James Andrus: The Perfect Woman

The pharmacist snapped his fingers. “I just remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“I think our clerk walked back here and stayed a few minutes.”

“What’s the clerk’s name?”

“William Dremmel.”

William Dremmel was shocked to learn his mother knew what he had been doing to keep her quiet for so long.

His mother said, “I know I made some mistakes as a mother, but I shouldn’t have to have been in a coma the rest of my life. Just because I used some of my sleeping pills and muscle relaxers on you as a child doesn’t mean you have to pay me back.”

“What on earth do you mean, Mom?”

“To keep you quiet and give me some time I used to give you something to take a little nap once in a while.”

“You drugged me?”

“Only a couple of days a week.”

“Why?”

She leveled a stare at him. “Please, William. You know I had a few liaisons. I’m not perfect.”

“More than just Arthur Whitley?”

“A few.” She sounded almost proud.

“Wait a minute, you said I had mono one summer and had to sleep a lot. Did I really?”

She paused. “You were a growing boy and you needed your rest.”

“You drugged me for a whole summer.”

“Of course not, sweetheart. Only July and a few weeks in August.”

He considered all this as the pieces of his life, his choices, his desires, all started to make sense. Perhaps the toughest thing was realizing his mom was a slut.

She still had a nice smile on her smooth, pretty face. Her blouse hung low, like she’d pulled it down, showing the pleasant curve of her breasts.

He looked at her. “Goddamn, Mom, you screwed me up bad.”

“Nonsense. I had a young woman’s healthy appetites. I attended to your needs as a child and never left your father unsatisfied. It wasn’t my affairs that hurt you, it was your father’s reaction to them.”

Dremmel stared at her, not moving, not daring to move. He thought about his young, beautiful mom all those years ago caressing the handsome young black man.

Then his father caught them and said in that even but terrifying tone of his, “William, go play next door at the Seikers’.”

Dremmel, about eight years old at the time, watched as Arthur’s head snapped up and he dove to one side, racing for the sliding glass door to the backyard. Dremmel scampered over to see what the Seiker girls were doing.

Then the story got murky for him. He’d heard a lot of speculation and stray comments from the police officers he had met over the following few days, but it was never crystal clear to him what had happened.

Officially his parents had been in a car accident that had killed his father and put his mother in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. But he knew the main flaw in the story was the accident part. His father wasn’t the kind of man who had accidents. He had increased his speed on Emerson Street, running the year-old Buick into the concrete support of the I-95 overpass, destroying the car, killing himself, but tossing his mother out to the side and into the middle of the road.

Until now Dremmel had not thought about that day and what it meant. The other lesson he learned from hearing the cops talk quietly to each other: They weren’t perfect either. They had no more idea of what had gone on and how the accident occurred than anyone else. William Dremmel learned that people could fool the police.

Tony Mazzetti scribbled furiously as he listened to Stallings on the phone, standing next to the squad’s crime analyst. Stallings checked the pharmacies that Patty had canvassed the past two days and, lucky shit like he was, turned up something.

Stallings sounded like he was jogging as he said, “I may have a name.”

Mazzetti finished writing down a list of tasks for the analyst and handed them to her. “I’m ready, what is it?”

“William Dremmel, D-r-e-m-m-e-l. White male with blond hair.” He gave the date of birth and identifiers.

Mazzetti paused, then said, “I think I know that name.”

“The pharmacist says he also works out at the community college teaching science.”

Mazzetti sprang from his seat in excitement. “I talked to him. He’s about five-seven and spends time in the gym. That means he could have known the first victim, Tawny Wallace.”

“And the pharmacy has a branch near the Wendy’s on Beaver where Trina Ester worked.”

“This could be our guy, huh, Stall?”

“More importantly, he could have Patty.”

Then Mazzetti remembered one of those little details that floats around in a cop’s head for no reason and pops up without warning. “Stall, there may be some forensic evidence, too.”

“What?”

“The orange string found near Trina Estler is industrial carpet.”

“So?”

“I remember where I saw carpet like that.”

“Where?”

“At the community college in the building where I spoke to this Dremmel character.”

“No shit?”

“There’s something else, Stall.”

“What’s that?”

“I saw him just after Trina Ester was found. She had a bruised knuckle like she’d punched someone.”

“Yeah?”

“William Dremmel had a black eye when I talked to him.”

William Dremmel carried a tray with vitamin supplements and several different narcotics on it. He had two separate, disposable cups of water to keep from cross-contaminating the subjects. He was trying to focus on the details of his delicate experiment, because his mother was in his head. Not just her but his whole, weird life seemed to have jammed itself into his conscious thought so that everything he saw reminded him of something else.

He was careful not to give any hint that sometime tonight Detective Patty Levine would be terminated from the experiment and moved out. He didn’t want to spook Stacey or give Patty any reason to act up. Both the women were alert and their eyes were on him but not with the defiance of earlier in the day. Had they accepted their role in the experiment?

He sat the tray down on the small night table positioned exactly between the two beds and smiled at each woman. “How are we tonight?” He waited for the sarcastic remark.

Detective Levine said, “My fingers are numb. Could you loosen the cuffs?”

He thought about it, noticing the conciliatory tone. He knew she’d noticed the stun gun he made certain was visible in his pocket. She knew the consequences of misbehavior. Finally he said, “After you’re out for the night, I’ll loosen them. It makes sense to reduce possible problems before they begin.”

“Thank you.”

It sounded calculated, but at least she was responding directly to him. It made him rethink his plan to terminate her participation in the experiment. It was interesting having both of them here. Maybe he was just overreacting because of the things his mother said and the memories she had brought up.

He picked up the clipboard he kept hanging on the wall near the small table and turned to the detective. “So, are you allergic to anything?”

“What if I said I was allergic to everything?”

“Then I’d test that theory tonight.”

She almost had a smirk on her face but relaxed and said, “No, no allergies.”

“Do you take any prescription drugs?”

“Birth control pills.”

“Nothing else?”

She shook her head.

“Excellent,” he mumbled as he filled in some of the columns on her page. She did look like a good candidate. He’d hate to be rash and pass up a potential test subject. He set down the clipboard and took two Ambien and an Oxy, then mashed them into a fine powder with the bottom of the one glass he used to mix all the drugs.

“What’s that?”