Death by Perfection

By Katherine Haennicke

Who wouldn’t kill to be perfect? Two murder scenes, one night. A high school shudders in fear. Another murder is discovered. A town quakes at the thought of one, let alone multiple killers in their community. Detective Jack Maguire has a monumental task in front of him. He has to solve the murders, but are they even connected? He searches into the background of the victims and uncovers hidden schemes. The victims’ lives were not as perfect as they seemed. What hold does the tyranny of perfection have over us? Fascinating, isn’t it? You want to know more about the shooter. I’ll tell you. I am perfect. Yet three people have done something so egregious that I somehow looked flawed. But not for long. They are a plague in my life that must be cured. I must rid my life of their disease. Intrigued? Let me take you on that journey with me. And then you can see if that detective will figure it out. I doubt it. I am perfect. Get into the killer’s mind, follow the aftermath, and determine for yourself who committed Death by Perfection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640270190

Book preview

One

You will understand, won’t you? I will explain it to you so you do understand. But how on earth could they ever realize what they put me through? They may never understand, but they will pay for it. I must rid myself of such imperfection.

#NightofHealing

Two

That will be $95.12.

The final cost for the last piece of equipment—a new pair of gym shoes to help muffle my footsteps as I walk toward each house. I will show them the consequences of their actions, even if they do not understand. Tonight is the night I take out those who made me seem imperfect and return to my life to status quo.

I pay the clerk, grab my bag, and stroll to the parking lot. The smell of food lingers in my nose as I exit to the parking lot. The air is cool after the heat of the mall and sears my lungs in that icy-hot way. I breathe deeply and relish the coolness. Soon, the suffocating heat of summer will hit us. I hate summer.

I turn the key in the ignition. My pathetic Acura rumbles to life. Yes, my parents bought me an Acura. Imagine, someone like me driving an Acura. Shows you how little my parents know me. I deserve at least a Jeep or Mustang. Not some common, nondescript car like other teens in this town. I am stuck with this cheap-ass car—for now. I will convince my parents to get me something better. After all, I cannot go to college with this piece of shit.

You are probably wondering who I am. Likely thinking I am some sort of brat. I’ll start with my family. My parents work in the latest trendy industry—the creative industries. This town is full of people in this stupid field. My parents work on advertising campaigns for new toys that develop a child’s musical ability. This helps develop synapses in the brain. Blah blah blah. My parents make a living by daydreaming and imagining. How is that even a career? They have given in to traditional thoughts on creativity—namely, that creativity is the use of one’s imagination in creating artistic expression. What a limited view! There is so much more to creativity!

Unlike my parents, I am not one to romanticize and am not prone to flights of fancy. Traditional creativity does not suit me. When I was growing up, there were expectations of what creativity should look like. I did not fit that mold. My art did not fit that mold. I don’t fit any mold other than my own.

My creativity took other forms, such as ingenious thinking to find solutions to problems. Finding a simple and elegant solution to a complex problem, now that’s creative. Developing an experiment to test a theory, that’s creative. Creating some ugly picture on a piece of paper is not creative. Yet because of some dumbass’s definition of creativity, I was the one labeled as lacking imagination. Seriously?

Despite my alleged lack of imagination, my parents expected me to excel in everything. From a young age, I was my parents’ live-in guinea pig. They tested the latest toys and trends on me. As if I were some lab rat. Once I showed any sort of aptitude, my parents would put me in classes and activities to further develop that skill. My success continued once I started school and I earned good grades. Was that enough for my parents? No. They wanted more—achievements in extracurricular activities—sports, drama, archery lessons, piano lessons—and more! My parents insisted I succeed in both school and in all these ridiculous activities. Doing all this crap would ensure I get into a great college, so they said. Without acceptance into a great college, then how would I succeed in this world? And if I don’t succeed in this world, what kind of parents would they be?

My parents appear to be supportive. They enroll me in all sorts of activities and usually give me what I want, but they don’t show up to support me! They lay so many expectations on me but don’t encourage me or attend my practices. What they want is a final polished end product. The real irony is that they think they are great parents because they could provide for me financially and I succeeded according to their standards.

You might assume that I think far too much of myself, but I am actually quite charming. Because of all my early socialization, I am pretty popular. When I choose, I can be pleasant, funny, and influential. I am logical and reasoned. Others might think I have no emotions, but I am simply matter-of-fact.

People judge me on their perceptions of success. They see that I am popular, do well in school, and excel in activities. To the outside world, my life is perfect, and I am expected to remain perfect.

What do they know? They don’t know what perfect is. They don’t know what real success is.

As I wind my car through town, I methodically review my checklist for any last-minute preparations. I have all the addresses—a little research was all it took. The Recorder of Deeds website provided most of the information I needed—addresses, assessed values, taxes, square footage, and exterior pictures. Online real estate databases included interior photographs. In this town, there are only a couple mainstream builders, with their blueprints and floor plans on their websites. Like lemmings, these people bought houses from one of these builders. I know the layout of each house. They cannot hide.

Next on the checklist? Weapons. I have two guns, just in case one jams. The first is a .38 Special Revolver. It’s a bit old-fashioned but simple. I grew up on this gun. It was the first gun I ever shot. I was forced to take shooting lessons after demonstrating advanced skills in a video game. The objective was to turn me into an Olympic-worthy marksman, but due to my lack of interest, those lessons ended abruptly. Regardless, the .38 Revolver holds a special place in my heart—something familiar from childhood. The next gun, well, that one’s my favorite gun—a 9mm Glock 19. This gun can shoot one bullet after another, reloading the chamber in an organized fashion.

The Glock makes me feel powerful, and it’s all about my power, not the gun. The Glock is an extension of my arm and a display of my brilliance. But I will start with the revolver. No bullet casings to clean up. Six easy shots. More than enough to accomplish my goals.

My perfect plan includes contingencies. The Glock is just a safety net.

Finding the weapons was surprisingly easy—Google searches thrown in with unscrupulous people on Facebook, couple e-mail exchanges, some cash, and voila!

Guns for sale.

It took some time to acquire the guns. I had to save up money from ridiculous side jobs and obtain the guns one by one. I considered using Bitcoin, but I didn’t want any sort of trail. People think that Bitcoin or any of those alternative currency exchanges are totally anonymous, but there are always trails unless they bounce servers, create separate e-mail accounts, send the transfers from different IP addresses, or take other measures. I wanted something easy. I wasn’t looking to set up some criminal empire.

I am not some criminal. I am merely ridding the world of imperfection.

And cash is anonymous. #CashIsKing.

I have a silencer for each gun. Once again, Google to the rescue and an unwitting friend who helped cut PVC pipe. A couple pipes, some end caps, and a little glue, that is all it takes to hand-make a silencer. I could have made metal silencers that would last. I could have purchased them. I could have used a pillow. But I needed to make sure I had another person help me—help who had no idea what I was planning.

My perfect plan needs a fall guy.

My fall guy always seeks affirmation. I know about his family and his past. He will be the perfect scapegoat.

We hunkered down one evening to cut different types of pipe—PVC, copper, stainless steel, aluminum, and more. I told him it was for my senior science project—a project that focuses on the magnetic effects of the pipes, or lack thereof, and how those properties affect the speed of a magnet falling through the pipe. He bought it. Hell, he even purchased the materials for me.

Shows how inferior he is. I could have done that project as a freshman.

My clothes are ready. With all the school shootings in the news and the established uniform of killers in games, the clothes have become a cliché—dark knit hat, dark pants, dark shirt, dark gloves, dark shoes, dark, dark, dark. When did this become so trendy?

I have studied their schedules. I know them better than they know themselves. They are all so predictable, never straying from their pattern—kids off at practice, husband late from work, or hiding out in the shed while a spouse drinks to oblivion while the other pretends not to know. The same each and every Wednesday night.

The first stop features a dog I need to quiet. I have some dog treats ready. I don’t want to hear anyone whine about the poor dog, so the treats are coated in Ultra Mega Relax Dog Gel. Enough to calm the dog. If the dog accidentally eats too much, that’s not my problem.

By now, you’re probably wondering why I plan to rid the world of these defective individuals and who these wretches are. These jerks are supposedly our school leaders—leaders who are responsible for guiding and encouraging students. These fakes should be focusing on students like me, who have the most potential. These dumbasses should devote their time and energy to giving us all the support and tools needed to succeed while pushing us to accomplish more. Yet none of these faux leaders do any of this. These individuals allow their flaws to affect the most promising students. I should know. They sabotaged my achievements and abilities, altering the course of my once perfect future.

Before I get to those people, what about the ones who will not be getting remedied? A few other individuals in my life have attempted to make me appear imperfect. Other individuals have attempted to impede me. But I have won out. Their attempts were exactly that, mere attempts. Nothing they did was so egregious that I couldn’t fix it. And they never questioned my ability and always acknowledged how smart I am. They cannot help their own iniquities. They cannot be faulted for being less intelligent and less capable. But tonight’s deficiencies are so egregious, so unrepentant that they must be rectified.

Before you think I am crazy, I know that eradicating their existence will not change the past. My endeavor is not about changing what has happened but rather purging my life of their influence, their control, their essence so that going forward, I am perfect once again. My past is tainted, but my future does not need to be contaminated. No longer will their mistakes reflect on me, as if to indicate I am flawed or unwanted. Instead the world will know how their issues were so pervasive as to penetrate the realm of even the strongest and capable.

So what imperfections will I rid the world of tonight?

I will have three stops.

First stop, Principal Smith’s house, the farthest from my house. Learning about Elliott Smith’s life was simple. I know him as the principal of my school, Linwood High School, or Linny High, by us students. He is a husband, the father of three, and collects comic books. He started his family a little later in life. They struggled to have kids and eventually adopted a boy and a girl. Shortly afterward, his wife became pregnant. You would think after all this, he would be an involved father.

But no.

I have watched him make his wife drive the kids to their ballet lessons, their soccer practice, and their piano recitals, while he lies, claiming work obligations. He ignores his family and doesn’t spend much time with them. Is work so much more important?

Of course, that’s not what he is doing. After he waves good-bye to his family, he doesn’t work. Instead he watches reruns of M * A * S * H and keeps paperwork handy to appear busy when they return home. He’s a fake, an imposter, pretending to be more than he is. Tonight’s lessons will run long. The kids are getting ready for the spring recitals. He will not be discovered until well into the evening.

After Elliott Smith’s done, I’ll stop by Monah Wiley’s house. Ms. Wiley, guidance counselor extraordinaire, has a husband who works late every Wednesday night. She’ll come home from school, take their dog for a run, feed it, and then primp for the evening. She’ll dress up and wait for her husband. All that extra time on makeup and clothing, such a waste. She’ll start her famous spaghetti gravy. Doesn’t she know that it is Sunday gravy, not Wednesday gravy? She’ll put the tomatoes and bones in the pot, and after her shower, she’ll fix meatballs or sausage and finalize the gravy. She’ll set the table, tap some cheap wine from a box, and wait for her husband. Like clockwork, he’ll arrive home around eight fifteen with a bouquet of flowers and kiss her cheek. They might as well be Ward and June Cleaver.

The car behind me honks. The light turns green, but I am distracted. Don’t people understand how important detailed planning is? If that driver knew the importance of my work, he would not have been so quick on the horn. Maybe I can teach him a lesson, but I think better of that, realizing I have far more important tasks for this evening. I gun my Acura and cruise through the light.

Turning the next corner, I pass my last and final stop, the home of Sherman Croder, social studies teacher. His is the closest to my house. At six thirty sharp, he leaves the dinner table and heads back to his shed. He’ll tell his wife he’s going out for a while, maybe to the bowling alley, but it’s always a lie. I know what he wants—time away from her.

She doesn’t look for him. She only cares about herself, and by seven o’clock, she’ll be half a fifth down with her drink of choice—Southern Comfort and lime.

What a weak drink! #GetaRealDrink

At some point, Sherman Croder’s wife will pass out and not realize until morning that he won’t be returning ever again.

The time frame will be tight, but when my tasks are complete and I am home, only Principal Smith will be discovered.

I turn onto my street. The weather is warming, trees are budding, and kids are playing catch outside before dinner—a welcome sign of spring. Baseball season will be starting soon.

Before going into the house, I check on the electric bike I stole from Kal Bartlett. Stole is a strong word. He left it here one day. In my mind, he abandoned it. If it was important to him, he should not have left it here or at least not forgotten it. He asked about it once. I told him I hadn’t seen it, which was only a half-truth. I stashed it in the shed that night and checked on it only once. So I suppose I have technically seen it—semantics, really. I have kept the bike in our back shed. An electric bike is just a bicycle with a small electric motor. The motor makes pedaling easier on the rider. Unlike scooters, the motor doesn’t replace the human effort, merely augments it. After all, why would I want something that replaces me?

I digress.

We have not started our outside spring cleaning, so I know it is safe. I slip into the shed to briefly check on it before I get ready. It’s plugged in and is fully charged. I test it to make sure it starts without problems. I researched this particular electric bike and found out it will go 50 miles on one charge. My total distance tonight will only be 26.8 miles—slightly more than a marathon. I am certain I have enough charge for any detours or surprises.

After checking the electric bike, I go inside. My parents, like many people at their company, are working late. It was a long day at school, and I need sustenance. My stomach is growling. I look in the fridge. All this planning makes me hungry! I need some protein, good carbohydrates, and little fat. After all, I will essentially be running a marathon. I grab some roasted chicken from last night’s dinner and bread. I add in a little mayonnaise, salt and pepper for flavor. I don’t need anything special for tonight’s meal. I will celebrate my plan’s brilliant execution tomorrow. For now, I focus on what I need to move forward.

My planning is perfect. Time to shower and get ready.

Game on.

#ItsHappening

Three

The time is here. Finally, six months of planning will come to fruition. My careful preparations and consideration of various possibilities, all the while anticipating the unexpected, will come together into an evening of judgment and consequences.

I shower, scrubbing off any dead skin, and comb out every loose hair, regardless of how short—potential DNA sources cannot be left behind. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know this part. I pull on my pants, shirt, and shoes. I cover my head with the dark knit hat. I double-check my backpack for provisions. I tighten the silencers onto the guns. Everything is in order. I checked my watch—5:29 p.m. My plan is to walk out of my house at 5:30 p.m. I am on time.

As I get on the electric bike, I decide to use high assist. I should conserve my energy for now.

I steer toward Elliott Smith’s house and remind myself why I am taking this journey. He refused to give me a recommendation for college, my perfect application marred by his ineptitude. He wrote recommendations for others, but not me, and gave no reason for his refusal. His deficiencies affected my excellence. As a result, I was not accepted at the college of my choice, the college everyone expected me to attend.

I turn down the next side street, staying in neighborhoods, staying in the shadows. I know the heavier traffic routes and where the red-light cameras are mounted. The town is not complex; the streets adhere to a grid pattern with very few deviations.

Linwood is your average town of thirty thousand people all living together in alleged harmony. But undermining that false security is everyone’s neurosis. Some try to keep up with the Joneses. Others hope for more than squeaking by paycheck to paycheck. Some people love Linwood and will live their whole lives there, becoming active members of the community. Others seek escape and want to forget Linwood forever.

Linwood’s businesses focus on headquarters for creative industries—a range of economic activities that focus on the generation and exploitation of knowledge and information. These industries include games manufacturers whose products enhance knowledge and teach analytical thinking. Other companies in the industry analyze the intersection of architecture and humans to produce environments for efficient and in-depth educational experiences.

Other companies develop innovative distribution channels for major national retailer. They optimize products and distribution using customer insights.

The town attracts fine minds and fast talkers looking for their moment. For the less-driven, laid-back piecemeal jobs or service and civic duties suit their style.

Friday nights come and the high school fills with spectators for sporting events. Some like to fit in, others fill the stands to watch their kids, and then there are those who come to gawk and mock jocks and cheerleaders just because they can.

So Linwood is like any other average town.

From the tree-lined boulevards to the warehouse district, one boasting gourmet cheeses and meats, the other saturated with liquor stores and bars, townspeople rise and fall in their McMansions and one-room flats.

The high school, on the other hand, is exceptional despite Principal Smith’s mediocrity. Linwood, with its deep and wide industrial tax base, means no student lacks for much at Linwood High. Each year, prior years’ equipment and texts are donated to make way for another dawn of promising educational tools. Intimate classrooms, teachers who understand the art of education, and kids who have special needs flourish.

The schools, like any other town, have its cliques: popular kids, jocks, computer geeks, shy and awkward kids, drug-addled boys and girls, and more. The jocks and cheerleaders, always in jerseys or their uniforms, rival the kids with the best labels and the latest trends.

The high school mascot is