The Perfect Death

THIRTY-THREE

This was exactly the type of activity John Stallings needed to get his head out of his own personal problems. He was a cop and this was one of the most satisfying aspects of police work: looking for a specific suspect.

Stallings hadn’t cared much about the details when Tony Mazzetti approached him an hour ago to go to the apartment of some guy named Daniel Byrd. Mazzetti had laid out a few pieces of information that sounded interesting but did not necessarily make Byrd a prime suspect in the recent strangulations.

Generally a car with three detectives in it was full of chatter and smart-ass remarks. Tony Mazzetti was preoccupied while he drove, and Sparky Taylor was working on one of his complex Sudoku puzzles in the front passenger seat. That was fine with Stallings, who was content to sit in the backseat and hope that this was the guy who could provide some answers about Leah Tischler and any other girl who might’ve gone missing in the area. Although the more he considered his father’s comments, the more likely it seemed that Jeanie had escaped harm at the hands of a man who strangled young women.

The apartment was in the north end of the city not far off U.S. 1. The kind of place construction workers and rodeo riders might rent. Cheap and not opposed to loud music or parties. Toby Keith blared from a window on the side facing the road, competing with loud hard rock from an upper window on the side. The three detectives took a moment to assess the entrances and exits as well as how crowded the apartment building looked.

Sparky Taylor said, “Policy dictates that if there is a chance for violent confrontation we should at least consult the tactical team.”

Mazzetti said, “If we called those dildos every time we thought we might have a confrontation nothing would ever get done. Last I checked we were all authorized to carry a gun and make an arrest. I think policy will back me up on that, won’t it, Spark?”

Stallings could see Mazzetti getting a handle on his new partner and understanding how to manipulate him. It didn’t matter one way or the other. Stallings was in a mood for results, and smacking someone in the head might make him feel better. He kept his mouth shut and followed the two partners through the front door of the apartment building, then up one flight of sketchy wooden stairs. Even stepping slowly and carefully Stallings knew they were broadcasting their presence to the entire floor.

Mazzetti said, “There’s only one way in and out of this place, so we don’t have to worry about covering any back doors. No matter what, we don’t want to have to chase this guy on foot. As soon as he opens the door, we grab him.”

As he approached apartment 2-C, the third door on the right-hand side of the hallway, Stallings quickly and silently went through his personal rituals. First he placed his right hand on the grip of his Glock.40-caliber pistol. He liked the feeling of knowing it was on his hip as he muttered his mantra, “Is today the day that changes the rest of my life?” He knew Mazzetti had heard it, but he didn’t turn or acknowledge Stallings. The same instructor had taught the phrase at the police academy for twenty years as a way to keep cops sharp and focused every time they stepped into an unknown or dangerous situation.

Mazzetti stood to the left of the door with Sparky Taylor behind him, while Stallings stood to the right. No one had his gun drawn because, in theory, this was just a simple interview. Ask the guy a few questions and see what kind of a read they could get from him. Simple.

Despite his years of experience, both as a road patrolman and as a detective, Stallings’s heart rate started to increase and he felt the excitement of the unknown. It was a thrill most cops appreciated on some level. It was the reason for the thrill that caused so much grief and sorrow. It was a one in one thousand chance that whoever opened the door would have a gun in his hand.

Stallings tensed when Mazzetti banged on the door.

Sergeant Zuni sat at her desk getting ready to leave for the evening.

Ronald Bell, sitting across from her, said, “You got to be kidding me. That was business. I’m just doing my job. I thought we were going to separate work and personal business.”

The sergeant flashed her dark eyes at him. “Look, Ronald, I agreed not to say anything and you agreed to keep this quiet as long as possible. But the way you seemed to relish trashing a good cop and sneaking through medical records has left a bad taste in my mouth. I can’t hide the fact that I don’t like how you did your job. And I can’t change who I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a douche bag and you will not be seeing me naked again.”