by James Andrus
Her voice had a youthful tinge of excitement. “I just moved down here from Ohio and fell in love with the ocean. I’ve been going over there every day.”
“Which beach?”
“Neptune Beach.”
He nodded, “I like that one too. How do your parents feel about you living all the way down here? How do they know you’re okay?”
She looked down, her face clouded for a moment. “That’s one of the reasons I stayed. They’re way too protective and I mean, I am twenty-one. I call them once a week, but if they knew exactly where I was they’d be down here bugging me to come home.”
“You’re here all alone?”
“I had my girlfriend Marcie with me, but she’s homesick and is gonna move back this weekend.” She paused, then added, “But I’m staying for the sun and beach.”
He processed the information, careful not to say too much yet. He didn’t want her blabbing to Marcie. Instead, he decided to wait until Monday to really start working her. She was definite girlfriend material as well as a perfect research specimen.
John Stallings had seen it all in the course of his career, and like all major crime scenes, this one spiraled into an organized chaos quickly. Of course in the early days of his career they didn’t worry so much about the high-tech biohazard suits and other protection from blood-borne pathogens. Now there was a separate class on it for his refresher training every year. A new cute crime scene tech carefully sketched out the lobby for future use in court. He noticed the young, uniformed, Jax Beach cop stare at the pretty crime scene tech’s face. As she concentrated on her work, her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth like it held her lips in place. A tall, skeletal photographer named Wally, wearing a full biohazard suit, snapped digital photos near the storage room. Stallings knew the majority of photos were of Lee Ann Moffit in the bag. He knew the enterprising crime scene photographer moonlighted shooting weddings and birthdays, because he had once seen him at his cousin’s wedding using a slick digital with a “JSO” property sticker on the side. The photographer’s secret was safe.
This was the first time Stallings had ever looked at a corpse of someone he knew. The young woman had played lacrosse in the same league as Jeanie four years ago, and when Stallings had found her as a runaway he had bonded with the girl’s mother. It wasn’t too long after Jeanie had disappeared, and it felt satisfying to use his experience to help someone else.
He missed those warm Sunday afternoon games, when problems seemed so far away. He’d sit in a folding chair while Lauren and Charlie romped around the edges of the field and Jeanie drove for a score. Lacrosse was a good outlet for his oldest child’s determination and energy. Maria called it stubbornness. That was about the time Jeanie started showing how entrenched she could be. The threat of punishment had little effect on her. Privileges like TV and telephone meant nothing to her. She would sit out groundings silently. After his own childhood, Stallings would never have considered physical punishment.
He still searched for her, or even a hint of her. He had to keep his efforts quiet, because he could never be assigned to his own family’s case. But he knew a boatload of other missing persons cops around the country, and they all tried to help. They ran down silly leads he heard on the streets, checked regularly in homeless hangouts, and had her photo up in every police station from Miami to Seattle. Stallings even watched every documentary on runaways in the slight chance he might notice Jeanie in the background of one of the scenes. He had been more overt just after she disappeared but quickly realized he was alienating investigators and screwing up the search more than helping. What was he expected to do? He was a father.
But those warm Sunday lacrosse games and the terror of Jeanie’s disappearance were a long time ago. Stallings’s main interest now was getting involved in this homicide case. Not like a lapdog or some rookie errand boy, but as a real part of the investigative team. The regular homicide detectives got the real assignments. He’d given up his slot in the unit and now had to find a way to worm his way back in. He knew to get ingrained in the case right now so he couldn’t be denied when he asked to work it with homicide.
Patty had written the probable-cause affidavit for the creep now only known as “Joe Smith” who had checked in with the girl. He’d used every tired excuse Stallings had heard before. “I thought she was eighteen. It was consensual. She doesn’t look like a little girl.” Fuck him and all the predators that look for these girls that get turned around or have to leave home for some reason. This wasn’t even his own personal bias, it was the common view of cops who saw it day in and day out. Just the thought of a middle-aged guy and a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old made him sick to his stomach as he thought about Jeanie and where she might be.
The public had shown an odd interest in predators with the TV show where a reporter lured them into stings. Somehow the show didn’t convey the true creepiness of these lowlifes. People even laughed at the antics of some of the numb nuts on the show: one man stripping down in the kitchen, another returning even after being stung already. Stallings saw no humor in it. This was an epidemic as far as he was concerned, and he wished justice could be both harsher and swifter on these pusbags.
Looking out into the lobby, Stallings saw the lead detective, Tony Mazzetti, standing on a chair to be seen and heard by everyone. He stated a few obvious concerns, in his Brooklyn buzz saw of an accent. He didn’t want anyone inside the tape that didn’t sign the log. So what? He wanted the crime scene guys to take their time with the bag and the room. Anyone would’ve known that. Finally, no one could talk to the media. That meant no one except him. In fact, that was really why he was on the chair in his fancy suit and monogrammed shirt; he was giving the TV cameras a chance to shoot some interesting B-roll before he got sweaty and had to take off his expensive coat. He was such a media hound the other homicide guys called him the “King of Homicide.” Everyone got a nickname. But this jackass didn’t realize everyone was goofing on him with his title. His tailored suits and time in the gym building his arms and chest made him look like an extra in a Martin Scorsese film each time he shoved his way in front of a camera.
Mazzetti was a good detective even if Stallings hated to admit it. He was good for the opposite reason that Stallings was. He didn’t care about people. They were either victims or perps or witnesses, not mothers or sisters or uncles. Guys like Mazzetti looked at the family of homicide victims as not much more than a bundle of DNA to supply samples so some lab tech could advance a case. It wasn’t even like the bullshit that TV shows peddled. All the DNA evidence in the world didn’t help in a murder if you didn’t have a suspect. Most cases were broken by detectives who knew how to interview and could sift facts from crap in an instant. Mazzetti could interview, interpret what lab reports might mean to a case, and get his face in the newspaper, but he didn’t know shit about life. He had no idea what it felt like to lose a loved one or see what one act of violence could do to a whole family. Mazzetti was out to solve the case, no doubt about it, but he missed out on the real value of it, the satisfaction a cop could find by knowing that someone might rest a little easier because of what they did. He was the kind of cop who kept score and rubbed it in people’s faces. He was a glory hound.
Stallings knew this asshole would resist assistance on a homicide, and his history with the well-dressed detective wouldn’t help. But Stallings could work a room and knew there had to be a way to slip in on the case. Mazzetti just had to think it was his idea, or someone above him in the chain.
Briefly, Stallings considered what would happen to his family if he got involved in homicide again. Although his wife didn’t openly blame his long hours for Jeanie’s disappearance, he felt her contempt in between rehab stops or when sorrow just overtook her. He didn’t like the idea of missing Charlie’s soccer practices either, but he knew himself, and this wasn’t something he could forget about and move on. Now, more than ever, crimes against young women hit him like a truck. He settled down at a table knowin
g that sooner or later Mazzetti would have to come to him. The question was whether to let the detective in on his plans to join the case or wait until after he could call in a few favors.
Ten minutes later Stallings watched Mazzetti strut toward him, saying, “Another lucky break for Detective Stallings.”
Stallings knew his big arrest of serial killer Carl Cernick years earlier bugged the King of Homicide, so he didn’t bother to take the bait.
Stallings said, “Just good police work, Tony.” That would bug Mazzetti more than anything else. He hated that Stallings was a local celebrity because of the case.
“You got anything to add, other than you smelled her, then checked the duffel bag?” He rolled his brown eyes to indicate that it wasn’t really police work that led Stallings to the body.
Stallings had a lot to add, but for now he said, “I’ll write up a report on it. I know her.”
“What? How?” The cool detective couldn’t hide his surprise. He tried to cover it by smoothing his thin mustache, then pulling the cuffs of his expensive shirt.
“First, I knew her from my daughter’s lacrosse league a few years ago.” He had to take a second to swallow, then said, “She was a runaway after that, and I found her.” He paused and added, “Twice.” He kept his eyes on the dapper detective, looking for any hint of what he was thinking. Mazzetti ignored the work going on behind him as he locked gazes with Stallings.
Finally Mazzetti said, “So the last time you saw her was working the ‘runaway roundup’?”
Stallings nodded, still trying to get a fix on what this guy was thinking.
“She a hooker?”
Stallings resisted the urge to punch him. “She did what she had to, but I had heard she was clean the last few months. She even had a job at a copy place.” He purposely didn’t offer more.
“You know her boyfriends or anything?”
He shook his head. “No, I hadn’t seen her in a while. She turned eighteen last year, and her mom stopped filing the missing persons reports.”
“You talk to the mother since?” Mazzetti managed to make it sound like an accusation.
Stallings waited as Mazzetti stopped to take some notes. There was a rough sketch of the floor with a few dimensions, list of potential witnesses, and five lines of scribbled words. When the homicide detective looked up again Stallings knew what he was going to ask. It was perfect for his goal.
“You wanna make notification?”
Stallings didn’t want to seem eager. No cop wanted to tell the family one of their kids was just found dead, especially if the parent couldn’t add anything to a death investigation. Every cop learned that two areas could get you in real trouble real fast: death notifications and missing kids. You never put off either task.
Finally, after making Mazzetti twist in the wind a while, he said, “Yeah, I could tell Lee Ann’s mom. Probably better coming from me anyway.”
Mazzetti relaxed slightly, sucked in a breath, and said, “Thanks, Stall. I’ll be busy here for a long time anyway.”
“Who’s helping you on this?”
Mazzetti looked over his shoulder at the crime scene techs and a couple of detectives, then turned back to Stallings. “Don’t you worry about it. Homicide has got this covered. You can make notification, but remember to tell me if the mom can add anything.” He stood up.
Stallings nodded to Patty and stood up too. The start of a migraine blossomed somewhere deep inside his brain. It was getting late and he felt the need to check in at the house. God knows what could happen if he were too late. That’s why he preferred working the seven to three shift; sometimes he’d go 10-8, or in-service, on the radio right from his house and could manage to be home before either of the kids rolled in from school. Today wouldn’t be one of those days.
Mazzetti said, “Go find those runaways.” His stupid way of making a joke. It was childish, but so were a lot of cops.
“Tony, you don’t need to be a dick. I like the assignment.”
The homicide detective looked away, stroking his trimmed mustache, “That what happens when your homicide career is based on one lucky grab?”
Stallings smiled. “That may be true, but I’m still the only one in the room with a medal of valor.” He didn’t wait to see the effect of his response.
Four
John Stallings pulled his county-issued Impala into the driveway of his Cedar Hills home, southwest of the city, took three long, deep breaths, secured his pistol in a metal box under the driver’s seat of the car, then consciously put on his “home face.” This was the same ritual he had completed after a day at work for many years. It sunk in that he needed two separate personalities when his three-year-old daughter had called someone a “jerk-off.” It wasn’t even funny to him now thinking back on it.
His comfortable, two-story house was ten minutes from his mom’s house if he needed her or his sister, Helen, to come by and help out with the kids, or on occasion with his wife, Maria. They both lived in the house that he grew up in. His dad had spent the final eights years of his career in the Navy at Mayport and grabbed the house a block from the St. Johns River from a chaplain who was getting shipped out to San Diego. The old man had been a hard-ass who wouldn’t listen when everyone said he was losing sight of what was important. After Stallings had left for his baseball scholarship at the University of South Florida, his mother made a stand and the old drunken bully moved out. As far as Stallings was concerned it was seventeen years too late. He’d seen his father twice in twenty years. Once at his uncle’s funeral and once when the asshole was in the drunk tank at the city jail. At least he had had enough class not to ask for any help when he saw his son in his new blue JSO uniform with a patch that said BOLD NEW CITY OF THE SOUTH on his shoulder.
Stallings helped the old man anyway. He got one of the booking officers to lose his paperwork, and the senior Stallings never had to answer for the drunken punch he threw at some other rummy at a bar off Arlington Avenue.
Stallings had stuck out the beatings and drunken fits, but his older sister, Helen, made her escape at fourteen only to show up a couple years later. She never talked about her time away from the family, but the fact that she still lived quietly with their mom at forty-three spoke volumes about what had happened to her on the street. She never drank, smoked, used drugs, or even dated. He knew she felt guilty about Jeanie’s disappearance, like it was some kind of genetic code that had passed to her niece. Secretly, Stallings himself wondered if somehow his sister had influenced events. Either way it was just one more fucked-up aspect of his personal life that he had to keep a lid on for the sake of the family.
The late afternoon sun peeked between low clouds as he prepared to enter his other world. He slid out of the car, nodded to his neighbor like he always did, and headed into the house, hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst. Like he always did.
He let out a quick sigh of relief when he saw Lauren helping Charlie with his homework as soon as he walked in the door. His eight-year-old son’s dark hair hung down in front of his face as he looked at the page and listened to his thirteen-year-old sister. Looking at them made any of the shit he saw during the day seem petty and filled him with a sense of purpose like nothing else. He never did understand how parents couldn’t do everything in their power to make the best life possible for their kids.
His daughter looked up. “Hey, Dad. You’re late today.”
“Sorry guys, got hung up at work.”
Charlie looked up and grinned. “Hey, Dad.”
Stallings walked over and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Hey there, Charlie-boy.”
“How’s the homework going?”
“It’s so easy tonight a firefighter could do it.” He smiled at the proper use of the joke.
Stallings laughed out loud. Like most cops he had a slight pang of jealousy toward firefighters. Everyone loved firefighters, because they didn’t write speeding tickets or arrest people. Cops joked about how their brother public servants
got to work out and sleep on duty, and every firefighter he knew had a second business. So jokes at firefighters’ expense were common.
Charlie smiled and said, “Can we kick?”
He hesitated. Kicking the soccer ball with his son was one of the things that kept him sane. He had preferred baseball, at least he had some talent there, but his son loved the soccer field, so Stallings adjusted to the new generation’s sport of choice. The athletic boy could already outrun him. “I have to head back out in a little bit, pal. We might need to kick twice as long tomorrow.”
“Gotta catch a bad guy?”
Stallings laughed out loud, amazed at how his son had a way of pulling him out of a funk. “No, nothing so exciting. I have to talk to the lieutenant, then see a lady about something. I should be back before bedtime.” He caught the look on Lauren’s face and shook his head slightly so she knew not to worry. This was business, nothing to do with Mom.
He kissed his daughter on the forehead and looked up at the bookcase holding family photos. Every time he walked in the room he looked up at the last photo with all five of them in it. His oldest daughter, Jeanie, smiled back at him, and he closed his eyes for a quick prayer that she was safe. The support groups all said it was important to remember a missing child and have positive feelings about him or her. Stallings did his best.
Now, three years later, he tried to focus on the family as best he could and these two seemed happy. It had taken counseling, anger, frustration, and time. His quiet search continued as he worked closely with the National Missing Children’s Clearinghouse in Washington. They were a smart group that did good work even if most people were ignorant of their efforts. He had computer databases at work he checked once a month or so. Unidentified bodies of young females, a mental patient who wouldn’t speak, usually called Jane Doe by the facility, bulletins about any possible connection to his daughter, but nothing had panned out. He needed to show the kids that he had not given up on Jeanie.