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,
