Arsonist

by Victor Methos

  It was the backdoor of the house and had two locks on it and a doggie door, though she had gotten rid of the dog long ago. The door was slightly open.

  She placed her beer down and walked over. It was definitely open, more than a couple of inches. She thought back to today; had she used this door at all? She was on a date last night and it was possible she left it open then as she had gotten drunk at dinner, but would she have forgotten it today when she left for work?

  Monique shut the door and locked it. She glanced out the window to the backyard and didn’t see anything but grass.

  As she made her way to the front hallway and the staircase leading to the second level, she decided she would have to be more careful. Though she lived in a safe neighborhood, there had been reports of thefts from a few of her neighbors.

  She undressed before she was in the bathroom and hopped into the shower. The water took a moment to warm up and rather than stand outside and wait for it, she stood right under the water and felt the exhilaration of cold against her skin. She let it run down her back and over her legs as she lathered her hair.

  She used bodywash and brushed her teeth before stepping out and wrapping herself in a towel. She walked down the hallway to her bedroom and past a window that looked over the backyard. There, under the light of the back porch, a man stood staring up at her.

  She gasped as it caught her off guard. His face was pale and he was bald. A crooked smile came over his lips, and he waved to her.

  She ran down the hall to the bedroom and leapt for the phone. As she dialed 911, she went to the staircase and stood on the top step. There were enough stairs that even if he were to sprint for her she could make it into the bedroom and lock the door.

  Monique could see the kitchen from here. The backdoor was open again.

  “Nine one one operator, how may I assist you?”

  “This is Monique Gaspirini,” she said, panic creeping into her voice, “I live at 1413 Maplewood Drive and there’s a man in my house.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I think he’s inside the house. I shut the backdoor and it’s open now.”

  “Can you get out of the house?”

  “No, I’m upstairs. Well, I might be able to climb out of the window in my bedroom.”

  “Does your bedroom door lock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go in there right now for me, Monique, and lock the door.”

  She did and leaned against it. “Okay.”

  “Now I want you to go near the window and plan to climb down, okay? If you hear him come up the stairs you start climbing down but not before. Is it a long drop?”

  “Maybe fifteen feet.”

  “Okay, well, I’m gonna stay on the phone with you, okay? I’ve summoned the officers and they’re going to be there very shortly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you near the window?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a sound from downstairs; someone shut the backdoor and was walking across the linoleum in the kitchen. Silence a few moments and she didn’t breathe. The dispatcher kept talking but Monique had lowered the phone, listening intently to what was going on downstairs.

  There was an unmistakable sound. It was quiet, barely audible, but having spent twenty-three years in this house, she knew exactly what it was: someone was climbing the stairs and had made them creak.

  “Oh fuck me,” she said. “He’s in the house. He’s in the house right now and he’s coming up the stairs!”

  “Okay, calm down, just do what I said and start climbing down the window.”

  Wrapping the towel tight around herself, she opened the window as far as it would go and kicked the screen out. It fell with a ding as it hit the hood of her car in the driveway. She put one foot out and tried to hold the phone with one hand while she balanced with the other but couldn’t do it. She pinned the phone in between her ear and shoulder and used both hands to climb out.

  The air was warm but it still gave her goose bumps as she pulled her other leg out and placed it on the ledge just underneath her window. She could hear noise from the interior of the house; he was almost to the top of the stairwell.

  There was a small covering over the driveway and to her right. It was maybe six feet down and she figured it wouldn’t injure her if she landed on it. But if she missed it she would fall to the ground and hit cement.

  Off in the distance behind her was another sound: sirens.

  They were loud, and startling, and annoying…and she had never heard anything more comforting in her life.

  The knob on the bedroom door turned. It flipped one way and then the other and someone pushed on the door. She screamed. The operator began yelling, asking what was going on, and Monique jumped.

  She hit the covering hard and felt her ankle roll. The phone flew out of her hand and to the cement below, shattering into several pieces. She lay there, crying as she rubbed her ankle, looking up to her bedroom window.

  But by then the sirens were on her street and the police had arrived: two cruisers. Two officers got out of the first car. They didn’t see her until she shouted for them and they came over and helped her down.

  “He’s inside,” she said.

  They ran in the house. She folded her arms and limped over to one of the police cruisers and leaned against it as another cruiser with another officer pulled up. A few of her neighbors had come out onto their porches to see what the commotion was about and she ignored them and kept her eyes glued to the house as one of the officers tried to take information from her. She could see lights going on in various rooms and then in her basement. The lights stayed on. After what seemed like an hour, but was in reality closer to fifteen minutes, the officers came back outside.

  “There’s no one in there, ma’am,” one of them said.

  “He was in there,” she said, pointing. “I saw him. He was in the backyard and he, he waved to me and then I heard footsteps and, and that’s when I called you guys.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of your neighbors?”

  “I know what my fucking neighbors look like. There was someone in my house.”

  “Well, we’ll do one more walkthrough and then fill out a report. Didn’t look like anything was damaged, and no one was hurt. If you see him again, give us a call.”

  “That’s it? Someone broke into my house and that’s all you’re gonna do?”

  “I saw the beer out. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Like one bottle. I’m not drunk. I’m telling you someone was in my fucking house.”

  The other officer finally chimed in and said, “There’s been some reports of thefts around here. We was at your neighbor’s house just across the street a couple weeks ago. That might be what it is. Someone’s stealing things that people leave out, stuff outta the garage, things like that. That’s probably what it was.”

  “He looked crazy. He didn’t look normal.”

  “Since when are criminals normal?”

  The other officer said, “We’ll take your info. Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?”

  “Yeah, I can go to my boyfriend’s house.”

  “Well why don’t you do that for tonight if you’re too scared to stay here. There wasn’t any damage to the door so I’m guessing it was left open.”

  “No, I locked it. I know I did.”

  “Make sure to lock all your doors,” he said, ignoring her statement.

  The other officer looked over the house. “If he was in there, he ain’t now. We’ll do a quick spin around the neighborhood. Maybe we’ll get lucky. We’ll forward your case to a detective and he’ll probably call you tomorrow to follow up. Pay a visit to the house maybe.”

  They took her information, walked through the house one more time, and promised that a report would be filed. She watched from the porch as they drove away. Turning to her house, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep here tonight. She would go to her boyfriend’s and then he would have to sleep over here
with her until her parents got home.

  Monique went inside to gather her things. She shut and locked the front door and then checked that all the doors and windows throughout the house had been locked as well. It was only then that she remembered she was in a towel. She had wondered why one of the officers kept looking at her chest.

  She walked up the stairs to her bedroom and began to gather some clothes when she heard a sound. It was coming from downstairs.

  As she stood up, listening quietly, out of the corner of her eye she saw the slightest movement inside her closet. Instinctively and without any thought, she ran.

  Laughter sounded behind her as arms wrapped around her throat and she slammed into the floor.

  CHAPTER 8

  Detective Stephen Gunn climbed the stone steps of the government housing project and stopped at some graffiti that was tagged on the wall. It was beautifully done; an Aztec or Mayan warrior cutting off the head of an enemy with a nude woman at his feet. It took up most of the wall and over that were tagged some gang names. Graffiti had gotten vandalized.

  Savages, he thought, as he continued climbing the steps.

  On the top floor, apartment 4612 had a thick wooden door. He knocked and waited. Inside, he heard some shuffling, items quickly being hidden and music turned down that was playing on a stereo. He heard someone lean against the door as they stared out of the peephole and then the click of the lock and the rattle of the chain.

  A woman stood there in a nightgown. She would be beautiful if not for the aging that had prematurely occurred. Wrinkles surrounded her eyes and lips and her once bright blond hair looked greasy and dull. But there was still vibrance in her sapphire eyes and Gunn looked at them a while before brushing past her and into the house.

  He glanced momentarily at the porno playing on the television and went to the fridge. He got out a beer and popped the top before flopping onto the couch and picking up the remote.

  “I’m watching that,” the woman said, sitting next to him.

  “You really a nympho or is that just an act?”

  “We all got our demons.”

  “This and the heroin you was shootin’ up before I got here? Did the guy you were with jump off the balcony?”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Stephen. I hate when you look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some whore that you can just come over and fuck whenever you want.”

  He grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her close. He put his lips over hers and ran his tongue inside her mouth and then said, “You are.” He pinned her arms down on the couch and spread apart her nightgown as he unzipped his pants and entered her. The sex was rough and she slapped him hard several times. By the end they were both drenched in sweat.

  Gunn rolled off her and they lay on the couch as the porno kept playing. He reached over to the remote and changed it to a baseball game.

  “You got anythin’ for me?” Gunn said.

  “No. Everything’s really quiet. No one’s making any moves.”

  “What about our friend Ricardo?”

  “No, he’s laying low.” She sat up, pulling her nightgown over herself. “If I didn’t let you fuck me, what would you do?”

  “I’d arrest you for the dope you got in here and then call your parole officer and have you sent back to prison.”

  “Would you really do that? I know you threaten it ‘cause you think you need to to get what you want, but would you really do that to me?”

  He pushed her out of the way to watch the screen. “Yes.”

  She stood up quietly and went to the bathroom. There was the sound of the shower and she came out some time later in jeans and a sweatshirt. She collapsed onto the La-Z-Boy next to the television and began to nod off. Gunn watched her a while and shook his head.

  “That shit’s gonna kill you.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you wanna die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jaime, drop the shit. Let’s get you cleaned up. Aren’t you sick of livin’ like this?”

  “You’re one to judge me,” she said, her eyes closing for a moment and then darting wide again.

  He sat up and guzzled the rest of his beer. Gunn went back to the fridge and took out another before going back to the couch. He saw her head leaned back on the chair and her eyes closed. He’d dealt with her enough to know she wouldn’t actually be asleep for the next six or seven hours.

  “If I asked you to marry me,” he said, “would ya?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you get clean for me?”

  “I don’t wanna get clean.”

  There was a moment of quiet and then he said, “Do you have other guys like me?”

  “What’d ya mean?”

  “Do you have guys that come over and fuck you and sleep in your bed? Do you cook them breakfast?”

  “Yes, I cook them breakfast.”

  “How many other guys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Five?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ten?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  He took a swig of beer. “You are a whore. And you’re dreamin’ if you think I’d marry a whore.”

  “Why not?” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “Your mother was a whore.”

  He jumped from the couch and walked over to her, grabbing her by the hair. “Don’t you ever talk about my mother.” She laughed. He kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him as he lifted her, and carried her into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jon Stanton sat in the waiting room of Dr. Jennifer Palmer and stared at the imitation classical Greek statue that was up near the receptionist’s desk. It was carved out of marble and looked fairly new. A nude male was shown standing on a ball and ants were carrying him somewhere. He was stuck in a pose of anguish with his arm above his head, flexing his perfectly carved abdominal muscles.

  “Mr. Stanton?”

  “Yes,” he said, his gaze still on the statue.

  “Dr. Palmer is ready to see you now.”

  “Thank you.”

  He rose and walked to the brushed wood double doors and opened them. Sitting at a large glass desk was a woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a skirt and a suit top with heels. She glanced up and then smiled.

  “Jennifer Palmer, Detective. Nice to meet you.” She rose and shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Please, have a seat over here if you don’t mind.”

  She led him to two brown leather chairs and he sat down across from her. A coffee table was between them and she moved it out of the way. One wall of her office was made entirely of glass and looked down over the city. Stanton glanced out to the clouds that were overhead and then back to Dr. Palmer, who was quietly waiting for him to turn to her.

  “I understand from your family physician that you’ve had an episode.”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know if I would call it that. All the neurological tests came back negative so he thinks it might be psychological.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see why they would hit me now.”

  “What would hit you now?”

  “Panic attacks.”

  She nodded. “Dr. Patel told me you had a doctorate in psychology and that your father was a psychiatrist. But that you chose to abandon the field for police work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does your father think about that?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since my mother’s death almost…almost twenty years ago.”

  “Why haven’t you spoken to him?”

  “We were never that close. He approached everything from an intellectual perspective and I didn’t.”

  “How did you approach it?”

  “I always thought feeling and imagination were more important than knowledge. Or at least as important. He did
n’t see it that way.”

  “Did he treat you differently because of that?”

  “I think so. I was an only child and it was painful for him to cut me out, but in the end we both realized we disliked the kind of people we were.”

  “How was your relationship with your mother, Jon? You don’t mind if I call you Jon, do you?”

  “Not at all. It was good. Once the relationship with my father became strained I started spending less time with her too. I always regretted that. By the time I realized it, it was too late. She was already diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. No matter how old you are the death of a parent is always traumatic.”

  “Yeah, it was. She was really the only family I had. I don’t know any of my cousins or aunts and uncles; I didn’t know my grandparents…when she was gone, that was it.”

  “Have you tried contacting your father?”

  “Once, on the phone. He was really stand-offish and then said he had to go and hung up. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for converting to Mormonism.”

  “Really? What faith is he?”

  “He’s as hardened an atheist as you could be. He finds the entire idea of religion, not just the practical application, but the idea itself, ludicrous. To him, anyone that’s gullible enough to get suckered into religion doesn’t deserve any sympathy. He told me once religious people shouldn’t be allowed to vote.”

  “Are you a devout Mormon?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I can see why there’s tension between you and your father. Have you talked to him about your conversion?”

  “Just when I invited him to my baptism when I was eighteen. He refused to come. The only person there for me was my mother. She was really sick by then but she still came.”

  She was silent a moment and just nodding. “I’d like to talk about this episode that occurred. Were you thinking about your father at the time?”

  “No.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I think. We had raided a house and an innocent girl had gotten shot. The perp was in the bed. He was sitting up with a gunshot wound to the head and all his blood was emptying onto the bed.”