Thanks to Doug Morse for some useful details.
Absence of evidence. That was his only goal, apart from murder.
His victim worked graveyard shift, returning while it was still dark. This left him nearly nine hours to enter the darkened apartment and set the scene. Prior to entering the apartment, before even touching the doorknob, he slipped on new surgical gloves and a surgical cap. Over his own clothing, he donned a new plastic coverall. It was hot working under all this protection, but it prevented any hairs or fibers from escaping. Surgical booties over his shoes eliminated footprints.
Being cautious, he brought plastic sheeting with him. After entering the apartment, he spread the sheeting along in front of him, never once letting his foot touch the unsheeted floor. This complicated his movements to some degree, but he felt it was both prudent and necessary.
The gun was a 32-round 9mm semi-automatic pistol. It had been stolen from a would-be mugger two years before, rendering provenance difficult. Its serial numbers had been filed down and brushed with acid. A foam pillow was secured over the barrel as a silencer.
He made his way to the bedroom and switched off the breakers. The apartment was now without electricity or light. It was nearly time. He put on his helmet, which had a miner’s light attached, and waited behind the door.
His victim opened this door at precisely 5:11am. She reached for the light switch, flipping it back and forth in the light from the hallway. Satisfied that the foyer bulb had burnt out, she left the door open to illuminate her way as she walked to the lamp on the console table. Noticing the plastic on the floor, she glanced around.
He closed the door gently and switched on the miner’s light. She turned in surprise. He took aim and fired. The silent bullet hit her squarely in the forehead. She sagged to the floor.
The heat from the charge had ignited the homemade silencer. Gasping, he threw the gun to the floor, melting the plastic and setting flame to the carpet beneath. Immediately, the skirt of the tablecloth on the console table caught fire, blocking his exit. The fumes from the melting plastic were intense, the heat in his plastic coveralls brutal. He tried staggering to the window over the melting plastic. He got as far as the couch before losing consciousness.
He awoke to bright lights and blinding pain. “You have second and first degree burns on 70% of your body,” said a cheerful nurse. “You’re also suffering from smoke inhalation. We’ll get you back on the morphine drip just as soon as you answer these detectives’ questions.”
“The perfect crime,” he whispered.
The detective snorted. “Yeah, you set yourself on fire. Just perfect.”
Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.