Authors: James Andrus

The Perfect Death (24 page)

BOOK: The Perfect Death

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FORTY-FIVE

Tony Mazzetti shuddered at the amount of information he needed to get from hospital administrators. He'd already been appalled at the lax security measures around the hospital and learned only half of the very few security cameras even worked. There was also the issue of visitors coming and going. The names were listed on the computer alphabetically but not always with a date associated with the visit.

The initial impression he'd gotten of the victim, Katie Massa, was that she was an extremely well-liked and friendly young lady who had no obvious enemies around the hospital. Two detectives had already questioned her ex-husband, by phone because he was in Afghanistan with a private security firm.

In most cases where a woman was missing or killed, if the cops automatically arrested her husband they'd be right more than they were wrong. But Mazzetti knew this girl wasn't killed by any ex-husband, no matter where he was on the globe. Even without the equipment and the lab he saw the marks on her throat and recognized the intricate pattern of the cord that had been wrapped around it and used to snap her neck. He had to work on the assumption that the killer had intended to strangle her but used too much force at just the right angle.

There were two news trucks in front of the hospital. Normally Mazzetti would've been champing at the bit to talk to them, but today he was exhausted from his efforts to catch Daniel Byrd and he was disheartened that there was no way Byrd was the killer. Byrd had been booked on assault and grand theft charges, and the lieutenant was pushing the fact that his parole should be revoked immediately.

But the real problem was they had no more suspects and were not any closer to catching the killer or clearing homicides.

Buddy hesitated at the door after he heard the steady, authoritative rap. He took a quick look around, wiped the sweat from his palms on his shirt, and opened the door with as calm a demeanor as he could muster.

“Arnold Cather?” The short man asked as he held up a wallet with police ID.

Buddy nodded his head and said, “What can I do for you?”

“My name is detective Luis Martinez with the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”

Buddy was not used to hearing his full name, and the way the detective spoke sent a jolt of nervous energy down his spine. He looked past the detective quickly to see if he was alone. Finally Buddy said, “Sure, come on in.” He allowed the detective to walk past and noticed how the sharp-eyed young man scanned the whole apartment very carefully, as he kept his hand hovering near the black pistol on his hip.

Buddy motioned toward the couch and said, “Grab a seat. I need to wash my hands real quick.” Buddy used the excuse to run his hands in the cool water and then wipe the sweat from them. As he left the kitchen to join the detective on the couch he noticed a heavy butcher's knife sitting on the counter. Without thinking, he grabbed it and stuffed it into the small of his back so his shirt covered it completely. Buddy plopped down on the couch next to the detective.

The detective said, “I'm here about Cheryl Kazen.”

“I heard what happened to her. It's terrible.”

“How'd you hear about it?”

“I saw it on the news and her sister called me.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Buddy tried hard to stay calm, but his face flushed and a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. His eyes roamed around the room and fell on the bullet hole in the wall of the kitchen. The hole put there by Cheryl before he plunged the knife into her chest. And while he was looking over the detective's head at the bullet hole, his eyes dropped and he noticed, for the first time, a thin splash of blood at the base of his breakfast bar. If he had noticed, how long would it take before the detective picked up on it?

Finally Buddy was able to say, “Cheryl came by with her sister Donna one evening last week. Like Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Why'd they come by?”

“They're my landlords since their father died and wanted to look around to make sure the place was in good shape and asked me if I wanted out of my lease.” He knew Donna would've told the story and he wasn't about to give this guy any reason to hang around.

The detective made some notes and let his gaze drift around the apartment. Buddy could hardly keep his right hand from slipping behind his back, like it had a mind of its own. He found himself considering if the detective would have called in his location or if someone might be waiting for him outside. It didn't seem to matter to his hand.

All that mattered was the magnetic pull of the butcher's knife's handle.

Patty Levine snapped awake on her couch about lunchtime. She had managed to doze off without the aid of Ambien or any other narcotic after the long surveillance and interview of Daniel Byrd. This single night's simple victory lifted her spirits slightly until she remembered some of the things she had to be anxious about.

The image of the injured homeless man and his snotty attorney using words like “careless” and “negligent” in the IA office yesterday left Patty shaken. Her stomach growled and felt like someone was doing a ballet at the top of her intestines. She slowly stood, shaking off the stiffness of lying in an awkward position, and through force of habit padded back to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom. She looked through the rows of amber pill bottles, found the oldest vial of Xanax, and automatically took two just to get her day started.

Her back throbbed so she reached for an odd assortment of painkillers, poking through the variety of shapes and colors to find a Vicodin. Before she placed it in her mouth, she hesitated, then looked at her image in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Was this really what she wanted to be doing with her life? Even though she had been out late working and not partying, she looked like hell and it was almost noon.

Patty tried to trace her exact anxiety and realized it wasn't really about being sued. From her first day in the academy she'd heard that any good cop doing her job couldn't avoid being sued at some point in her career. But this didn't have anything to do with enforcement, it was just an accident. And it was her fault. Even if the homeless man was exaggerating his minor injuries and the lawyer was trying to milk the system. The sheriff's office was constantly getting these kind of complaints because of the perception they had deep pockets. It was unusual, however, that Internal Affairs would get involved and allow a scumbag attorney to question a JSO officer directly. There was a lot more to this than Patty could decipher. She wondered if Ronald Bell was actually after something more serious than a minor car accident. He had insinuated that she had tried to cover up her activity, but there was still the rumor of the missing drugs. She wondered if she was a suspect in the drugs' disappearance. Why not? She was an addict. She had to be honest with herself and admit some of the things she'd done recently were as a result of her drug use. This was not the way she wanted to live her life.

Maybe it was time she told someone else about her problem.

Buddy had tried everything to get Detective Martinez out of his apartment. He'd answered the same questions over and over and now was concerned that the sharp little detective had his suspicions about Buddy's role in Cheryl's death.

Martinez said, “I have to ask this. Have you ever been in trouble with the police before?”

Buddy shook his head. “No, not even as a kid.”

“Would you mind if I took a quick look around the apartment and your shop?” He made it sound so casual and easy that it would be hard for Buddy to say no without looking like he was hiding something.

Buddy hesitated. Finally he said, “I have no problem with it, as long as you don't make a mess.”

The detective kept his dark eyes directly on Buddy as he shook his head and mumbled, “That's fine. I won't make a mess.” He slowly stood from the couch, looking down the hallway toward the bedroom, then over Buddy's shoulder toward his work of art.

Buddy stepped back and reached behind him very slowly.

Detective Martinez turned and stepped toward the kitchen quickly. It took Buddy several steps to catch up to the energetic man. The detective was in the kitchen before him, but he could close the gap. Buddy felt he'd lost the initiative when the detective faced him in the small kitchen.

Buddy calmly picked up his newly blown glass jar and moved it from the counter to a shelf near the refrigerator. It was an instinct and it didn't capture the detective's attention.

Detective Martinez set down his notebook upside down on the counter so Buddy couldn't see what he had written. The detective actually opened one drawer and looked down at several carving knives and another butcher's knife. “The victim was stabbed a number of times. I'm learning a lot about knives as I work this case.” The detective sounded casual.

Buddy relaxed slightly until he looked on the wall and realized the bullet hole was directly behind the detective. He couldn't keep his eyes from shifting down to the bloodstain he'd seen near the baseboard earlier. God, he hoped the detective didn't follow his gaze.

He had to either keep cool or take action. He couldn't risk being stopped when he was so close to completing his work of art.

FORTY-SIX

John Stallings knew the news media would be all over the story of a young nurse found dead at one of the area's major hospitals. But when he turned on the radio in his county-issued Impala the very first words he heard from a newscaster were “serial killer.” The phrase made him flinch. Often news stations would use the term in the form of a question like, “Is Jacksonville stalked by a new serial killer?” In this case the answer to that question was, “Yes.” And Stallings was pretty sure the command staff at the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office didn't want that term used loosely.

The phrase itself struck a primal chord with the public and often caused more problems than it solved. The weight of useless tips could crush a team of detectives doing their best to solve a serial crime. He listened to the radio as the announcer gave a few details about the investigation. The next story was about a Christian revival that had been going on at the municipal stadium on and off for two weeks. The controversy was that they had to dismantle the stage so the Jaguars could play one Sunday afternoon. The news coverage on the event had swelled the numbers of believers filing into the downtown arena.

All Stallings could think about now was what he could to do to stop the man who was strangling young women in Jacksonville.

Buddy focused on Detective Martinez's face, trying to catch any movement or expression that might give a hint to what the detective was thinking. He continued to ask Buddy simple, non-threatening questions. First about Cheryl and then about any friends or associates she'd had. He was particularly interested in boyfriends and asked Buddy if he'd ever been interested in her romantically.

Buddy let out a quick snort of laughter. “No, not at all.” He didn't have to fake that answer or lie in any way.

The detective took that another way. He said, “Really? You sound pretty definite on that. Why? She was awfully cute.”

Buddy saw the trap the detective had walked him into. If he said he didn't think she was attractive, the detective probably wouldn't believe him. Everyone thought she was a knockout. And if he said she was such a bitch he couldn't be around her, that would also make the detective more suspicious. He might even think that Buddy had a motive to kill her.

Buddy hesitated and the detective took a half step back. Buddy had his hand behind his back resting on the handle of the butcher knife. He was making the assessment of how he could dispose of a Jacksonville police detective and his car. He'd also have to answer a lot more questions because surely the detective had called in where he was going and who he was talking to. At that moment Buddy wasn't sure there was an alternative.

Then the answer to the question came to him. Buddy said, “I don't really like to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Look around. I'm in my mid-thirties, I'm neat, I've never been married, and I talk to my mom every day.” Only one of those things was a lie.

It didn't take long for the detective to catch on to what Buddy was trying to make him believe. The detective nodded and smiled, picking up his notebook and stepping around Buddy toward the front door.

Detective Martinez said, “If you think of anything please feel free to give me a call.” He handed Buddy his business card, turned, and opened the door.

Buddy was in the clear again.

FORTY-SEVEN

John Stallings hated the way news channels would inflate stories and make them sound more lurid or interesting than they really were. But he also recognized, as a detective in the new millennium, there was a role reporters could play in major investigations. The story of the dead nurse found at Shands hospital had been tied to three other murders in the Jacksonville area. Sergeant Zuni, fast on her feet, used the media opportunity to show photos of the missing Leah Tischler. Less than two hours after the first broadcast, Stallings was on his way to talk to a witness.

He'd come across this witness in a less than official way. One of the downtown homeless people had gone to the only person she could trust: Liz Dubeck. Liz had called Stallings directly and told him she'd entertain the witness at her office until he came down and talked to her.

The call was what he needed to pull himself out of his funk. It was not only his father's descent into Alzheimer's but the erratic behavior of his wife, Maria. She was gone from the house so often that all he could figure was she had a boyfriend. He felt like his hopes of getting back together with her had completely fallen apart. Somehow, just going to visit with Liz Dubeck cheered him.

Walking along the sidewalk to the front door of the four-story hotel, Stallings immediately noticed work being done on the building. A tall, stooped man was measuring the floor for new carpet and another man was measuring the front bay window. Inside, Stallings could tell the walls had been recently painted.

Liz Dubeck greeted him with a bright smile that instantly lifted his spirits.

Stallings said, “What's going on here?”

“I got a federal grant to fix up the old place. I'm going to replace some of the carpet that was ruined by a leak, have the whole place painted, bring the wiring up to code, and even replace the cracked front window.”

“That sounds great.” He felt a little awkward since their last conversation and really didn't know what else to say. As usual, Liz was able to take up the slack.

Liz looked around the lobby to ensure that none of the workers could hear her as she motioned Stallings around the front counter and said, “This woman is really scared about talking to the police. I promised her that you and I were friends and you'd use the information without implicating her.”

“No problem. What kind of information does she have?”

Liz led him back into her office. “You can ask her yourself.”

Stallings looked at the fifty-year-old woman wearing a plain but clean dress and eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Her greasy, gray hair had been recently brushed and pulled back in a ponytail. She looked up with bloodshot eyes but didn't say anything.

Liz introduced Stallings to the woman, who didn't want to give her name. But her first question took Stallings by surprise.

“Are you any relation to James Stallings?”

“He's my father.”

“If James Stallings is your father, you can't be too bad, even if you're a cop. Your pop has done more to help me and the other homeless people in town than just about anyone I know.”

For possibly the first time in his life Stallings felt real pride about his father. He settled down into the chair next to the woman and asked why she wanted to talk to him.

“I seen the photo of the missing girl on TV at the community center. I seen the girl.”

“Which girl are you talking about?”

“The missing one. Leah something.”

Stallings felt his pulse increase as he reached in his notebook and pulled out the familiar picture of Leah Tischler and held it for the woman to look at.

“That's her. I seen her two Saturdays ago. I remember because it was before that revival started down at the stadium. She was wearing jeans and a man's plaid shirt. Like a lumberjack's shirt. Way too hot for this time of year.”

Stallings made a couple of quick notes and wanted to confirm the timeline with her. “How can you be sure it was a Saturday morning?”

“Because some businesses were closed and they don't serve breakfast at the community center on Saturday. I had to walk to the Christian relief center on Davis. When I was coming out I saw that girl at a bus stop. We talked for a minute. That's why I remember.”

She spent a few more minutes giving Stallings enough details for him to believe that she had seen Leah Tischler at least one day after she had been here looking for a place to stay. That meant Leah was alive and not wearing the belt found wrapped around Kathy Mizell's throat.

The woman said, “Leah said she was going on a trip. She was tired of J-Ville.”

“Where was she going?”

The woman shrugged. “She just said she was leaving.”

As Stallings thought of a new set of questions, he looked out of the open window in the office at the white construction van with a magnetic sign that said
CLASSIC GLASS CONCEPTS
stuck on the side.

Buddy was relieved the sharp young detective left without asking any more questions. After the meeting he decided he needed to get away from the shop for a few hours. He had estimates to make and was still looking for the final piece of his work of art. He doubted he'd be bothered about Cheryl's death any more. In a way she had gotten the opposite of eternity. It seemed like her case would be unsolved and she'd be largely forgotten in a very short time.

His first estimate was at a crappy motel that catered to homeless people and probably got a ton of federal money to house them. It was a simple job. Replacing a cracked window. No etching or decoration. Pretty much just manual labor. He'd make his estimate high so that if the woman accepted it at least he'd have a few bucks in his pocket. There was no way he wanted to get stuck on a job like this unless it set him up for free time later. The only thing that mattered now was his work of art. He had to find the right subject to fill that last slot.

As he made a few notes and walked back to the open door of his van, a young woman dressed like she worked at a bank stopped him and said, “Your sign says Classic Glass Conceptsâdoes that mean you do more than just replace windows?”

“What are you interested in?”

“We were looking for a glass sculpture for the entryway to our house. You do anything like that?”

He didn't want to giggle and babble about how fantastic it'd be to make something like that so he took a second to think about it and look cool. In that moment he recognized how stunning the woman's eyes were. She had wonderful full lips and a pretty smile too. Finally he said, “I have some photos I could show you of my work.”

“When can I see them?”

All Buddy could think was,
Anytime you want and for all eternity
.

BOOK: The Perfect Death

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