The Perfect Death by James Andrus Read Free Book Online Page A

jump on interviews of people who might have run into Leah Tischler.
    Thirty minutes later he found himself parking his county-issued Impala and walking down West Davis Street. It was never too late to talk to the street people of Jacksonville. Many cops overlooked them as a source of information, but Stallings knew nothing occurred in the city without the street people seeing or hearing about it.
    The street population encompassed so much more than the homeless. Anyone out all the time, whether selling drugs or their bodies, came in contact with a lot of people. Even a runaway from a wealthy family, if that’s what Leah Tischler was. It was possible the killer had snatched her from society, but Stallings felt it was more likely the young woman had slipped off society’s radar for a little while before the killer found her. There was always the chance she was still alive and had discarded her belt, but Stallings wanted to be practical and veer away from fantasy. He had a job to do and had to be reasonable no matter what his hopes were.
    Stallings wasn’t like most cops. He had relationships with people. He worked the street like a host greeting guests or a bouncer scaring jerks. No one knew Leah Tischler when Stallings showed them her photos. The discovery of her belt wrapped around the afternoon’s murder victim had not been released to the public yet.
    Then he saw someone who might hold some valuable information. An acquaintance with his ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse of the drug pipeline running through Jacksonville. Stallings watched the man in a wifebeater shirt stop and speak to different people along the street. He handed off baggies to two or three of them and was completely oblivious to Stallings. People didn’t notice cops unless there were two of them in a marked cruiser. Stallings waited patiently until the man was only a few feet away; then he stepped from the side of the building where he’d been leaning and said, “Hi, Peep. Whatcha doing out so late?”
    The scruffy man jerked his head and looked at Stallings for only an instant before he turned and darted across the street like a sprinter in the Olympics. Stallings realized if he wanted to talk to the man, he’d have to follow.

SEVEN
    John Stallings had spent too many years as a cop to waste his energy matching a scared drug dealer step for step. That left him with two options: go back to his car and look for him or figure out where the man was running to and beat him there. Stallings cut down Houston Street to Jefferson and turned left.
    The man he was chasing was known on the street as Peep Moran because of his penchant for spying on women while they were urinating. It was a simple hobby in the world of the homeless because bathrooms were not always available. In the consumer-driven society of the United States many businesses purposely used the bathrooms as a perk for customers only. Consequently many street people were forced to use nature as their lavatory whether the middle-class people around them wanted to admit it or not. In his whole career as a road patrolman, Stallings had never arrested anyone for urinating in public. He knew when the need came over you, you had to relieve yourself. He didn’t care if the reason was too much beer or no home to go back to; no one should legislate using the restroom.
    He also knew Peep wouldn’t venture too far or risk crossing one of the freeways on foot. This was an educated guess on Stallings’s part, but one he felt pretty comfortable with. As he eased onto Jefferson Street he saw Peep Moran with his head down and his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Stallings never wasted time yelling at someone to stop; instead he closed the distance between them quickly and by the time a suspect realized he’d been seen, it was too late to flee.
    Stallings surprised the scrawny man, but instead of showing his shock, Peep acted casual. “Hey,