by James Andrus
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 knowing 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.
He knew that if his wife wasn’t out here in the living room, she was on the computer or phone, and he found her in the bedroom, where she tapped away at a black Dell keyboard.
He took a deep breath and felt able to face Maria.
“Hey, dear.” He always stayed upbeat until it was clear he couldn’t anymore.
She glanced up from an instant message she was composing. “Just finishing up. This poor woman from St. Joe, Missouri, has a daughter who’s been missing eight months. I’m just giving her a few ideas for support.”
He leaned down to kiss her forehead. It was also a way to sniff her breath.
She hit Send and looked up. Her dark oval eyes and high cheekbones made her look as fresh as she did on their wedding day in Las Vegas on her twentieth birthday. They had eloped without fanfare to hide the fact that she was pregnant from her Orthodox Cuban parents. By the time Jeanie came along the goodwill of the baby had distracted Maria’s father from the math.
After Stallings’s failed baseball and academic career at USF, Maria had seemed like the only thing in his life that was worthwhile. He searched everyday for that old feeling.
Maria said, “How was your day?”
“Not so good.”
She glanced back at the screen. “I have to answer this e-mail. Hold on.” She plunked back in the swivel chair.
Stallings didn’t mind. It looked like another night of peace, and he could go back out to work without distraction for a couple of hours. But he wanted to see the kids before they went to bed. That would keep him going.
Rita Hester pressed the unlock button on her key chain and heard the familiar double beep of her blue Crown Vic parked
in the detective bureau lieutenant’s spot outside the main sheriff’s building on East Bay Street. Everyone knew the three-story building as the Police Memorial Building or PMB for short. The wind was just right for her to smell the coffee from the Maxwell House plant a few blocks away. That beat the shit out of the breeze carrying the acrid, rancid odor of the paper mills as it had for years. Even though the community and industry had worked hard to ease the effects of the paper mills, and the locals quickly got used to the stench, the wrong breeze would smack you in the face and make tourists gag. No one missed the mill’s departure as part of the city’s identity. Unfortunately that was just about the only thing visitors remembered from trips to the “bold new city of the south” when the mill poured out the foul-smelling byproducts of paper production. She knew that the sulfur used in the process was part of the odor equation, but later learned it was also the cooking out of the lignins and sugars in the wood. She was just glad it was gone.
From her car she could look up onto the second floor and see “The Land That Time Forgot,” as the detectives called it. The detective bureau, with its mismatched carpets, scuffed walls, and ancient equipment, was always the last unit to get upgrades. The public saw the patrol cars and marveled at the computers to get information to the patrolmen but never dealt with detectives. No one seemed to care if there was money in the budget for them. Rita never really cared until the detective bureau fell under her command. She hadn’t bothered to actually move into the bureau, deciding instead to keep her office next to the clean lab facilities, but she fought to get any scrap she could for the detectives. Just outfitting them with laptops was a monumental task but she had accomplished it. Sure, they were leftover computers from the training division, but they worked, and it was better than nothing.
As she slid the key into the lock, she sensed someone approaching her. Even in the safety of the Sheriff’s Office lot, her twenty years of police work made her reach for her purse and the small Glock model 27 inside. The nine years she spent on patrol taught her to automatically reach to her right hip, where she carried her duty weapon, but as she worked her way through the D-Bureau and up the command structure she had made it a point to retrain herself to reach for her purse.
