crews were following Stallings as he ignored them and made his way toward his car. Son of a bitch, Mazzetti almost said out loud. That guy gets all the attention, and it’s not right. He’d worked too hard to let a lucky stiff like Stallings steal all the glory. He’d find this crazy-assed killer first if it took a twenty-four-hour-a-day effort.
He looked back at Patty to see if she noticed his aggravation and realized: she really was a knockout.
After he’d heard the news report, William Dremmel made a little detour to drive past the park where he had left poor, loud, obnoxious Trina two nights ago. He knew by the slow procession of traffic that there were other rubberneckers, and that would cover him well enough. He smiled at his realization that the old adage, “The killer always returns to the scene of the crime,” was apparently true.
He could only see a couple of uniformed cops from the road, but he noticed the news vans parked along the edge of the woods and it made his smile broader. He didn’t know why, but the whole idea of this much effort caused by his experiments made him feel special.
With a day’s worth of reflection, he was starting to believe he’d learned something during the whole Trina fiasco. One thing that he needed to correct was his knowledge of the brain and anatomy of the spinal cord. He’d spent his academic career dissecting cats, frogs, and snakes but hadn’t spent much time on human anatomy. The kind of labs and classes he taught revolved around basic biology, which treated humans as only one of the many species inhabiting the Earth. A very egalitarian, but not necessarily effective way to teach.
Although not as interesting or useful as holding a girl as she silently expired from one of his drug cocktails, Trina’s sudden death held an interest of its own. The way his knife blow to her neck just shut off all brain function instantly gave him other ideas for future research. But that would happen after he perfected the drug regimen.
He drove his drab, common minivan past the scene, unnoticed by everyone, then proceeded to the restaurant where Stacey Hines worked. By now either her roommate had gone back to Ohio or he’d have to look for a new subject. He wasn’t so desperate to risk being caught over a simple error like a roommate knowing his name or description.
Trina was a fluke, but he had gotten away with it. He’d worked hard to overcome his impulsiveness on the matter. Thank God his mother hadn’t rolled into the kitchen, where she could see the living room. No excuse in the world would’ve explained the blood smeared across the floor. He was also lucky no one from the Wendy’s had noticed them together.
He drove along, enjoying his feeling of power and satisfaction, then saw the little sports bar optimistically named The Fountain of Youth, even though the real fountain was supposed to be in St. Augustine, forty-five miles away. He turned a block early so he could come up from behind and see the lot where Stacey usually parked her ratty, rusted Ford Escort. He felt himself hold his breath as he took one corner, then another. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to be there. When he turned onto the street he could see the little car wedged in next to an overflowing Dumpster.
Dremmel parked a block away and made it look like he was going into a clothing store, then slipped back out and hustled down the empty street to the sports bar. He caught himself a half a block away and slowed down, because he didn’t want to seem too anxious even though Stacey was the only thing on his mind at the moment.
He paused inside the door and scanned the small restaurant. Two men sat at the bar watching a rerun of the Giants-Patriots Superbowl on the NFL channel. No one this side of Boston ever seemed to get tired of seeing the game over and over. Dremmel wasn’t even a big sports fan and he knew the details of the legendary contest where basic football skills beat arrogance and entitlement. At least that was the most poetic way he’d heard it described.
A young couple sat on the same side of a booth, shared some fries, and snuggled. In the far corner, the beautiful Stacey Hines stood in front of a table occupied by one old man with a comb-over that made Rudy Giuliani look like he had an Afro. He just watched her from a distance, her cute smile and lovely, graceful neck, the curves of her breasts and hips all contained in the little package that fit so nicely into his experiments.
He stepped in, nodded to the bartender, trying not to be too memorable. There was no other choice; he’d have to be incredibly lucky to catch her alone in the front of the restaurant. The first time had to have been a fluke. He wasn’t sure how to get around a potential witness other than to be calm and play it slow. Dremmel just prayed the man didn’t step out from the bar to take his order. He stole a glance at Stacey as she patted the old man on the shoulder, laughing with him as she took his order. Then he noticed the heavy man from the bar start to walk toward the open end of the counter. Was he coming to Dremmel to take his order? Jesus, no, prayed William Dremmel, as it seemed more and more obvious.
He looked back over at Stacey, who seemed to be finishing up her order. “C’mon, come on,” he mumbled under his breath.
The heavy bartender cleared the end of the bar, glanced over at Dremmel, and nodded.
“Shit,” whispered Dremmel.
The bartender leaned over the bar and said, “Stacey.”
She turned and looked at the bartender as he pointed her in Dremmel’s direction. She just nodded.
Maybe she doesn’t even remember me, thought Dremmel. Then, as she started his way, a smile broke across her cute face. The smile had a crooked quality to it, dipping on the right side, but that just made her more attractive.
She said, “Hey, you came back. I knew you’d like our hamburgers.”
He wanted to just jump in and ask if her roommate had really moved. It took all his concentration to say, “Yeah, it was great. How about the same thing?”
She paused and asked, “Which burger did you have?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How ’bout the blue cheese burger?”
“Perfect.”
She made a note of his Diet Pepsi order and then looked down at him and smiled. “What happened to your eye?”
He hesitated for an instant and then said, “Basketball. Took an elbow.”
“Looks like it was a rough game. Someone scratched you too.”
“Same play. He was trying to keep me from falling.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not now.”
“I’m glad you came back.”
“Yeah, me too. Hey, didn’t you say your roommate was moving?”
“Yeah, she left Saturday.”
“You doing okay?”
“I guess. It’s a little lonely. You know how it is.”
He just nodded. He really did know exactly how it was. But maybe for not too much longer.
Sixteen
John Stallings had been home for less than five minutes when the news came on. Chicken with black beans and rice and a decorative ceramic bowl of steamed asparagus sat on the table, but no one had come into the dining room yet. The way he felt he couldn’t eat anything, no matter how wonderful it smelled. The image of Tawny Wallace and her uncle stuck in his head and mixed with his guilt over the new victim. It was guys like Tawny’s uncle and his own father that kept him from ever really drinking. Later tonight he planned to slip out to look for Peep Morans even if he was a long shot. He was meeting Mazzetti at the M.E.’s office in the morning to get a better idea of what happened to this new victim.
He paused in front of the forty-two-inch Samsung and watched as the news teaser came on. A long-range camera shot zoomed in, and the image was unexpected-his face at the crime scene. The announcer then said, “Is there a serial killer stalking the streets of Jacksonville?” The show’s opening music and credits rolled by.
Stallings stood frozen in shock. Why did they care about him out of all the people at the scene today?
Charlie yelled into the kitchen, “Dad’s on TV.”
