“It’s temporary. Just for this case.”
“Is this why you’ve been gone so much?”
He nodded, not bothering to explain that he’d been trying to tell her for days now, and she hadn’t really acknowledged his odd schedule. Was she coming back to full reality and joining the family? He didn’t care if it took anger for her to connect again, he just wanted her back with them.
She steadied herself on the back of the couch and he knew what she was thinking. He knew the look. She wanted something. Drugs, booze, she was reverting to old habits that had helped her cope with life. Now was not the time to pick a fight with her over why he needed to be working in homicide.
She looked up at him and said, “I need to make a call.” She rushed past him and up the stairs, almost knocking Lauren out of her way.
Charlie said, “Where’s Mom going? I’m hungry.”
Lauren’s face told Stallings she knew exactly who Mom was calling and that it could be a rough evening around the Stallings house.
This wasn’t how he wanted her to find out about his assignment. Maria had blamed his long hours in homicide as a contributing factor to Jeanie’s disappearance. She never used specific words like “kidnapping” or “runaway” she always called it a “disappearance.” She also looked for the first, most obvious excuse, which was his job. Now, after so much healing, he was worried the effect working homicide again might have on his wife. Maybe the AA sponsor she was calling right now would be able to talk her down. He knew his family needed him right now, but what they didn’t realize is that he needed them even more.
He plopped down at the dinner table and tried to put on a smile for the kids. Inside all he could do was imagine what it would be like to corner this Bag Man and work out his anger issues once and for all.
Tony Mazzetti stood alone in the shadows of the trees near where the body of the girl had been discovered that morning. It was after ten, and no one had been around for hours. In the spooky stillness of the park, broken only by the occasional car passing slowly on Terrace Road, Mazzetti tried to imagine the killer dragging the heavy suitcase across the pine needles in the dark. Did someone see him late? Did he do it in the middle of the night? What was he driving to transport her? These were the easier questions and the ones he preferred to ask himself. Other questions such as, was she scared before she died or was it a surprise? Did she have dreams for the future? Does her family realize she’s missing yet? Those things could distract him from his duties on the case, so he tried to guide his thoughts away from issues like that. Instead, his mind had filed away things like the tangible evidence found at the scene. The orange string, the simple black suitcase that had to be twenty years old, the single footprint in the dirt that didn’t belong to an arriving cop, the possible DNA material, and a host of other physical clues.
Mazzetti had to admit he didn’t have the contacts or way with people that John Stallings did. He compensated by being thorough and putting in hours no one with a family could. When all was said and done he didn’t have anything in his life but homicide and the recognition he got for his work.
For now that was enough for him.
John Stallings followed the medical examiner’s comments, but his brain was hazy. That was the only way to explain it after staying up with Maria until the early morning hours, holding her as she swung through a spectrum of emotions that all led to a four-hour crying jag. He had even put off looking for Peep Morans, realizing how important this was. He tried to explain his new assignment and to put into words why he was doing it, even though he wasn’t completely certain himself. He would’ve said anything to keep her safe and at home last night. He would’ve said almost anything to just make her happy again. Anything except, “I’ll pull out of the Bag Man investigation.” He was hooked, and he knew it.
Now a smart-looking woman about his age with rimless glasses and blue eyes that caught the overhead lights like a mirror explained what the autopsies of the three victims had found in common.
She stood erect like a Marine and looked at each person present directly in the eye, then moved on to the next. “The first two victims had similar levels of pharmaceutical drugs in their system. But this latest one had a lot more of everything, including marijuana, traces of ecstasy, and even Seconal.”
“Who uses Seconal?” asked Mazzetti.
“Usually it’s closely regulated. It’s a heavy-duty sedative. Older patients with chronic problems might be prescribed it. But you don’t see it in common street use. I’d say that the killer has access to a source and knows what he’s doing. That’s not the kind of drug you just try out.”
“What about the stab wounds?”
“Very precise and with a great deal of power behind them. The marks around the wounds indicate that the killer drove in the knife with enough force to damage the tissue around the wound with his hand.”
Rita Hester looked at the M.E. and said, “Any theories?”
“On the knife? That’s your department. I would say the wound to the neck was probably unnecessary. The one in the abdomen came up and damaged the heart. She was high, which warded off shock, so she probably moved around but she wouldn’t have survived. I have no idea why he switched from drugs to a knife.”
Stallings said, “I think he just screwed up. She started to scream, and he stabbed her. Killing them isn’t his main objective. He’s got some other plan or else he wouldn’t go to the trouble of luring the girls away from where he meets them.”
“That another lucky guess?” asked Mazzetti.
The lieutenant’s hard look shut up Mazzetti and kept Stallings from making a comeback.
The M.E. nodded and said, “That makes sense, because the first two victims lived for some time with the drugs in their systems. I’d really try and find his drug source if possible.”
Stallings listened and took a few notes, but the discussion was unsettling to him. Besides Mazzetti, the M.E., the chief forensic scientist, and Rita Hester were in the small room. Rita looked imposing in a brown pantsuit and her pistol on her belt by her hip with a badge exposed next to it. He didn’t know if it was a subtle message to the M.E. that she was a working boss who was in charge or if she just decided to wear it like that.
Mazzetti looked at the forensic scientist, a stubby man everyone just called “Bud.” “What do you guys have, Bud?”
He cleared his throat and somehow just that action telegraphed his Southern drawl. “It’s too early on the DNA scrapings. We’re rushing it, but it’ll still be a week. We have a flake of skin from the wheel of the suitcase used in the first incident and the scrapings from this girl’s fingernails. We might get lucky with a match.”
“But there’s nothing in CODIS?” CODIS was the FBI’s database on DNA, the combined DNA index system. Like all police agencies the feds wanted a cool name for the toy.
“No, we checked. We’re also hooked up with the FDLE on it. They have the best DNA database in the country. If the killer has been looked at and a sample turned in, they’ll match it.” He cleared his throat again, then took an old handkerchief from his tight rear pocket and wiped his lips. “We got a few things you might want to follow up on.”
“Go on,” said Mazzetti, the impatience evident in his voice.
“The killer is smart. He sprayed WD-40 on the inside of the suitcase so we couldn’t lift any fingerprints if he left them. The only fiber evidence is the long orange string you found in the woods near where he left the body. We’re going to see what we can figure out about it and let you know. Also, the last two victims had decorative sand on their bodies. The one from last week had a few grains on her feet like she stepped on a path barefoot, and the newest victim had a little ingrained in her elbow as if she fell. The sand matches and you might, with some help from a geologist, figure out where it came from.”