by James Andrus
His desk phone’s loud, ancient ringer jolted him out of his trance.
He snatched the receiver, simply saying, “Stallings.”
The bored-sounding receptionist from the main lobby said, “Stall, we got someone down here to see you.” She hung up the phone before he could ask questions.
He trudged down the main stairwell that opened into the lobby. As soon as he opened the door he was shocked to see his visitor.
Liz Dubeck stood up from the hard plastic chair and gave him a tentative, hopeful smile.
Patty Levine felt as if she was operating at half speed all day, as though a fog had fallen over her. A day to recharge felt more like it had sapped her of any energy at all. The minor contact she’d had with the other people in her squad had proved to be disconcerting at best. Tony Mazzetti had virtually ignored her after he got back from the medical examiner’s office. She chalked it up to the stress of running a serial-killer investigation. The media had started to talk about the bloody weekend Jacksonville had suffered. The news coverage focused on the discovery of a wealthy local woman’s body in the backseat of her Chrysler at Jacksonville Landing.
Patty had heard Luis Martinez, one of the detectives on the case, mention that the big mystery of the crime scene was two different sources of blood. Right now the assumption was the other blood was the killer’s. Patty knew the media had latched on to the murder because the victim was extremely attractive and lived in Ponte Vedra Beach. The local news stations rarely covered the story of a murder of a black prostitute or crack addict from Arlington.
Stepping out of the Land That Time Forgot, Patty was surprised to run into Sergeant Zuni and Ronald Bell leaving the lieutenant’s office. All three of them stood, frozen, assessing each other. Patty assumed they were uncomfortable after the chance encounter at Gi-Gi’s restaurant down in Deerwood Park. But she got an odd vibe and a sharp look from Ronald Bell.
Patty said, “Hey, guys. How’s it going?”
There was an awkward silence until Sergeant Zuni cleared her throat and said, “Busy. How about you? You have a good weekend?”
“Not bad. What about you?”
Sergeant Zuni glared over at Ronald Bell, then back to Patty, and said, “Weekend was good, it’s today that sucks.”
Patty couldn’t miss the murderous stare Sergeant Zuni gave the senior IA investigator.
John Stallings had to admit he liked sitting at the picnic table, staring into Liz Dubeck’s beautiful face. The table sat under a small stand of willow trees that overlooked the St. Johns River. Technically it was owned by the condo next to it, but the manager of the condo, a retired NYPD sergeant, opened the beautiful spot to any cop who wanted to walk across the street from the PMB and welcomed them to think of it as their office away from the office. During the day it was rare the table did not have some frustrated detective jabbering on his cell phone. But this time of the evening Stallings and Liz had complete privacy.
Liz reached across a wooden table and took both Stallings’s hands in hers. “I thought you might call. I know I’m acting like a schoolgirl, but I felt the chemistry between us.”
“Sorry, I ...” He couldn’t come up the combination of words that would explain how he felt about her or why he couldn’t do anything about it. He’d never been a very good liar, even if it was to spare someone’s feelings. Instead, he sat there and stared at her.
“You’re stuck on your ex-wife, aren’t you?”
“Not ex, yet.”
Liz looked down and nodded her head. “I can respect that. Probably the reason I hoped you’d call me. You know how hard it is to find a guy who’s loyal and honest?”
Stallings shook his head, trying to keep eye contact.
“I don’t want to screw anything up between you and her. But I don’t want to walk away either. Maybe this would be a good time to wait and see what happens.”
Stallings nodded, feeling the connection but knowing he had to walk away. “We could be friends.”
Liz let loose a tired smile and said, “That’s usually my line.” She stood and stepped away from the bench, motioning for him to stay. As she walked away she turned and said, “You’ll keep me informed about Leah?”
“As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you know.” He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he watched her slowly leave. He wished it was just a heart attack.
THIRTY-THREE
This was exactly the type of activity John Stallings needed to get his head out of his own personal problems. He was a cop and this was one of the most satisfying aspects of police work: looking for a specific suspect.
Stallings hadn’t cared much about the details when Tony Mazzetti approached him an hour ago to go to the apartment of some guy named Daniel Byrd. Mazzetti had laid out a few pieces of information that sounded interesting but did not necessarily make Byrd a prime suspect in the recent strangulations.
Generally a car with three detectives in it was full of chatter and smart-ass remarks. Tony Mazzetti was preoccupied while he drove, and Sparky Taylor was working on one of his complex Sudoku puzzles in the front passenger seat. That was fine with Stallings, who was content to sit in the backseat and hope that this was the guy who could provide some answers about Leah Tischler and any other girl who might’ve gone missing in the area. Although the more he considered his father’s comments, the more likely it seemed that Jeanie had escaped harm at the hands of a man who strangled young women.
The apartment was in the north end of the city not far off U.S. 1. The kind of place construction workers and rodeo riders might rent. Cheap and not opposed to loud music or parties. Toby Keith blared from a window on the side facing the road, competing with loud hard rock from an upper window on the side. The three detectives took a moment to assess the entrances and exits as well as how crowded the apartment building looked.
Sparky Taylor said, “Policy dictates that if there is a chance for violent confrontation we should at least consult the tactical team.”
Mazzetti said, “If we called those dildos every time we thought we might have a confrontation nothing would ever get done. Last I checked we were all authorized to carry a gun and make an arrest. I think policy will back me up on that, won’t it, Spark?”
Stallings could see Mazzetti getting a handle on his new partner and understanding how to manipulate him. It didn’t matter one way or the other. Stallings was in a mood for results, and smacking someone in the head might make him feel better. He kept his mouth shut and followed the two partners through the front door of the apartment building, then up one flight of sketchy wooden stairs. Even stepping slowly and carefully Stallings knew they were broadcasting their presence to the entire floor.
Mazzetti said, “There’s only one way in and out of this place, so we don’t have to worry about covering any back doors. No matter what, we don’t want to have to chase this guy on foot. As soon as he opens the door, we grab him.”
As he approached apartment 2-C, the third door on the right-hand side of the hallway, Stallings quickly and silently went through his personal rituals. First he placed his right hand on the grip of his Glock .40-caliber pistol. He liked the feeling of knowing it was on his hip as he muttered his mantra, “Is today the day that changes the rest of my life?” He knew Mazzetti had heard it, but he didn’t turn or acknowledge Stallings. The same instructor had taught the phrase at the police academy for twenty years as a way to keep cops sharp and focused every time they stepped into an unknown or dangerous situation.
Mazzetti stood to the left of the door with Sparky Taylor behind him, while Stallings stood to the right. No one had his gun drawn because, in theory, this was just a simple interview. Ask the guy a few questions and see what kind of a read they could get from him. Simple.
Despite his years of experience, both as a road patrolman and as a detective, Stallings’s heart rate started to increase and he felt the excitement of the unknown. It was a thrill most cops appreciated on some level. It was the reason for the thrill that c
aused so much grief and sorrow. It was a one in one thousand chance that whoever opened the door would have a gun in his hand.
Stallings tensed when Mazzetti banged on the door.
Sergeant Zuni sat at her desk getting ready to leave for the evening.
Ronald Bell, sitting across from her, said, “You got to be kidding me. That was business. I’m just doing my job. I thought we were going to separate work and personal business.”
The sergeant flashed her dark eyes at him. “Look, Ronald, I agreed not to say anything and you agreed to keep this quiet as long as possible. But the way you seemed to relish trashing a good cop and sneaking through medical records has left a bad taste in my mouth. I can’t hide the fact that I don’t like how you did your job. And I can’t change who I am.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re a douche bag and you will not be seeing me naked again.”
THIRTY-FOUR
John Stallings leaned against the wall as several residents peeked out their doors at the sound of Mazzetti’s incessant pounding. There was no turning back now. Even if Daniel Byrd wasn’t home, the neighbors would drop a dime that the cops had been here looking for him.
Mazzetti glanced at Sparky briefly, then over at Stallings. “What do you think, fellas? Simply go in to take a look around?”
Sparky Taylor appeared outraged at the suggestion. He didn’t have the most forceful voice, but he got his point across. “We do not have nearly enough PC for a warrant and there are no exigent circumstances. We have no more right to walk into this apartment than we do to walk into any other room in this building.”
Stallings said, “Most of the other rooms don’t house a potential murder suspect.” When he looked down the hall at a couple of the residents gawking out their doors, he wondered how accurate that statement was.
“We don’t know that this apartment does either. This doesn’t just go against policy, it goes against the Constitution.”
Stallings said, “Look at the totality of the circumstances for the probable cause. With his failure to report to his parole officer, and the comments from the other construction workers, we have enough. Citizens get jumpy when young people in the community end up strangled. I feel confident that a judge will cut us some slack.”
“Is that what you want to base our court case on? Slack? Gentlemen, there’s a reason we have policies and rules, and neither of you are such legal scholars that I trust your reasoning about why we should enter this private apartment without court authorization.”
Stallings recognized that Mazzetti was sitting back and letting him make the argument. If they made some massive fuck-up, Mazzetti would claim he was just following Stallings and trying to keep him out of trouble. At this point it didn’t matter. They had at least two dead girls and Stallings didn’t want to go to three. He briefly looked at Sparky Taylor, saying, “If this makes you uncomfortable, I suggest you head back to the PMB.” Without another word or glance, Stallings threw his shoulder into the door and popped it off the lock instantly, tumbling into a cramped, cluttered apartment.
Sparky Taylor refused to step past the doorway and stood there, shaking his head.
Mazzetti chimed in, “Spark, we can’t have an unsolved homicide our first case together. We gotta take a few risks to find this guy.”
Stallings scanned the small apartment, then turned to Sparky at the doorway. “What happens if he kills again while we’re building a case? Or, if this guy Byrd turns out to not be the killer, we can’t let him distract us from our mission for very long. Homicide works a little differently than narcotics or tech. There’s a bit of art involved with the science.” Stallings could see his comments had no effect on the portly black man, who refused to cross the threshold of the nasty apartment.
There was a tiny bathroom that had no door and only a filthy toilet and sink. On the single bed, a sleeping bag was laid out on one side with no sheets or pillow.
Stallings didn’t want to touch anything, let alone search, but he knew it had to be done.
Mazzetti stepped to the other side of the small room, muttering, “Maybe Sparky’s right. This is bullshit.” Then he slid open the single walk-in closet door and froze.
Stallings glanced from the pile of clothes on the bed and saw what was in the closet. Even Sparky had fallen silent.
Patty Levine had given up on being productive today, shut down her computer, gathered a few notes, and headed down to her car. She didn’t speak to anyone as she plodded down the stairs. She felt like the new girl in high school who wanted to be alone but didn’t like being lonely. The walk through the rear lot seemed to take forever, but at least it wasn’t raining for a change.
She slipped into her county-issued Ford Freestyle and plopped her notebook and purse onto the front passenger seat. She felt like calling Tony Mazzetti and finding out if he had some time to see her later, but she knew he and Sparky Taylor had gone out on a lead. She’d also felt some underlying tension between she and Tony and wondered if it was her reticence to move in with him. Patty didn’t feel like it was the right time and the fact that she had spent Sunday afternoon in a comfortable, drug-induced haze supported her idea that she should get a better handle on her drug use before she tried to make someone else happy. Her sour mood and lack of focus today were a direct result of the pills she had taken yesterday. She in no way felt recharged or rested, which was the only reason they were all given Sunday off in the midst of a big homicide investigation.
Patty pulled through the lot, twice braking hard to avoid patrol cars coming and going. Each time she mumbled some swear or curse, when, in truth, she didn’t know if it was more her fault or theirs.
The rear gate moved in slow motion. As always there were several day laborers and homeless people wandering on the sidewalk behind the building. Two young black men hurried down the street on the opposite side; their quick strides and confident manner told her that they weren’t homeless people. An elderly woman pushed a tiny shopping cart along the sidewalk toward the young men, who politely stepped to the side and allowed the old woman the full width of the sidewalk. On Patty’s side of the street a middle-aged Hispanic man wobbled toward her. At first she thought he might be drunk; then she realized he had one bad leg and he compensated for it with a lively swing of his arms.
Finally the gate locked open and Patty pulled through onto the street only to have to mash her brakes again. There was never traffic on this side street behind the PMB. The jackass in a pickup truck coming toward her wouldn’t swerve around. Instead, he stopped and stared until she threw her Freestyle into reverse and started to back into the lot.
Before she was out of the way of the pickup truck, still moving in reverse, she felt a thump and heard a sickening shriek.
Maria Stallings had spent many evenings wondering what went wrong in her life. One thing the Narcotics Anonymous meetings had taught her was not to dwell on the bad things but think about the good things in her life. The easiest way to do that was to think about her two children still at home.
Tonight she wasn’t contemplating anything; she was taking action. She’d been doing a lot of that lately. No matter how hard it was for her to send her husband away, Maria felt like it’d given her room to look at her life and hopefully make him realize how important the family was. No matter how many people he arrested, it wasn’t going to change what happened to Jeanie. Tonight’s activity had Maria in Jeanie’s room. It was largely the same way it had been the day she disappeared. Maria made it a point to vacuum and clean in the room just like she did the rest of the house. It made her feel better, and if Jeanie did come home she’d realize that no one had ever given up on her.
There were a number of things stored neatly in boxes stacked in Jeanie’s walk-in closet. This was where Maria had started her search. She had questions that needed answers, and she liked the idea she was the one who was going to find them.
Tony Mazzetti had not said a word. Now he, Stallings, and Sparky were i
nside Daniel Byrd’s apartment in front of the walk-in closet. In addition to a work shirt and a pair of men’s pants, there were five dresses hanging in the closet.
Mazzetti had a feeling this could be their man. Something about dresses in the shitty apartment didn’t fit. He looked around the apartment and said, “I’d bet my left nut that no woman lived in this apartment.”
“At least not willingly,” mumbled Stallings.
Mazzetti and Stallings turned to Sparky at the same time.
The portly detective looked at each of them and said, “No matter what we found, it doesn’t make breaking into this apartment right.” He checked the labels on each of the dresses quickly and said, “All big sizes. But this doesn’t mean anything.”
Mazzetti shook his head, “Come on, Spark, the totality of the circumstances, man. We get more and more information about this creep and it’s starting to add up. It may be that he likes to keep a dress from each of his victims. It may be something weirder. I know we need to snap some photos and decide what to take with us.”
Sparky said, “Now we’re gonna include theft with our burglary?”
Mazzetti knew he was in an odd position. He had no idea what could be evidence. Anything they took now would be thrown out if they made a case. At the very least he needed some DNA samples. He glanced around the room and saw an ashtray overflowing with Marlboro Light cigarette butts. He hesitated, not wanting Sparky to see what he was about to do.
Mazzetti pulled several small Baggies from his inside coat pocket. He always threw a couple in when he was going to do an interview of a suspect or be in a place where he might need to store something for DNA testing later. These were all hard lessons learned through experience. He let Stallings see the bags in his hand and then cut his eyes to the ashtray. He thought Stallings was an asshole, but he was an asshole Mazzetti could trust. Mazzetti knew Stallings wanted this guy captured more than anyone.