The Perfect Prey

Eleven

John Stallings sat on a dryer in the dank laundry room of the old apartment building while Stan finished another load. The old man didn’t want to be seen in public with any form of law enforcement officer. It was an unwritten code at this refuge for derelicts that anyone from a lowly probation officer to a JSO detective was only here to mess with the residents. Stan was making an exception because, whether he liked to admit it or not, Stallings had shown him compassion and tracked down his attackers when no one else seemed to care.

Years ago, when Stallings was assigned to crime/persons, he responded to Shands Hospital to interview Stan, who was homeless and had been beaten and left for dead by a gang of thugs in Arlington. Stan, as well as everyone else, thought the cops would just take a cursory report and dismiss it as they did almost every crime against the voiceless homeless. Stallings, following his usual obsessive pattern, had found the four men responsible and while talking to one of them was attacked with a knife by another. Even with the wound in his side from a three-inch Buck knife blade he managed to wound two of them with his duty pistol, knock one of them unconscious with a solid elbow to his chin, and then chase down the last one with his police car and break both of his legs with a not entirely unintentional late stop with the car. The impact had sent the man twenty feet through the air off Stallings’s bumper.

Stan couldn’t believe it at the time and used the incident to clean up his life, sober up, get a job at the VA as a maintenance man, and reestablish contact with his estranged family. Stallings knew all that because he kept up with many of the people he had helped over the years. He hated to ask him for help, but when a young girl was missing there were no rules or etiquette. Stan understood that.

The old man shook his head at Allie Marsh’s photo. “I don’t get out much anymore, Stall. I lead a prayer group over at the pavilion in the park behind the building here and see those guys most everyday, but I’d remember a pretty woman around here.”

“Her phone was used by a man, and it pinged off a cell tower near by.”

“What kind of phone?”

“A cell phone, small…”

Before Stallings could say it, Stan added, “Red?”

Stallings perked up. “How’d you know?”

“Because I know who had a phone like that.”

Ten minutes later, John Stallings was on the move. He didn’t like marching through the brush on the far side of the apartment building at night without backup, but he liked the idea of leaving a lead like this hanging until morning even less. The path was pretty obvious even in the ambient light from the street and a quarter moon rising over the Atlantic.

He had seen no one since he started walking into the thick scrub, but knew that this was a popular homeless hangout. Not the younger runaways who tended to hang out near downtown and had a chance to turn it around, but the older, burned-out, alcoholic homeless that tended to be men in their fifties, some of them veterans of the Vietnam War who were never able to fully integrate back into society. Some were convicted felons who couldn’t find a job and decided to turn their backs on the rest of the world, and some were just mentally unbalanced and were turned out into the world by a system that often couldn’t afford to care for them.

There was no real bond among most of the men. They talked a good game about looking out for one another, but Stallings knew they constantly stole from one another, beat each other, and sold each other out when it was convenient. Stallings knew Stan wasn’t selling anyone out. He was concerned about the missing girl and had told Stallings that the man he saw with the phone was not the violent predatory type. But he knew the violent predatory types were usually not too obvious; that’s how so many were able to operate without detection.

Stallings had seen several different studies on serial killers. The newest ones had revised the number of murders committed by serial killers in the United States from about 200 a year to as many as 2,000 a year. That was an astonishing number to a cop. Yet the threat from a serial killer was never mentioned until the media got ahold of a story and played it up.

He continued on his slow trek through the scrub and pine. Up ahead he heard voices, and the flickering light of a campfire bled through the trees. He eased up and tried to figure how many men were in the small camp. He could hear two voices, but could see at least four bodies through the bushes.

Stallings cleared his throat loudly, then made sure he didn’t surprise anyone as he crashed through branches into the clearing. He’d misjudged. There were ten men in the clearing, and they all jumped at the sight of him. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a problem. But that hope faded as he ducked a board swung at his head.

He tapped his heel to the beat of the “You Found Me” by The Fray. Heel tapping was more alluring than toe tapping. Not that it made a difference with him. He peered out over the dance floor, disappointed in tonight’s offering. It was a little soon since his last capture, but he’d found that he waited less and less time after every kill. His memory of Allie was fresh and so was her scent on him. He didn’t shower, because he loved the musty smell of sex mixed with a woman’s perfume.

He’d posted her photograph up on his collage at his east apartment. It was one he’d taken with his cell phone and printed on his good Epson photo-quality printer. She held the top right edge of the collage of blue eyes and blond hair. Some might have been too thin or too short, but they all had that clean, European look.

He’d also kept a memento. This was a new trick, but he’d found he wanted something from every prize he brought down with a swift foot and extended claw. In Allie’s case it was her belly-button ring. A little gold number with a loop of fine chain that drooped down her tight stomach. He’d plucked it out after she was dressed and tucked away in the corner of the park. Now it was in a wooden box he’d made in seventh grade along with a couple of earrings, a ring, and a silver ball that was part of a tongue stud.

He knew keeping photos and trinkets wasn’t a smart move, but they were subtle. If his landlord wandered in, he wouldn’t think anything about it. The girls were from other cities or listed as suicides so they wouldn’t have been in the news much. It had taken him a few times before he realized that suicides or just plain missing girls raised a lot less fuss than a murder victim. Man, he remembered the stink in Daytona a few years ago. Luckily no one ever tied it back to him. Cops generally didn’t stay hot on the trail of cases once the media died down.

Even the mementos weren’t alarming. Everyone had the odd piece of jewelry. It wasn’t like the crazy-assed killer here in Jacksonville a few years ago named Carl Cernick. He’d been caught because he had a finger from one of his victims. Crazy people caused all kinds of shit.

Now he looked across the floor and saw a blond head with hair that hung straight down a beautiful back with strong shoulders. Immediately his penis stiffened at the thought of finding more prey so quickly. He’d still have to cut her loose from the herd, but that usually wasn’t a problem. Especially since here, where no one knew him, he didn’t have to be quite so careful.

He eased along the edge of the floor to get a look at her and see whom she was with. She had a long, lithe body and swayed to the beat unlike a lot of girls. He liked that. He’d already seen an emerald ear stud that would make a great memento. His heart began to beat faster, sharpening all his animal instincts. He edged closer, realizing that the girl was here with a couple of friends. The easiest possible target.

Then she turned and saw him. He paused to let her take in his full image. She smiled as he expected, but then his heart sank. In the light he could see she had brown eyes. Dark brown eyes.

He turned, deflated enough to simply leave alone.

Stallings ducked the two-by-four that would’ve cracked his skull, then dodged a brick from another direction. He stayed low and dove behind a thick pine tree and called out, “Not very friendly of you.”

Another brick bounced off the tree trunk.

Stallings yelled. “I’m a cop, and the next motherfucker that chucks something at me is gonna get his ass kicked. Is that clear?” He raised his voice and took off the friendly edge.

There was silence and an absence of projectiles.

He peeked from behind the tree, showing his badge as he did. He took another look, accounting for all ten men. Then he stepped out and said, “That’s better.”

No one spoke at first. Then an older man in the back said, “What are you hassling us for all the way out here?”

“Hassling you! You’re the ones who tried to take my head off.”

“This is our camp. We don’t bother no one.” The others nodded in agreement.

“I heard one of you might have something I need.”

“What?” asked a couple of them at the same time.

“A cell phone. A red cell phone.” He searched the faces in the group to see if anyone flinched or gave it away.

Everyone stayed calm.

“I expected this kind of response and was ready.” Stallings already had Allie’s number in his phone and pressed send. In a few seconds he heard the beat to a song that was also a ring tone. All the heads started turning until one man was the focus of the entire crowd.

The heavy, older white man rolled onto his knees in an attempt to spring up and flee, but Stallings was standing next to him and had to help him up to his feet.

Stallings said, “Looks like we need to talk.”