The Perfect Death by James Andrus

artists were no longer revered, replaced by guys like Warren Buffett or that insufferable Donald Trump.
    Buddy had lived in the apartment since his thirtieth birthday over five years ago. Before that, he shared a house with a coworker at another glass company. His mom had kicked him out of the house at twenty-two. Even though she had plenty of room and was all alone.
    She had said it was so he’d become more independent, but mainly it was because she suspected him of killing her two cats. It was true, but he’d never admitted it. Not to anyone. He’d learned it was one of the keys to keep from being caught. It was also where he’d learned another important lesson: what attracted him to killing was that one, last, perfect breath. With his mother’s cats he’d used a kitchen knife to stab a tabby called Tiger. He’d stuck it and watched like a scientist as it wiggled on the blade for less than a minute. There wasn’t much thrill to killing something that way. But Blackie, a much bigger cat, was another story. He had a plan for this big black beast that rarely got off the couch and followed him with its eyes to let him know he was further down the affection chain in the house. He’d worn thick, canvas gardening gloves when he wrapped his hands around Blackie’s furry black throat. The cat had kicked and clawed at his hands and made a tiny squeal, but in the end he knew the feeling of choking something couldn’t be replaced: that last moment when his victim was conscious but had no hope. The divine instants when he realized he had the absolute power of life and death. But the whole experiment pissed off his mother. It wasn’t until a year later with a neighbor’s Yorkie he discovered the art of capturing a breath. He slipped a plastic bag over the dog and released his grip on its throat for just a moment. He noticed the fog of the dog’s breath on the inside of the bag and realized it was possible to capture the essence of something. To harness a last breath. Then it was a matter of finding the right container.
    He looked around his apartment and considered all he had learned in the past few months. It made him happy to know he had a grasp on eternity. He had a purpose in life that would outlast him. Most things would.

EIGHT
    John Stallings picked Patty Levine up at her condo in his Impala so they could cruise along North Davis and talk to the managers for some of the hotels where runaways hung out.
    Patty said, “What’d you do last night?”
    â€œHit the hay early.” It wasn’t an exact lie. He had gone to bed early, giving up trying to sleep, and come down here for a look around, but Stallings didn’t want to hear Patty tell him how he needed time for himself or needed more rest.
    Patty said, “I bet Tony five bucks you’d go out on your own time and see what you could discover. I guess I’ll pay up this evening.”
    Stallings turned and frowned at her. She knew him too well. He mumbled, “Don’t pay up.”
    â€œI knew it. You gotta stop going out on your own. You coulda been hurt and no one would’ve known where you were.”
    He hadn’t considered that argument.
    Patty added, “You need your rest. I told you to get seven or eight hours of sleep a night.”
    He nodded and listened for the next fifteen minutes as he cut in and out of Jacksonville traffic, taking surface streets and alleys like any good cop would.
    Stallings pulled the Impala to the curb in front of a four-story, brick apartment building. Each unit had one window and about twenty percent of those were boarded. Stallings figured there were maybe a hundred tenants in the whole place. He’d heard this was the new runaway central and under new management. Different buildings popped up in the city as mainstays of runaways. Sometimes it was cheap rent that attracted them. Sometimes it was a manager who looked after the runaways. Either way