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.