The Perfect Death (23 page)

Read The Perfect Death Online

Authors: James Andrus

FORTY-TWO
John Stallings rubbed his eyes hard and shook his head, trying to wake himself up. It was after 2
A.M.
and he was wondering when Daniel Byrd would be out of the apartment and back on the bike. Mazzetti had been stealthy and walked along the sidewalk to yank the spark plug wire loose on the Honda. It would only take Byrd a second to figure out what the problem was, but that would give them enough time to grab him.
Stallings had used all the veteran police tricks to stay awake over the years. He ate sunflower seeds one at a time, knowing that the activity of pulling them apart and eating them would occupy his mind enough to stay awake. He had gone the caffeine route, first with coffee then the various energy drinks, but he never cared for them much. He tried the old trick of drinking water constantly so he had to pee relentlessly and therefore couldn't doze off. The downside of that was he kept filling and emptying a Gatorade bottle he kept in the car. Tonight he was using an old standard. He would hold his breath for as long as he possibly could, sometimes as much as a minute and thirty seconds. That kept him awake and supercharged his heart rate; it took ten minutes to recover completely before he'd do it again.
As he was about to measure another breath on his Timex Ironman watch, the radio crackled and he heard Patty Levine say, “Someone is at the front door.”
A few seconds later Mazzetti said, “Gotta be him. As soon as he goes to the bike let's grab him.”
Stallings was close to the bike. All he had to do was pop out of his car, and with a sprint, be on top of Byrd before the shithead ran. Stallings mumbled, “Is today the day that changes my life?”
Patty came on the radio again. “I don't think it's him. It looks like a female. She stepped outside for a moment and then stepped back into the lobby. It's a white female in a yellow dress with the flower pattern on it.”
Stallings was one step ahead and slipped out of his car with the radio in his hand. He crept along the sidewalk, sticking close to the scraggly bushes and occasional garbage can. Then he heard Patty say the woman was out of the building. A moment later he saw the yellow dress and was surprised to see the woman walk directly to the motorcycle.
Stallings paused a few feet away looking through an untrimmed ficus hedge. After a moment he realized what was happening. Daniel Byrd had slipped on one of the dresses they'd seen in his closet. He had a small satchel slung over his shoulder and was wearing a baseball cap. From a distance he would look like a woman.
Patty realized it at the same time and said over the radio, “That's him, that's him. Byrd is wearing the yellow dress.”
Stallings had the radio low and close to his ear so Byrd wouldn't hear. But he couldn't help but notice Mazzetti's car roar to life as he mashed the gas and raced down the street toward him.
Byrd's head snapped as he held on to the satchel tight and started to sprint like only lean ex-cons could sprint. He was like a rocket as he started down the sidewalk. He was smart enough to wear tennis shoes instead of high heels with the dress, which barely slowed him at all.
Luckily for Stallings all he had to do was step out from behind a hedge and swing his arm in a classic clothesline move. He caught the fleeing felon at the top of his chest and the momentum carried Stallings's arm into his chin, not only upending Byrd, but damn near knocking him unconscious as well.
Stallings looked down at the moaning man, and all he could say was, “Sweet.”
FORTY-THREE
An hour after capturing Daniel Byrd, Stallings sat across from him in an interview room in the Land That Time Forgot. Stallings liked the way Mazzetti was playing this slow and cool. He had purposely left the room to allow Byrd to stew in his own paranoia. He was letting the wily suspect imagine the worst. Stallings knew to just sit there and look mean.
Mazzetti hated calling so late to advise Sergeant Zuni that they were interviewing someone. He told her not to rush down to the PMB and he'd let her know if something came of it.
For Byrd's part, once he was caught he'd offered no more resistance. He was still in the patterned yellow dress and had a red mark across his cheek where Stallings's arm had ridden up his chest during the clothesline. Byrd was putting on a cocky act, but Stallings knew jerks like this started to crumble as soon as they realized they were going back to jail. The key was finding what Byrd wanted. If they had a carrot, they didn't need to use the stick.
Mazzetti came back in, settled into the empty chair, and stared hard at Daniel Byrd. Byrd leaned back in his chair, but there was only so much coolness you could have with your hands cuffed behind your back while you were wearing a dress.
Mazzetti said, “Anything you want to talk to us about, Daniel?”
“Not a thing.”
Stallings could hear the North Florida twang in those few words. He had known several families named Byrd in the Jacksonville area. One of them over in Baker County. These Byrds had a similar accent but a different outlook on life. The Byrds he knew worked hard and valued education above anything else. It made him want to smack this Byrd right in the face.
Byrd said, “What charges are you holding me on?”
“You got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I'm kidding?”
Stallings had to cut in at this point. “You're wearing a yellow dress. So I would have to say, yes, you do look like you're kidding a little bit.”
Byrd tried to give him a hard look, but he was an amateur trying to fight in the heavyweight division.
Mazzetti said, “We got a lot of questions and in the long run it'd help you out to be our friend.”
“You didn't tell me what the charges are?”
Mazzetti stood quickly, scooting the chair back with his legs. “First off, a violation of parole. There's the grand theft with the motorcycle. Assault on the motorcycle rider. Fleeing and eluding the police. And resisting arrest.”
“How did I resist arrest?”
Stallings said, “Really? All those charges plus your past history and you're worried about a misdemeanor resisting arrest? Son, have you got some kind of learning disability we should know about?”
“The only thing I'm ashamed of is that I let an old geezer like you catch me.”
Stallings gave a chuckle. “That'll go over big at Raiford.”
The comment hit home and caused Byrd to lose some of his cockiness. His brown eyes darted around the room and he fidgeted in his seat. But he didn't ask for a lawyer and had told Stallings he was considering cooperating. He was in custody so they had already read him his Miranda rights. Stallings was a little surprised he hadn't asked for an attorney then, but as the questioning had continued he was shocked the man was willing to sit there. He really didn't want to go back to prison.
Finally Byrd said, “What kind of questions do you have?”
Stallings and Mazzetti had already worked out this little dance. Stallings would ask general questions about Leah Tischler; then Mazzetti would build up to the homicides.
Stallings said, “I'd like to ask you about this girl.” He slid a photograph of Leah Tischler across the table, and Byrd seemed to take a good long look at it.
Byrd said, “I've never seen her before.”
“You run into her within the last two weeks?”
Byrd shook his head. “No, no way. I've been working every shift I could the last month trying to get enough money together to pay off my traffic fines so I could get a job driving a cement truck.”
Stallings studied the younger man's face carefully and looked over at Mazzetti, who made a few notes but was also trying to get a fix. Stallings said, “So you don't want to say anything about this girl?”
“That's not what I said. What I'm saying about her is that I never met her and have no information on her.”
Now Mazzetti got involved and said, “What about Kathy Mizell over by the health education building? The girl at the bus stop.”
Once again Byrd kept calm and looked Mazzetti directly in the eye. “I have no idea what you're talking about. Why am I here really? Why were you guys chasing me? I've done a lot of shit, but I don't know what you guys are asking about.”
Mazzetti said, “Whose dresses were those in your apartment?”
Byrd looked down at his dress and then gave a flat stare back to Mazzetti. “Really, dude, you can't figure it out?”
Stallings admired the young man's attitude.
Byrd said, “Take a wild guess why I can't let the guys at work know I wear them. Construction workers aren't known for their tolerance. This is the first time a dress ever really helped me out, other than to make me feel special and better than I really am.”
That caught Stallings by surprise, but he had to admit the man was very cool and calm if he had really killed anyone.
The door opened to the interview room and Patty Levine stepped in. This was a very unusual move among the detectives. Mazzetti and Stallings immediately knew something big had happened. Stallings looked at her, waiting to hear whatever vital news she had. The way Byrd looked at her, Stallings could tell he might've been a cross-dresser but he wasn't gay.
Patty said, “He's not our man.”
At the same time Mazzetti and Stallings said, “Why?”
“Because they just found a body in the courtyard at Shands hospital. She'd been strangled with a ligature sometime between ten and midnight. We were on Byrd the whole time and he never came close to the hospital.”
Stallings knew there was a lot of information to verify and forensics to ensure that this was a victim of the same killer, but somehow, in that moment and looking at the lack of response from Daniel Byrd, he knew there was still a serial killer loose on the streets of Jacksonville.
FORTY-FOUR
Buddy sat straight on a stool as he ate his chicken salad sandwich on whole wheat at the counter in his kitchen. The last jar needed for his work of art sat on the counter next to him. He stared at it with mixed emotions. It was the ending of so many things. He'd taken extra time to blow it just right and the glass glistened in the overhead light of his kitchen.
It was early for lunch, not even quite eleven o'clock, but most of the work he was doing today was in the shop and any time he felt hungry he could run upstairs and grab a quick bite. That's how
Men's Health
suggested men eat. Lots of small meals staggered throughout the day.
The TV was off and he didn't have a newspaper open in front of him. He was enjoying the satisfaction he felt from completing another section of his work of art. He had also learned not to jerk on the cord too hard or you could break the subject's neck. He had been lucky last night to be able to grab Katie's final breath, but it had been just that, luck.
He'd hardly slept after the ceremony to put Katie in her rightful place. From the first moment he put his plan in action it had gone almost perfectly. He'd surprised her, calling pediatric endocrinology from the phone in the lobby. He'd been in the hospital enough to know they were cheap on security cameras and both cameras in the lobby pointed to the front. Easy enough to avoid. He'd worn an oversized Jacksonville Jaguars Windbreaker because it disguised him a little bit if someone had happened to see him and it had giant pockets where he had stored one of his homemade jars.
Buddy still had his pass from earlier in the day and had the sticker on the outside of his windbreaker so no one would ever doubt he had permission to be inside the hospital.
Katie had wanted to meet him in the coffee shop, but he met her at the elevator and led her out to the rear garden. It was a well-maintained courtyard designed to give patients a place to step outside into a world that wasn't windy and usually had shade from one side of the building or the other. Even if there had been cameras out there it was too dark in most places to pick up anything. No one was out enjoying the night. Not with the things you could see inside, like
American Idol
or
America's Next Top Model
. Sometimes Buddy wondered how culture could continue with crap like that on the airwaves, drawing so much attention. He wished people took more of an interest in serious art. If more people appreciated art, maybe he could've made a living at it instead of doing it as a sideline to his plate-glass business. Sometimes he forgot how bitter he was about people's shallowness.
He was glad that for one evening people had been occupied and hadn't bothered to come out to see the natural beauty of the gardens or the moon or the brilliantly lit constellations. As they sat on a hard patio bench in the corner of the courtyard near a low, manicured hedge of decorative plants, Katie had appreciated the majesty of the heavens, staring with those beautiful eyes and a relaxed, pleasant expression. He had wasted no time pulling out the cord and slipping it around her neck so quickly she'd never even realized it was there. Then he pulled as hard as he could with both hands to give her that shock and awe he needed to start his own artistic process. But her graceful neck did not have the muscle girth to withstand the stress and he felt a sickening snap.
He'd moved quickly, not releasing the cord until he had the jar in place. It'd been awkward and he had felt a little panic as he rushed through his process, but as he released the cord he realized there was just the slightest exhalation on Katie's part. Not enough to fog the jar, but he could feel it gently on the fingers of his right hand as he held the jar to her lovely mouth.
He had not been able to sit and enjoy the process for fear of being discovered at any moment. He quickly dragged her limp body from the round patio table and laid her between two rows of decorative plants. She would be easy to find. He'd have enough time to slip out the south door, which had no camera and no security personnel. He took a moment to look down at Katie's pleasant face. She looked very peaceful. He wondered if it was because her death came so swiftly. There were some marks on her neck, but her beautiful face had not been distorted and his memory of her would stay just like that.
The experience had been so positive he'd found himself whistling the theme to
Hogan's Heroes
while working earlier in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he had whistled. Sometimes whistling set off a coughing fit so he had all but abandoned his childhood habit of whistling to keep himself focused.
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.

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