James Andrus - The Perfect Death

He finished his sandwich and was about to turn on the radio to see if there were any news reports about a body being found in one of the city’s finest hospitals. As he stood from the stool he heard a familiar sound and froze in his place, wondering who it could be.

Someone was on the stairway to his apartment.

John Stallings lay on the double bed, in his drab bedroom, in his lonely house in Lakewood. He’d slept for a couple of hours, but now, midmorning, he was wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He knew that at forty he shouldn’t be working thirty-six hours in a row. But sometimes that’s what the job called for. He’d been fitfully asleep until his cell phone had rung a few minutes ago. It was an analyst with JSO who hadn’t realized he’d worked all night long. She had a question about the body found in the gardens at Shands hospital. Stallings explained that aside from hearing about it early in the morning he had no details.

Sergeant Zuni had been in a tough position personnel wise and had sent another team to handle the scene at Shands. She had put Sparky Taylor in charge of the crime scene investigation and sent Tony Mazzetti home to grab a few hours’ sleep.

Now Stallings realized he couldn’t sleep wondering about the new victim. He got dressed, ate a bowl of cinnamon sugar oatmeal, and headed over to the hospital.

But he was still dog tired.

Detective Luis Martinez was relatively new to the crimes/persons squad. He’d been brought over from Auto Theft less than a year ago to work on the Bag Man case. While he missed his friends over in Auto Theft and even the guys from patrol, he liked being a detective. Now, because of a whole line of strangulations, he had finally been assigned his own homicide. He worked with a partner named Bill Talbot who was all but useless and constantly had an excuse not to go out on interviews or work at night. Luis couldn’t very well rat him out to the sergeant; that was not the way things were done. But that didn’t mean he had to stop moving at his own pace.

Since the discovery of a female body in a car parked at Jacksonville Landing last Saturday, he’d been in almost constant motion. He was so excited about being allowed to run his own investigation that he wasn’t jealous about not being included in this new serial-killer case. He liked working with the people in crimes/ persons and knew he could learn a lot from Tony Mazzetti. The guy was a legend in JSO for his clearance rate and work ethic.

John Stallings was another guy he could learn from. The guy had been through everything life could throw at him and still kept a positive attitude and knew how to look out for other people. He was a cop’s cop.

Instead, Luis Martinez had been saddled with a detective who had retired three years ago but apparently had failed to tell anyone. John Talbot was a nice fella who loved his wife and kids. He also loved donuts, beer, ESPN SportsCenter , and, way down the list, police work.

Luis didn’t allow that to slow him down. He’d always give Talbot the option of coming with him on interviews, but if the older detective was busy or had other plans, Luis just went on his way.

The victim in this case, Cheryl Kazen, had been found dead from multiple stab wounds in the backseat of her Chrysler 300. She’d been a very attractive woman, but the more he looked into her background, the more suspects he found. She had a string of former boyfriends who all had records, and all the ex-boyfriends he’d questioned hated her guts.

The only real forensic evidence gathered from the car was a second blood sample. The lab had developed a DNA sample for both blood types. One matched Cheryl and the other was not in any of their databases. Luis had taken several DNA test kits on interviews, but only found two of the former boyfriends worth asking for a swab.

Now he was down to the second line of interviews. People the victim knew and dealt with occasionally. He was hoping to pick up some speck of information that, when viewed with the whole case, might point Luis in the right direction.

He was at a building owned by the victim and her family and rented to some kind of glass company.

Luis Martinez was in a shirt and tie with his Glock.40 caliber on his hip and his JSO detective’s shield next to it. There was no reason to hide who he was in a homicide investigation, and having the gun and badge in view tended to intimidate people. That made up for the fact that he was only five foot six. At least in his mind it compensated for his lack of height.

All the doors to the shop were open, but it looked empty. An air-conditioner unit that cooled the second floor was running, so Luis started up the wooden staircase to the door at the top.

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.