The Perfect Death

FORTY-SIX

John Stallings knew the news media would be all over the story of a young nurse found dead at one of the area’s major hospitals. But when he turned on the radio in his county-issued Impala the very first words he heard from a newscaster were “serial killer.” The phrase made him flinch. Often news stations would use the term in the form of a question like, “Is Jacksonville stalked by a new serial killer?” In this case the answer to that question was, “Yes.” And Stallings was pretty sure the command staff at the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office didn’t want that term used loosely.

The phrase itself struck a primal chord with the public and often caused more problems than it solved. The weight of useless tips could crush a team of detectives doing their best to solve a serial crime. He listened to the radio as the announcer gave a few details about the investigation. The next story was about a Christian revival that had been going on at the municipal stadium on and off for two weeks. The controversy was that they had to dismantle the stage so the Jaguars could play one Sunday afternoon. The news coverage on the event had swelled the numbers of believers filing into the downtown arena.

All Stallings could think about now was what he could to do to stop the man who was strangling young women in Jacksonville.

Buddy focused on Detective Martinez’s face, trying to catch any movement or expression that might give a hint to what the detective was thinking. He continued to ask Buddy simple, non-threatening questions. First about Cheryl and then about any friends or associates she’d had. He was particularly interested in boyfriends and asked Buddy if he’d ever been interested in her romantically.

Buddy let out a quick snort of laughter. “No, not at all.” He didn’t have to fake that answer or lie in any way.

The detective took that another way. He said, “Really? You sound pretty definite on that. Why? She was awfully cute.”

Buddy saw the trap the detective had walked him into. If he said he didn’t think she was attractive, the detective probably wouldn’t believe him. Everyone thought she was a knockout. And if he said she was such a bitch he couldn’t be around her, that would also make the detective more suspicious. He might even think that Buddy had a motive to kill her.

Buddy hesitated and the detective took a half step back. Buddy had his hand behind his back resting on the handle of the butcher knife. He was making the assessment of how he could dispose of a Jacksonville police detective and his car. He’d also have to answer a lot more questions because surely the detective had called in where he was going and who he was talking to. At that moment Buddy wasn’t sure there was an alternative.

Then the answer to the question came to him. Buddy said, “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Look around. I’m in my mid-thirties, I’m neat, I’ve never been married, and I talk to my mom every day.” Only one of those things was a lie.

It didn’t take long for the detective to catch on to what Buddy was trying to make him believe. The detective nodded and smiled, picking up his notebook and stepping around Buddy toward the front door.

Detective Martinez said, “If you think of anything please feel free to give me a call.” He handed Buddy his business card, turned, and opened the door.

Buddy was in the clear again.