The Perfect Death

James Andrus The Perfect Death

ONE

Human anatomy is simple. It only requires time to study and a mind to grasp the complex organs God had stuffed into the body. Lots and lots of study time. That’s what Kathy Mizell had done for weeks. Nothing else but study, eat, and a little sleep. Cranial nerves, respiratory system, lymphatic system. She’d learned it all and doubted she could ever look at people the same way again. But the test had been last Friday and she’d scored a solid B. Human anatomy was the big hurdle for most nursing students and she had cleared it. Now she had to face tests on prescription drugs, diseases of the pulmonary system, and taking effective case notes.

Kathy considered her anatomy score as she sat on the scarred wooden bench with the name DANNY carved into it. The only cover from the constant Jacksonville drizzle was the pockmarked plastic bus stop with an ad for the Jacksonville Times-Union plastered across the inside: a smattering of famous headlines beneath an image of a young, professional-looking couple reading the paper and drinking coffee. The other nursing students called the bus stop wedged between the two buildings “creep central” because it felt so isolated. Kathy had checked with security and there had never been any problems reported.

The eight o’clock shuttle was running late and her brand-new Nissan SUV was at the dealer having its transmission fixed. Her spacey little brother had forgotten to pick her up. So the simple nursing seminar on electronic patient notes at the off-campus College of Health Care had turned into an ordeal. Thank God she’d gotten the anatomy test out of the way Friday. Kathy decided the shuttle back to the main University of North Florida campus was at least in the direction of home, where her mom would have a hot meal ready for her. Maybe spaghetti, or her favorite, pot roast.

Kathy wore the white and pink uniform of a student nurse and carried three thick textbooks in her Nike backpack. She was too exhausted to study for the prescription-drug test she had tomorrow. At least the cozy bus stop kept her relatively dry.

A man in a white commercial van drove past her slowly, stopped down the street, and got out at the bus stop that protected riders headed back to Jacksonville. The van blocked most of her view, but she could tell the man was doing a repair to the plastic cover. After a few minutes he hopped back into the van, drove to the end of the short street, and turned back in her direction. The plain white van pulled to a stop directly in front of Kathy. The passenger window rolled down and a man called out from the driver’s seat. “Sorry, miss, but I’m supposed to install a sheet of glass in the back of the booth.”

Kathy looked around for a dry place to wait and saw nothing or no one near by. “Can I stay under the roof?”

“Let me get out the glass and you can slide to one side. I’ll only be a second.”

Kathy evaluated his speech and manner. Her psychology class had a whole section on initial impressions. Her assessment was this guy didn’t want her to get soaked. She smiled and scooted to one side, watching as the man stepped through his van and opened the side, sliding door. She could see sheets of glass as well as intricate glass shapes. He held a small glass cylinder in his left, gloved hand as he popped out of the van.

Kathy pointed at the jar. “What’s that?”

He held it up. “An airtight jar.” The man, in his mid-thirties, had a warm smile and bright blue eyes set deep in a handsome face. He grabbed a leather strap out of the van and turned back to Kathy. His heavy canvas work gloves were well worn to the shape of his fingers.

She huddled to one side, waiting for the man to measure or use the strap on the back of the bus stop booth, or whatever repairmen did.

Instead, he leaned in close to her and looped the strap over her head. At that moment she realized it was a belt. Before she could say anything he jerked it tight around her neck.

The surprise and force of the belt stunned her. It took a second for her to realize what was happening. She was being choked. It wasn’t only the lack of oxygen to her brain, but the speed of her panicked heart and reaction of her body to the assault. Her nursing classes had taught her how the human body needed oxygen as fuel. Now that knowledge gave her an odd, analytical view of her body shutting down. She flailed her arms, trying to work her fingers under the belt around her throat. The man shifted and she was able to gasp once and release the breath. When she exhaled, he held the funky glass jar to her mouth with his left hand. He used his right hand to yank the strap tight across her throat again. There was no oxygen available. Nothing.

The man secured the belt and moved away from her, sealing the jar with a lid. He lifted her jerking body in strong arms and transferred her to the open floor of the van.

She heard a slight gurgle but didn’t know if it was out loud or only in her head. The last image she saw was the man looking back at her from the front seat of the van. She wanted to see her mom and dad. She even wanted to see her brother to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Then everything went dark.

Detective John Stallings swerved as the tires of his county-issued Impala splashed into a puddle at the end of the long, curving brick driveway in front of a house that looked like an English manor on top of the hill. He wondered how much it cost to put a hill on the flat wetlands near the beach. Three cars blocked the driveway. A blue Jaguar XJ12 sat closest to the front door. A black Cadillac was right behind that, and at the end of the driveway next to where he parked was a beat-up Ford Explorer. He figured that must belong to one of the help.

He paused a second while his partner, Patty Levine, navigated across the damp surface, her metal notepad cover in her hands. She never went anywhere without the scuffed and dented metal notebook that housed not only her notes from work, but most of the rest of her life as well. She always seemed to have it together, never looking distracted or nervous. With straight blond hair hanging down her back she could’ve been a young lawyer or doctor walking into her private practice. Instead, she was an overworked missing persons detective with the Jacksonville Sheriff ’s Office. Stallings thanked God for it every day he walked into the office.

They’d composed a few questions Patty pulled out of her metal notebook as they approached the wide, ornate wooden doors. How many times had he done this in the past three years? He’d lost track. And none of them seem to get any easier. There were only a few variations of how this could go. Distraught parents missing their child. Detached parents doing what was expected to report a missing child. Distracted parents who had other issues. Or parents who had something to do with the child’s disappearance. None of them were pleasant situations, but all required Stallings’s complete attention. He’d been there as a cop and a parent. He lived the real, visceral fear of not knowing exactly where his child is or what kind of danger she might be in. In the three years since his own Jeanie had disappeared, that fear still ate at him every minute of every day. As he knocked on the door he once again thought of his missing daughter. He also muttered his affirmation to keep him sharp and alert: “Is today the day that changes my life?”

A chubby black woman with a narrow face and dark, intelligent eyes answered the door. He was about to identify himself when she stepped back and ushered him and Patty into the wide, tiled foyer. The woman hurried off, leaving the two of them standing in silence. Stallings noticed the bookshelves crammed with antique books and knickknacks. In one corner of the foyer he saw his first clue as to what kind of parents he was dealing with: an entire row of sports trophies and children’s drawings. He made a snap judgment that these were terrified, caring parents he needed to help right now.

Stallings and Patty looked up as a flabby, bald man in a white button-down shirt and dark pants waddled toward them, his hand extended. “I’m Bob Tischler. Thank you for coming out to talk to us. The sheriff told me you were the two best missing persons detectives he had.”

Stallings took the man’s smothering hand and nodded, not bothering to tell him that he and Patty were the only two missing persons detectives. But Tischler’s subtle comment on his political connections were clear. The well-known and wealthy attorney had juice, but that didn’t matter one bit to Stallings. The only thing that mattered was Tischler’s missing daughter, Leah. Over the years Stallings had found social status