteen
John Stallings knew this was a big deal because the meeting was held in the lieutenant’s plush office. Although Rita Hester supervised the detective bureau, among other things, her office was not in the Land That Time Forgot. She did not have a shitty linoleum floor or scuffed beige walls, nor did she have thin, industrial carpet.
Today she sat at the head of the conference table opposite her wide oak desk. The sergeant sat immediately to her right and Mazzetti to her left with Stallings, Christina Hogrebe, Patty Levine, and an assistant to the sheriff filling the rest of the table. This was either something big or someone had fucked up in a big way.
The lieutenant looked down the long table at the sheriff’s assistant, then cast a broader glance across the table and said, “This comes from the colonel, who got it from the sheriff, who got an earful from the state attorney. We will treat the overdose of the girl from Mississippi"-she looked down at the notepad in front of her-"Allie Marsh, as a homicide. We will find out who gave her the Ecstasy and what led to her death. And even though we’re flooded with robberies, shootings, fatal domestics, and all other kinds of fire-and-brimstone shit, we’ll work this overdose until we have found her supplier.” Lieutenant Rita Hester was never particularly good at hiding her true feelings about certain things. She was political as anyone else in a command position at the sheriff’s office, but at heart she was still a street cop who wanted to put people in jail. She stared down the sheriff’s assistant until the thin man nodded his approval.
Of course no one was going to argue with her, but she continued. “We don’t need the negative media about any deaths, accidental or otherwise, while Jacksonvil
le is trying to build a reputation as a spring break destination. Daytona and Fort Lauderdale can handle the occasional jumping off a balcony, but we can’t risk even a simple overdose. This girl’s family has money and clout and so we will treat this like it’s the fucking Lindbergh kidnapping case.” She glared up and down the table, then said, “Are there any questions or comments?”
Every detective at the table knew that meant, “Shut up and get to work.”
And that was just fine with John Stallings. He had already decided he’d find out who would leave a girl like that in the field without even a call to fire rescue. He didn’t think he’d ever get away from being drawn into cases like this.
Tony Mazzetti fidgeted during the final minutes of the autopsy. The procedure didn’t bother him-he’d seen hundreds performed on everyone from shot-up drug dealers to babies that had been shaken too hard. At this point it was just business. It had to be. If he looked at each body that rolled through these doors as a person with family and hopes, he’d have gone crazy years ago. Instead he observed and provided any pertinent information the medical examiner wanted, like surroundings where the body was found, theory of how the victim died, and history that might have contributed to the death. It was this kind of relationship between a veteran homicide detective and a good ME that led to the quick, successful clearance of most deaths.
He liked the young assistant medical examiner who was currently examining the remains of Allison Marsh. Mazzetti hated to think of the names attached to the bodies while they were on the table because once again that made them more real to him. It felt like an invasion of privacy. He not only saw the dead people naked, but past that into their innermost places. Physically. As layers of skin were peeled back and organs removed and examined, he learned things that no one knew about themselves, like the weight of their livers, the degree of plaque built up in their arteries, and if tumors were growing deep inside their seemingly healthy bodies.
The assistant ME said, “Look at this.”