The Perfect Death djs-3

by James Andrus

  He’d spoken to her last night, hoping she might suggest he come over. Instead she was polite and cool. Just before he ended the phone call she said the words he had been dreading, “I think we need to talk sometime this weekend.”

  He felt the same way, but based on the way she’d been acting and the tone of her comment, he suspected they each had two entirely different things to say. In his mind he was already trying to figure out how to arrange his life without falling back into the lonely routine he had lived before he met Patty.

  He sighed and looked down at a notepad, trying to build an interest in talking to one of the thirty hospital employees who thought they might get to help him in his investigation. There were two other rooms with detectives taking down information. Mazzetti realized he should be coordinating information and supervising the investigation, but he needed to settle down to a simple task for a little bit.

  As Mazzetti was about to call down for his next witness, a tall, odd-looking young man of about thirty poked his head in the door, pushed his dark brown glasses up on his face, and said, “Are you one of the cops looking into the murder of Katie Massa?”

  “I am.” The young man gave off an odd vibe and Mazzetti let his hand drop to the side where his Glock sat on his hip.

  “I think I need to talk to you”

  “You have information?”

  “Yes, I know who killed her.”

  Mazzetti sighed, set down his pen, and finally said, “Really? And who would that be?”

  “Me.”

  Buddy had parked his van with the magnetic sign slapped on the side. He couldn’t believe how long he had agonized over the logo for Classic Glass Concepts. He had given a sort of a regal sketch to the sign company, which had made him five signs he could slap on his van. He’d lost two, one had been defaced, and one had faded. The best part was that he got the signs for free when he fixed a broken window in the sign company showroom. He charged them for materials and made the labor seem harder than it really was so they didn’t think they were being ripped off.

  He’d taken this job at the hotel for two reasons. The woman hadn’t offered him his full estimate, but it wasn’t bad money and she was a very likely candidate for his work of art. From a strategic standpoint it didn’t make sense to use a subject that he’d worked so closely with. But the time to worry about covering his tracks was past and Buddy had come to terms with it.

  Had Detective Martinez talked to him about Cheryl a year or two ago, he might have learned something about police procedure he could’ve used. Instead he had the sense Detective Martinez had a lot to do and not very much help on his investigation. He wondered if all police investigations were like that and if his constant worry over the years about being discovered had been a waste of time.

  As he lay down his tools and cut the caulk from around the outside of the wide bay window he looked up to see the lovely Liz coming out the front door of the ramshackle hotel. She turned toward him with a steaming cup of coffee and a wide, bright smile.

  She said, “I thought a good cup of strong coffee might start you off on the right foot.”

  He accepted it with a gracious smile.

  “How long do you think this’ll take?”

  “I should be out of your hair by lunchtime.”

  “I wasn’t trying to rush you. I just wanted to know if you’d like me to make you lunch around noon?” She placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.

  That was all he needed. It was like an electric shock. The combination of her sweet smile, pretty face and kind manner was all he needed to know for sure that she was the final piece of his work of art.

  John Stallings checked in at the office, hoping the media coverage had generated a decent new lead. He was ready to go out and get something done. In the darkest corners of his heart he recognized he wouldn’t mind punching someone. Someone who deserved punching. Just the thought made him feel better. He didn’t like that side of his nature, but as he got older he’d come to accept it. There were many cops who never came to terms with their natural instincts. Really smart guys who tried to act tough. Tough guys who wanted to show how organized they were. Police work took all kinds of cops to complete.

  The squad bay was very quiet as Sergeant Yvonne Zuni came in the main door and paused at Stallings’s desk. She said, “How are you today, Stall?”

  “Good, how about you?”

  She let out a long sigh and sat down in the seat next to him. “Now that the IA cloud has been lifted from the squad I feel like I can focus on the mountain of information we’re getting in from the tip lines and lab.”

  “We gettin’ anything good?”

  She pulled a random report from her pile in her arms. “We finally have the lab report on the chemical found with two of the bodies. You know, the stuff Sparky found at Lexie Hanover’s apartment.”

  “What was it?”

  “It says here that it is consistent with the residue from a commercial glass cleaner with trace elements including potash. Some of the manufacturers form their own glass components, and potash and other accelerants would be used in natural, non-electric furnaces.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sergeant Zuni looked off in space for a minute, then said, “Maybe it would be a good idea to look into construction workers that deal with glass in windows.”

  Stallings nodded his head, knowing that it would be another big drain on man power when there were so many other leads coming in. He remembered speaking with someone recently about a glass company. But he just couldn’t recall the details.

  Stallings knew it would bother him all morning until he could remember.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Tony Mazzetti looked at the lanky orderly who now sat directly in front of him. There was no one else in the small room the administration had given him as an office while he looked into the murder of Katie Massa. Obviously this guy was some kind of nut. The question was if he was a nut who liked to confess to murders he didn’t commit or a nut who went around strangling women.

  Years before, when he was new to homicide, Tony Mazzetti had been taken in by a man who confessed to killing a teenager with a knife. He’d been so proud of himself after he found the man by canvassing the neighborhood where the homicide had occurred. But when he took the confessed killer back to the office he was met with a chorus of laughter. The suspect’s name was Gerald Conway, better known to the homicide detectives as “Conway the Confessor.” For some reason the man felt compelled to confess to every homicide that happened in the south end of the county. He’d been institutionalized twice and was on heavy doses of psychotropic drugs trying to bring him back to reality. It was a bitter lesson Mazzetti had taken to heart. Over the years he’d had several more instances where caution had proven his savior by not accepting confessions on their face.

  Mazzetti took a moment to assess the young man who had thinning dark hair, a long, hawklike nose, and ears virtually perpendicular to his narrow head. Mazzetti said, “How’d you kill her?”

  “I choked her.”

  He could’ve heard that on the radio. “Describe how you choked her.”

  The young man took a moment, looked around the room to ensure they were alone and said, “I wrapped my hands around her throat and squeezed until she went limp in my arms.”

  Okay, thought Mazzetti, this is bullshit. One of the few facts they knew for sure was that Katie Massa had been strangled with a rope or a cord of some kind. But he didn’t want to dismiss this guy yet. Obviously he would have to talk to someone about one of the hospital employees wandering around telling cops that he killed someone.

  Mazzetti said, “Why’d you strangle her?”

  “Because she met someone else.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “She was, but she may not have realized it.”

  Mazzetti had to stifle a laugh. “You know the guy she met?”

  “I know he gave her crosswords to solve. She loved her crossword puzzles.”

/>   Mazzetti nodded and smiled, trying to think how quickly he could deal with this guy. He stood from behind his table and said, “Let’s go talk to your supervisor about this. Where would I find him?”

  “Up in endocrinology.”

  Patty Levine approached Sparky Taylor’s desk by the most circuitous route possible. He was one of the few people who knew she had been a direct suspect in the theft of the drugs. He was no dummy and probably realized there was a rationale behind Ronald Bell’s theory that Patty had stolen the drugs.

  She eased to Sparky’s desk and saw that he was trying to make connections between pages and pages of phone numbers and names relating to the homicide. The same kind of stuff she was good at too. She cleared her throat until he looked up with that wide face of his and casually pushed his glasses back onto his nose.

  Patty started slowly. “Sparky, I wanted to thank you for figuring out what happened to the missing drugs.”

  “There’s no need to thank me, I was just doing my job. It’s too bad that Ronald Bell doesn’t know policy well enough to resolve something as simple as that quickly.”

  Patty nodded and said, “Thanks all the same.” She turned and slowly started to step away when Sparky said, “Wait a sec.”

  Sparky took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, motioning Patty to the chair next to his desk in the far corner of the squad bay. He lowered his voice and said, “You guys think all I care about is tech equipment and policy. But I’m a cop first. I’ve been on road patrol, in fights, two shootings, and nearly a divorce. I see how hard you push yourself. I also see your ups and downs. It gets to all of us, girl. You’re not alone.”

  Patty stared at Sparky like it was the first time she had ever seen him. He had worked with her the least amount of time of anyone on the squad and he had seen directly to her problems. It was like he had taken an X-ray of her emotions. She nodded her head and mumbled, “Thanks, Sparky.” She stood and started to shuffle away from the desk.

  Sparky said, “I’m always around if you need to talk to someone.”

  Suddenly Patty realized John Stallings wasn’t the only super sharp cop on the squad.

  Stallings went over some notes at his desk, thinking about all the information that had flooded into his brain over the past thirty-six hours. He knew they had to do something quick to avert another homicide and it crushed him that he had no viable plan. They were all working hard and doing their best, but it didn’t seem like it was nearly enough.

  An elderly black custodian ambled through the squad bay randomly wiping down cabinets and emptying garbage cans. When he reached Stallings’s desk he paused and said, “You look tired, John.”

  “Been a long week, Ben. It doesn’t look to get any easier in the coming weeks.”

  The older man chuckled. He had a deep, warm voice that had always been comforting to Stallings. The old custodian said, “I can remember when you started here. I don’t think you looked much different than you do now except for the scar on the bridge of your nose and a few lines around your eyes.”

  “Somehow I doubt the interior held up as well as the exterior.”

  “God tests us each in our own way.” As he was talking the older man reached down and picked up Stallings’s garbage can. “They first called you Stall because your engine ran so fast they were afraid you’d stall out.”

  “You’ve got one hell of a memory, Ben. I wish my dad could remember things as well as you.” Stallings’s eyes shifted to the garbage can and he got an odd feeling. He couldn’t put his finger on it at that moment.

  Mazzetti realized he’d broken a number of rules by not handcuffing the tall, dorky orderly named Marvin. He knew the guy was off by a couple of degrees and he’d clearly had nothing to do with Katie Massa’s homicide even though he insisted he had. Mainly Mazzetti wanted to make sure the hospital realized they employed a nut and he figured Marvin’s supervisor was the best person to talk to.

  The corridors were crowded midmorning on a Friday. People hustled back and forth, and Mazzetti noted that several other orderlies nodded their heads as they passed Marvin. But no one seemed too concerned that he was walking with a cop through the halls of the hospital. Mazzetti had his suit jacket off, and his gun and badge were clearly visible on his hip. In addition, he had a identification badge around his neck and everyone had been told the police would be hanging around the hospital conducting the investigation.

  Pediatric endocrinology was one end of the floor that also housed pediatric oncology and a wing for kids with other ailments. A little girl whose head was as bald and shiny as any old man’s scuttled by in a long nightgown and waved at the orderly, saying, “Hi, Marvin.”

  For his part, Marvin seemed quite unconcerned he’d just confessed to a homicide and smiled at the little girl as he said, “Hello, Emma. I’ll come by and see you later.”

  The little girl giggled and scooted on her way.

  Mazzetti allowed Marvin to lead him to the wide nurses’ station and immediately identified a woman of about thirty-five who was clearly in charge of the massive and busy station. She was tall and athletic, with pretty brown hair tied in a ponytail. She also wore runner’s shoes, which gave Mazzetti the impression this was not a manager who sat back and watched others work.

  He stood there for a moment until she looked up. She came from behind a round desk at the center of the console out into the hallway and nodded to Marvin as she looked at Mazzetti. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “Can we talk privately?”

  The woman looked at the other seven nurses, who were busy making notes or answering the phone, and said, “Will this take long? Is Marvin in trouble?”

  Mazzetti wasn’t sure exactly how to answer because technically Marvin had made a false police report or obstructed justice or bothered a police officer so badly that he was lucky he hadn’t gotten his ass kicked. Instead Mazzetti said, “Are you his supervisor?”

  The nurse surprised him by starting to laugh. First as a giggle, then as a loud guffaw. It took her a few moments to compose herself. Finally she said, “Did he tell you he worked here as an orderly?”

  “I don’t think I’d be here talking to you if he hadn’t.”

  “Marvin is not officially employed by the hospital.”

  “I don’t follow. He’s dressed like he works here and he told me he works here and you obviously know him.”

  The nurse adopted Mazzetti’s slow condescending speech pattern to say, “He is a patient here. He’s treated three days a week in the psychiatric services section. But he’s harmless and good for the kids’ morale so we allow him to come and visit.”

  “Why’s he dressed like that?”

  “I think you’d have to ask him about that.”

  Mazzetti glared at the taller man, who shrugged and said, “I like to dress in white scrubs.” The nurse started to laugh again. Fuck, thought Mazzetti. He looked back at the nurse and said, “Did he know Katie Massa?”

  That sobered the woman instantly. She nodded and couldn’t find words to speak. Finally she said, “He had a little crush on her. Everyone did.” Then Mazzetti’s eye caught something on the console. He reached past the nurse and picked up the single sheet of paper with a crossword printed out on it. “Marvin mentioned something about crosswords.”

  The nurse said, “Katie did them all the time. She’d print out some for us to do too.”

  Mazzetti looked at Marvin. “How’d you know Katie got the crosswords from a guy?”

  “She told me she did.”

  Now the nurse, sensing where Mazzetti was going with his questioning, said, “She told me she got it from a guy too. She met him at Starbucks around the corner.”

  “Did she say anything else about him?”

  The nurse shook her head. “Not really. She had just met him and liked him. She didn’t describe him or give any details.” This was a sharp woman who recognized that any new man entering Katie’s life would be a suspect in her death.

  Something tol
d Mazzetti this was a serious lead.

  FIFTY-THREE

  John Stallings couldn’t take his eyes off the garbage can in the custodian’s hands. Something in the back of his head was screaming at him, but he couldn’t hear what the voice was saying.

  The older custodian said, “You guys keep some long hours. At least you’re not as bad as narcotics with paperwork crumpled up and thrown everywhere and day-old food sitting on every desk. It’s like cleaning a frat house.”

  Stallings nodded absently, then suddenly recalled his conversation with Luis Martinez about interviewing a man at a glass company. At that moment he couldn’t pinpoint the source of his anxiety. He said, “Hold on a minute, Ben.” He stood and peered into the half-full garbage can and saw the sheet of paper Luis Martinez had tossed into it yesterday.

  Stallings plucked out the paper, pulled it out at the corners to clearly see the ring with a hint of moisture still visible. He looked at the custodian and said, “Gotta go.” And hit the door of the squad bay at a full sprint.

  Buddy couldn’t recall when his nickname had really caught on. It wasn’t long after he moved out of his mother’s house and started working the odd construction jobs. He always felt his real name, Arnold Cather, was formal and stiff sounding. His parents had never called him Arnie. Until the day his father died when Buddy was twelve he called his son Arnold. His mother had been no better. When she was happy with something he did she called him Arnold; when she was angry she called him Arnold. Now she didn’t call him at all.

  He liked the informality and anonymity of the name Buddy. He especially liked the way the woman who ran the hotel, Liz, said it with such a pleasant smile and upbeat tone.

  He had decided she was the final link. The chance to finish his work of art so it could stand for all eternity. He had the jar out, sitting on the rear shelf of his van along with the cord he had used on his last several victims. Now he was waiting for the right circumstance. He was certain he could do it sometime later today but was prepared to come back if he had to.