by James Andrus
At the school he automatically set up the frog sections so students could prepare slides for the microscope. He was distracted by the image of the cute Stacey Hines, the waitress from Ohio who didn’t want to go back. The hours he’d spent on the computer discovering the little mysteries of the girl had been so satisfying that he’d experienced a near-constant erection since he first learned just how alone the young woman really was. Soon, after her roommate had returned to Ohio, he would step in and show her the attention she deserved. Just the idea of her living so quietly in his special darkroom made him grin from ear to ear.
He’d done some research on men who had been successful in endeavors similar to his own. Ted Bundy had escaped detection several times by cleaning his VW bug with chlorine on a regular basis. Of course forensics were a lot less sophisticated in the 1970s, but the theory was sound. Bundy went on to become a legend of American killers.
Dremmel knew that few people learned the lessons of today from studying history. That was what he tried to get across to his students; by studying the past you can avoid the same mistakes again. No one followed this concept: not presidents, not generals, and apparently not serial killers.
He’d been reading up on Jacksonville’s most recent serial killers. One of the killers, Paul Durousseau, had broken a simple rule: don’t let anyone see you with a victim. As a taxi driver, Durousseau had access to a number of victims, but one concerned family tracked their missing daughter to him. Jovanna Jefferson’s body had been found in early 2003, and the fact that she had ridden in his cab was the break the Sheriff’s Office needed to direct their attention to the former soldier. It was his troubled time in the army and violent disputes with his wife that convinced the detectives he was their man.
Dremmel had no criminal record. There was hardly any record of him at all, anywhere. He was truly the invisible man, and he had something else Mr. Durousseau didn’t: brains. He could outwit anyone looking into the disappearance of a couple of petite girls. Hell, he hadn’t even heard anything about Tawny Wallace since he dumped her over in Springfield. It was as if she had never existed.
The other local killer he had read about was Carl Cernick. The crazy Czech upholsterer had strangled four women over nine months when a cop named Stallings, who at the time was investigating some other crime, had found him. That was a huge element of luck, but Cernick could’ve survived it if he’d been prepared with a story and nothing to link him to the victims. Instead he had kept mementos, in this case, a finger from one of the victims. But that had more to do with being a psychotic than it did with being smart. Dremmel would avoid that problem, because he knew he wasn’t crazy.
He was a scientist.
Tony Mazzetti had tried to focus on assigning duties to the other detectives, but he kept wondering what John Stallings was doing and if he was more than just lucky. Stallings’s capture of Carl Cernick had seemed like the luckiest break any cop had ever had. That was the kind of arrest Mazzetti had always dreamed about making. Glory, news coverage, citation. Damn it, Stallings even got the medal of valor for making the arrest by himself. That’s the kind of thing that Mazzetti needed.
He knew these rednecks didn’t necessarily appreciate a New Yorker in their midst. But no one, not the lowest crime scene weenie, all the way up to and including the all-powerful sheriff, could say he wasn’t a great detective. No one had his clearance rates. No one spent more time keeping his shit straight. All he needed was a big, flashy arrest like the one Stallings had made. With something like that no one would care if he was from New York or a goddamn Arab. He’d just be the best fucking detective anyone knew.
He decided to test Stallings right away on his willingness to be a team player. He had the secretary call everyone involved in the case to be at a meeting right after lunch in the homicide squad bay. That way he could see what the detective was up to, show him who was in charge, and set the right example for all the lesser detectives who’d been sent to help on this case.
Eight
John Stallings knew the town pretty well. The city of Jacksonville was traditionally good to visitors. It was essentially a Southern town both geographically and culturally. But it had a severe inferiority complex. The industry wasn’t large enough to support the town alone. Tourism wasn’t nearly as strong here as in South Florida, and the climate made it a lot more like Georgia than Florida. Jacksonville wanted to be a shining star in the Sunshine State, but felt more like a traffic tie-up on the way to Disney World.
The city dumped tax dollars into image control, hosting the Super Bowl, promoting the Jaguars and the annual Florida-Georgia game at the Alltel Stadium, which used to be called the Gator Bowl, but no one wanted to talk about the homeless and runaways who had to pretty much fend for themselves. BusinessWeek magazine listed J-Ville as one of the saddest cities in America based on stats like cloudy skies, crime and suicide rates, and unemployment.
John Stallings had spent a few hours checking some of the places that attracted runaways. It wasn’t like the old movies or stupid TV shows where everything happened at the bus station. Hell, the Greyhound terminal in Jacksonville on Pearl Street was relatively clean and comfortable, and it took people to other places. Teens who had left home were either gone or had come to Jacksonville from somewhere else. Finding runaways while at a transit point was like finding supermodels at the deli.
Teens who lived out on the street had hangouts. There was an old, abandoned hospital that homeless people found ways into and used as a shelter. Houses that offered some security either by an understanding adult or sometimes quietly by some foundation that figured having the teens safe was better than letting them loose on the streets, where they always ran into trouble. These safe houses may not contact parents or get the kids back home, but they were better than nothing. There was a place called the Trinity Rescue Mission that did a good job of looking after the homeless.
Years ago Stallings viewed them as an impediment to investigations, a group who thought they were above the law. He believed that teens should be dragged home if found and these safe houses were sending the wrong message. Part of that was hearing his father complain about Helen while she was gone and believing that she was better off with the family. Now he had the opposite sentiment and even tried to throw a little cash their way when he could. It was funny how his view of the world had evolved in the last few years.
Stallings had learned what it took for a sixteen-year-old to fend for herself and where she might do it. He also learned that it took a long time to build up trust with this subculture and shuddered at the thought of that idiot Mazzetti blundering into it thinking he could use his size and commanding voice to scare people into talking to the cops.
But Stallings knew better than to ignore the call to a meeting on the case just after lunch. Most meetings were useless and just a way for someone to show they could call a meeting to tell other cops things they already knew. Stallings had to admit that in this case he was interested in what they already knew and who was going to do the legwork.
Rita Hester had told him his role, but he wondered if they would abuse Patty. She was a sharp and tough detective, but also junior in the D-bureau. Patty’s looks could be deceiving, and he hoped the macho homicide dicks didn’t stick her on menial, worthless tasks. He wanted her to see if this was the kind of work she was interested in, and if she wanted to move on from missing persons, he’d support her. He was her partner; that was his job.
At the top of the staircase leading to the “D-bureau” or detective bureau, a tall road patrol sergeant named Rick Ellis stopped him.
“Stall, what’s shakin’?”
Stallings shook the bearlike hand and said, “I’m up in homicide for a little while.”
“I haven’t seen so many guys up in the Land That Time Forgot since Cernick was on the loose.”
Stallings looked down, not sure what to say. He didn’t know how public the task force was yet.
Ellis’s eyes popped larger. “Jesus, don’t
tell me we got us another serial killer.” A good cop read between the lines, and Ellis was a damn good cop.
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on yet, Rick.”
“Days like this I’m glad to be working traffic and patrol. Let me know if I need to pass something on to my troops.”
“I promise.”
As they started to head in opposite directions the uniformed sergeant said, “You look good, Stall. I’m glad to see you’re back in the game.”
Stallings sat at his desk, writing down a few phone numbers as Tony Mazzetti prepared to address the group of detectives by looking down at a few pages of notes. Someone had already cleaned the sand out of his drawers and his few personal belongings were arranged on the desk next to the computer that looked like something out of the Flintstones. It resembled a stained, off-white boulder with a rounded, green screen. He never had a lot of things to move around whenever he changed units at the S.O.—a photo of the whole family from a trip to Six Flags four years ago, an old-style Rolodex with business cards and little notes crammed into it, and a penholder with a soccer ball that was a thank-you from Charlie’s team he coached last fall. It said, “Coach John. You Rock.” It might have been his most cherished possession.
The low ceilings and stained fiber panels that hung between dim fluorescent lights made Mazzetti’s clean, crisp suit look impressive. The other eleven detectives took life in the Land That Time Forgot more casually. Patty and the other two female detectives had on jeans and professional blouses. One of them, Christina Hogrebe, or “Hoagie,” as she was commonly known, wore a pullover with the JSO badge and her name embroidered on the left chest.
The male detectives seemed to pattern themselves after Mazzetti, only with less taste and cash to throw into their wardrobes. Short-sleeve shirts with cheap polyester ties were the average, with Stallings at the low end of the scale in a simple polo shirt. What he needed to do on the case didn’t involve undercover or trying to impress anyone with his clothing.
Mazzetti began, “We’ve got a lot of forensics and lab work to decipher. So far we’ve found some black cat hair that may match on both victims. There are other factors that might tie the victims together.”
Someone called out, “Like what?”
“Their size, for one thing. Both women were five feet give or take an inch and a little over a hundred pounds. That may mean a lot.” His dark eyes scanned the room to see if anyone had any theories to throw out there. “I think it might mean this guy has his own height complex. That may be how he targets his victims. The fact that both victims were found stuffed inside some kind of luggage is also a detail that connects them.”
A lean, hard-nosed guy named Luis Martinez, pulled in from auto theft, said, “What’s with the first victim? I didn’t even realize we had another homicide like it.”
Mazzetti fumbled. “I-I,” he paused, took a moment, then said, “we were handling it quietly.” He cut his eyes to the silent Rita Hester sitting at the rear of the main group of detectives, but she didn’t offer any help. “That’s not important anymore. What’s vital is that we’re all on the same sheet of music and hit these leads hard.”
Stallings chuckled quietly, knowing the subject of how Detective Perfect screwed up would not go away. If anything, as the case wore on it would become more of a concern and subject to scrutiny.
Mazzetti looked down at his notes. “Right now we’re just gonna call this a homicide case. No nicknames or operations.”
Martinez said, “C’mon, Tony, I already had a perfect name for the investigation.”
Mazzetti sighed, “Okay, Luis, I’ll bite. What do you want to call it?”
“Son of Samsonite.”
The laughter around the squad bay was typical of cops who were exposed to the worst of society everyday. They could make jokes at horrific crime scenes, laugh at car accidents, and basically ignore things that would drive the average person insane, but for Stallings that shit had gone by the wayside a few years ago. He wanted to hit the street and find who had killed these girls. He wanted to start right this fucking minute, before the killer had a chance to strike again. He didn’t have time for jokes anymore.
He raised his hand and said, “Tony, now that we know about the linked deaths, what are we gonna do about it?”
“Good, at least someone is ready to get out there.” He looked down and started writing a few comments on his note pages. “We gotta see if we can identify someone named ‘Jamais.’ Moffit had his name tattooed on her upper right shoulder.” He pointed at a few detectives. “You guys are gonna fan out through the city.” He turned to another pair of detectives. “You two are going to check tattoo parlors to see if anyone local drew it.” After a few more assignments he looked at Patty Levine. “I need you to see if you can track down the manufacturer of the luggage to see if there is any way to get an angle on it that way.
“We’ve got a mountain of other things. Each of you has a photo of the first victim. We’re putting a drawing of her out to the media today. We gotta find a name to go with the body.” They often used the drawings of photographs to spare showing a dead body on TV, especially if there was a family out there that was unaware of the death. He clapped his hands. “Let’s get to work.”
Stallings stood up from his desk and grabbed his beat-up pad folio. Mazzetti stepped right over to him. In a quiet voice that made his slow speech more labored, he said, “No bullshit, Stall. You need to keep me filled in on anything you come up with.”
“Do you want to catch this guy as fast as possible?”
Mazzetti nodded and said, “More than anything.”
“Then I’ll keep you completely filled in.”
Nine
John Stallings didn’t usually work after sunset, at least for the Sheriff’s Office. He worked at providing his kids with a comfortable place to grow up. He worked at keeping the pressure off Maria so she could stay sober if not completely sane. He coached soccer, drove Lauren and her friends to gymnastics, and generally lived the life he had taken for granted years before.
But tonight he was on the street with a real purpose.
The analyst in the detective bureau had tried searching for anyone named Jamais arrested for procurement in the last five years but came up dry. This was a long shot like most leads on a big case, but it was real, and Stallings knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t make an effort to find this guy and see what he had to say.
The other detectives were searching for Jamais as if it were a competition, and they all seemed to play by the same rules, looking in the same kinds of places, talking to the same kind of people in the same stupid, cop way. It was more like talking at someone. There wasn’t one working girl on Arlington Avenue who would admit to knowing Jamais to one of the homicide guys if they didn’t have a reason to. And no one had a reason to give up someone to the cops. Not in J-ville or any other town with a street community. Talking to the cops was bad for business and bad for your health. That was why Stallings decided to go at this in a slightly different way, only talking to people he already knew—specifically former runaways who had reached eighteen and still lived on the street.
He headed into the Springfield area because he happened to know that Lee Ann Moffit had hung in the central Jacksonville neighborhood a lot. One of the times he found her she’d been in a house on North Liberty Street.
Prostitutes walking the streets were not as obvious as when he started on patrol as a green twenty-three-year-old. Back in those days of unbridled enthusiasm and endless energy he’d arrest prostitutes and their clients parked in the rear of Publix shopping centers or in dark, quiet parks. Slowly he started to prioritize his duties, and prostitution usually didn’t rank up there with robberies or drive-by shootings in his daily professional life. But Stallings, like most cops, had a particular distaste for pimps. The popular stereotype of a flamboyant, benevolent manager could not be further from the truth. The world of street prostitution is filled with violence and mistrust.
Pimps essentially enslave women, usually young women, and use threats of all kinds to keep the girls out working and giving them the lion’s share of the money.
Rolling into the lot of a shopping plaza that shut down at sunset, he waited like all lonely and desperate men did who were looking for a woman. He knew that parked here in the innocuous, unmarked Impala he’d probably have a lead on this Jamais in a few hours. This was an area where Stallings had spent a lot of time. He’d know someone on the prowl.
The activity on the street, which might not be obvious to the average driver, blinked like a neon sign to cops. The three men sitting on a bus bench were selling crack to a specific group that knew who they were and what they were doing. An undercover couldn’t buy from them because the dealers wouldn’t know them. A man sitting in a car across the lot was looking for a prostitute. A young man on a park bench across the street was available for sex. It was a parallel universe to normal life that most people chose to ignore and Stallings liked to avoid at this stage in his career. He didn’t want to think that his oldest daughter might be part of this subculture in some other city.
After fifteen minutes of sitting in the car with the windows down, he had ignored two different women because he didn’t know them. They were older than the crowd he had caught as runaways and he didn’t want to broadcast what he was doing if the likelihood of success wasn’t good.
Finally a young woman approached the car slowly, high heels slowing her progress over the uneven asphalt, sounding like an old telegraph, tapping out an uncertain message. She leaned into his open window and said, “Hey there…” Then stood up, “Oh shit, Stall.”
Stallings eased out of the car so the girl wouldn’t start running in those high heels and break her leg.
