Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

This is a work of fiction; however, Id like to extend my heartfelt sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a child to a senseless act of violence.

I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation to all those whose support and expertise made this fantastic journey possible.

Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.

Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.

Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.

Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.

Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.

Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches commiserating with and encouraging me.

LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.

Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.

Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.

Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.

My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mom for lighting all those candles of hope.

Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but it certainly wouldnt be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.

Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This wouldnt have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.

Nebraska State Penitentiary
Lincoln, Nebraska
Wednesday, July 17

B less me Father, for I have sinned. Ronald Jeffreys raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.

Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twistedno, strangledthe corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.

Is that how we start?

Jeffreys voice startled the priest. Thats fine, he answered quickly.

His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prisons deathwatch chamber didnt have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.