Authors: James Andrus
The Perfect Death (4 page)
“I can't believe you'd fall for something like that. I'd never put you in that position.” She reached across the small table and clasped his hand.
He liked her playful side and realized he had to loosen up. He'd been out of uniform and stuck working in the detective bureau for so long he'd forgotten what it was like to just play around. Every cop knew half the job was practical jokes, but somehow he had missed out on that because of his ambition. He'd never really minded being on the outside looking in, but now he realized there was nothing wrong with making a beautiful girl like this smile.
Even if it wasn't as much as he had made her smile a month ago.
SIX
Buddy watched the two women as they marched through the small McDonald's courtyard. He had to admire the shape of them walking away, even though in Cheryl's case he didn't want to. Her surgically enhanced body gave her outrageous curves. It was Donna's beautiful innocent eyes he noticed as she glanced over her shoulder at him, stepping into the passenger seat of her sister's Chrysler 300.
He had considered Donna for his work of art on several occasions. Those big brown doe eyes and wide, full lips gave her an innocent look. She just had nothing to offer eternity. Donna was a lost child who followed her sister around like a puppy. Besides, he knew her and she might point police in his direction if she turned up dead. Buddy liked the twenty-four-year-old. Her sweet disposition more than made up for her lack of brainpower.
He knew the pressure to break his lease and move out was a direct result of Cheryl's incessant harping. She'd taken over most of the daily business activities of her father, including the renting of the six warehouses across the city as well as the small apartment complex on the east side of the river. Her mother had been an internationally known model in Lebanon and greatly preferred lounging at their beautiful house in Ponte Vedra Beach to being troubled with the daily burdens of collecting rent and dealing with tenants.
Cheryl, on the other hand, had a ruthless streak that served her well as a landlord. Buddy had only met her mother once and she seemed pleasant enough and certainly the women's father was a gentleman. After Buddy had blown him a special glass vase for his twenty-fifth anniversary, the man had signed a sweetheart ten-year lease with him, which he allowed Buddy to pay up front. Now, with six years left on the lease, he was probably Cheryl's biggest problem.
He caught Cheryl's murderous glare from inside the black sedan and thought to himself how nice it'd be to choke the life out of her. Too bad she wasn't worthy.
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John Stallings rolled over for the fifteenth time in the last sixteen minutes and stared at the clock on the nightstand. He flung the covers off in frustration and growled quietly to the empty room, then growled louder, so it filled the empty house. It was nearly midnight and he was no closer to sleep than he had been when he laid down at 10:15. His insomnia was as much a result of having no family and therefore no anchor in his life as it was of picturing Kathy Mizell shoved into a Dumpster and Leah Tischler at the bottom of a canal somewhere. Both families were crushed tonight.
Stallings couldn't shake the feeling he'd failed Leah Tischler. He knew rationally that wasn't how to look at the situation, but who could stay rational when a young woman was dead? If you stayed rational you went crazy.
He felt like he'd done everything he possibly could to save his own family. Maybe it wasn't the job. Maybe Maria had grown tired of him. But he thought he'd had a handle on both the job and his home after Jeanie disappeared. Now he realized it was just a fantasy. He knew Maria had been through a lot and had her whole life ahead of her. If leaving him on the curb made her feel better, he was prepared to go through it graciously. He'd made no comments when he discovered that Maria had already been out on several dates. All Stallings wanted was the kids to be happy, and right now he wouldn't mind sleeping for a few hours, but he knew it wouldn't happen.
He rolled out of the bed that had been in the room when he'd moved into the small house in Lakewood and slipped on his jeans and a Jacksonville Jaguars T-shirt. It was time to get a jump on interviews of people who might have run into Leah Tischler.
Thirty minutes later he found himself parking his county-issued Impala and walking down West Davis Street. It was never too late to talk to the street people of Jacksonville. Many cops overlooked them as a source of information, but Stallings knew nothing occurred in the city without the street people seeing or hearing about it.
The street population encompassed so much more than the homeless. Anyone out all the time, whether selling drugs or their bodies, came in contact with a lot of people. Even a runaway from a wealthy family, if that's what Leah Tischler was. It was possible the killer had snatched her from society, but Stallings felt it was more likely the young woman had slipped off society's radar for a little while before the killer found her. There was always the chance she was still alive and had discarded her belt, but Stallings wanted to be practical and veer away from fantasy. He had a job to do and had to be reasonable no matter what his hopes were.
Stallings wasn't like most cops. He had relationships with people. He worked the street like a host greeting guests or a bouncer scaring jerks. No one knew Leah Tischler when Stallings showed them her photos. The discovery of her belt wrapped around the afternoon's murder victim had not been released to the public yet.
Then he saw someone who might hold some valuable information. An acquaintance with his ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse of the drug pipeline running through Jacksonville. Stallings watched the man in a wifebeater shirt stop and speak to different people along the street. He handed off baggies to two or three of them and was completely oblivious to Stallings. People didn't notice cops unless there were two of them in a marked cruiser. Stallings waited patiently until the man was only a few feet away; then he stepped from the side of the building where he'd been leaning and said, “Hi, Peep. Whatcha doing out so late?”
The scruffy man jerked his head and looked at Stallings for only an instant before he turned and darted across the street like a sprinter in the Olympics. Stallings realized if he wanted to talk to the man, he'd have to follow.
SEVEN
John Stallings had spent too many years as a cop to waste his energy matching a scared drug dealer step for step. That left him with two options: go back to his car and look for him or figure out where the man was running to and beat him there. Stallings cut down Houston Street to Jefferson and turned left.
The man he was chasing was known on the street as Peep Moran because of his penchant for spying on women while they were urinating. It was a simple hobby in the world of the homeless because bathrooms were not always available. In the consumer-driven society of the United States many businesses purposely used the bathrooms as a perk for customers only. Consequently many street people were forced to use nature as their lavatory whether the middle-class people around them wanted to admit it or not. In his whole career as a road patrolman, Stallings had never arrested anyone for urinating in public. He knew when the need came over you, you had to relieve yourself. He didn't care if the reason was too much beer or no home to go back to; no one should legislate using the restroom.
He also knew Peep wouldn't venture too far or risk crossing one of the freeways on foot. This was an educated guess on Stallings's part, but one he felt pretty comfortable with. As he eased onto Jefferson Street he saw Peep Moran with his head down and his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Stallings never wasted time yelling at someone to stop; instead he closed the distance between them quickly and by the time a suspect realized he'd been seen, it was too late to flee.
Stallings surprised the scrawny man, but instead of showing his shock, Peep acted casual. “Hey, Stall. Looking for runaways?”
Stallings let the scared little man see his smile and said, “Why would you run from me? I thought we were friends.”
“Friends don't break other friends' arms.”
“And friends don't sell drugs to other friends' wives.”
Peep gave him a slight bow and said, “Touché. We've established we're not friends and therefore it should be obvious I ran from you because I'm afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Everyone's afraid of you, Stall. Maybe the runaways and hookers like you, but none of the rest of us who make a living off them have ever had a particularly pleasant encounter with you.”
“Peep, you sound a lot more articulate. You been going to school?”
“Mostly I haven't taken my own shit. I haven't had any prescription pills in six weeks and I'm down to only smoking pot on the weekends”
“How's that working out for you?”
The smaller man shrugged. “Aside from being a little smarter and saving some money, I'm not sure it's worth the hassle.”
“You heard about the girl's body found in the Dumpster this afternoon?”
Peep nodded. He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed in his scrawny throat.
Stallings showed him the photo Leah Tischler's parents had provided. He studied Peep's face and realized the dope dealer recognized her.
Peep said, “She's dead?”
“No, but she's connected to the body in the Dumpster.”
Peep nervously fumbled with his hair.
“Give it up, Peep. What'd you know about her?”
“I, er, I might've seen her.”
“Where?” He placed a hand on Peep's grubby T-shirt.
“C'mon, Stall, I don't remember. There's a flood of scared girls rolling through here. Some leaving home for good and some just throwing a scare into their parents so they can use the Navigator more often or stay out on weeknights.”
“Is that all you know about her?”
“Seems like I saw her right around here, but I can't remember.”
“When?” He twisted the shirt in his grip and pulled Peep closer to him. The familiar anger bubbling up inside of him
Sweat beaded on Peep's forehead.
“I don't know. Her face is familiar.”
Now Stallings had the man on his tiptoes and he thought about how Peep made a living on others' sorrows. He thought about the value of scaring punks like this to get information and Jeanie's cold trail and the slight possibility of reviving it if Leah Tischler had met the same fate.
A woman's voice broke his trance.
“What's going on here?”
Stallings released Peep and turned to see a woman with dark hair in jeans and a Florida State sweatshirt.
She locked her eyes with Stallings, not backing down.
Stallings faced her and said, “It's all right, ma'am. I'm a police officer.” She had a pretty face and beautiful, oval eyes. She was in her mid-thirties and wore her dark hair in a ponytail.
“Is this how a JSO officer is supposed to act?”
He thought for a moment and wondered if she was right. He let his emotions get the better of him.
Peep blurted out, “I'll keep my ears open and let you know what I hear.”
Stallings hardly noticed him scamper past the woman and around the corner.
The woman nodded good-bye and was gone as quickly. Stallings wanted to know who the hell she was.
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Buddy arranged the photos on the dreary brown wall of his apartment above his shop. He appreciated art in whatever form it took. In this case it was a photographer who, like him, had an eye for beautiful women. The photographer, named Petter Hegre, shot them in black and white, or as they said in the new millennium, monochrome. He missed simple phrases he'd grown up with. He missed the fact that artists were no longer revered, replaced by guys like Warren Buffett or that insufferable Donald Trump.
Buddy had lived in the apartment since his thirtieth birthday over five years ago. Before that, he shared a house with a coworker at another glass company. His mom had kicked him out of the house at twenty-two. Even though she had plenty of room and was all alone.
She had said it was so he'd become more independent, but mainly it was because she suspected him of killing her two cats. It was true, but he'd never admitted it. Not to anyone. He'd learned it was one of the keys to keep from being caught. It was also where he'd learned another important lesson: what attracted him to killing was that one, last, perfect breath. With his mother's cats he'd used a kitchen knife to stab a tabby called Tiger. He'd stuck it and watched like a scientist as it wiggled on the blade for less than a minute. There wasn't much thrill to killing something that way. But Blackie, a much bigger cat, was another story. He had a plan for this big black beast that rarely got off the couch and followed him with its eyes to let him know he was further down the affection chain in the house. He'd worn thick, canvas gardening gloves when he wrapped his hands around Blackie's furry black throat. The cat had kicked and clawed at his hands and made a tiny squeal, but in the end he knew the feeling of choking something couldn't be replaced: that last moment when his victim was conscious but had no hope. The divine instants when he realized he had the absolute power of life and death. But the whole experiment pissed off his mother. It wasn't until a year later with a neighbor's Yorkie he discovered the art of capturing a breath. He slipped a plastic bag over the dog and released his grip on its throat for just a moment. He noticed the fog of the dog's breath on the inside of the bag and realized it was possible to capture the essence of something. To harness a last breath. Then it was a matter of finding the right container.
He looked around his apartment and considered all he had learned in the past few months. It made him happy to know he had a grasp on eternity. He had a purpose in life that would outlast him. Most things would.
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