“Just same old. We’re working a case of a body that was found in a dumpster. My partner staked out the suspect’s house and said he’s a normal guy. Nine to five with a wife and kids. He had a bunch of baseball equipment with him and it turns out he coaches their little league.”
“What did this man do?”
“He stabbed the victim, multiple times.”
“Do you know why?”
“My partner thinks it’s a drug deal gone bad.”
“Is that what you think?”
“No. He displays rage. I think he’s a closet homosexual who killed one of his lovers, maybe more than one.”
“The first thing you said about him, Jon, was that he’s normal. What did you mean by that?”
“Just what it sounds like. He’s just the guy that would live next door to you that you would have barbeques with and go to basketball games. Things like that.”
“Is that something that surprises you? That normal people can do horrible things?”
“No, not at all actually. It did at first. But you arrest enough priests for pedophilia and enough cops for beating their wives and you stop thinking that way.”
“You haven’t, though. The first thing that came to your mind when you thought of this man was that he was ‘normal.’ Do you feel like you’re a normal guy?”
He leaned back in the chair. “No, not usually.”
“Why not?”
“Probably because of what I do.”
“Your job doesn’t define you.”
“I know that’s what everybody says, but let’s face it, it does. Cops, lawyers, doctors, professors, garbage men, engineers, they all have traits in common with their peers. Perhaps the job you have doesn’t define you, but maybe your choice for going into it does.”
“Assuming that’s true, why would you think that you’re not normal because you’re a cop?”
“I don’t think human beings were meant to see the suffering of other people as much as you see it in my profession. I see images and relive voices a lot, especially when it’s quiet. That’s why they say that the live ones are worse than the dead ones ‘cause the dead ones are quiet. That’s why I asked for a transfer out of Sex Crimes when I was there to get back to Robbery-Homicide.”
“You said you’re not normal because of the things you see, but you also said that what you see doesn’t affect you. I think those two statements are mutually exclusive.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Cop logic I guess.”
She nodded and took a sip of water. “What else is going on in your life? Outside of work? We didn’t talk about any relationships you’re in.”
“I’m not in any right now. I was seeing a girl that lived in Las Vegas. Another cop. It didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“We already work crazy hours. Put long distance on top of that and you’ve got a pen-pal, not a relationship. One of us would’ve had to move with the other one.”
“Did you discuss that at all?”
“Yeah, she didn’t want to leave. After the business we had there she got a promotion. It was a big chance for her. She’s always wanted to run a police department one day.”
“Well, how about anyone else?”
“No, I haven’t dated anyone since her. There is someone I’m considering asking out, though. She’s a professor actually, of chemistry.”
“That sounds like an interesting mix, the homicide detective and the chemistry professor.”
“I don’t even know if she’s interested. I may not say anything.”
“Do you like this person?”
“Yes. She’s got a shy, quirkiness about her that’s appealing.”
“Well then what’ve you got to lose?”
He shrugged.
“Jon, I’d like to talk to you about something and then I promise I won’t bring it up again if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“Your partner, Eli Sherman. I hope you don’t mind, but I googled your name. I do that for all my patients. I read the articles about what happened between you two. It seems like an incredibly traumatic event—and yet in the three sessions we’ve had, you haven’t brought it up at all.”
“I’ve dealt with it. As best as you can I suppose.”
“But this man was a close friend of yours and he turned out to be strangling young women when he wasn’t with you. That had to have caused an enormous amount of guilt.”
“It did.”
“Do you think that has something to do with the current issues you’re having?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Guilt isn’t like a cut or a scrape, Jon. It doesn’t just scab over and allow you to forget about it. It’s more like an open wound. Something that doesn’t heal. It festers and grows. I’ve had numerous patients that commit horrible crimes and get away with them. I had a man once that raped a young girl while she was passed out drunk at a party. He opened up to me because of doctor-patient privilege. I saw him over the course of one year and he absolutely fell apart. Eventually, he took his own life.”
“I know what you’re saying, but it’s not something I can talk away. Eli Sherman, or whatever his name actually was, was a pure psychopath. One of the purest I’ve seen. Most psychopaths are self-destructive, or if they do turn criminal, they get caught because of their megalomania. Eli was caught because of the fluke that I happened to open his closet when he was in the shower. Otherwise, no one would’ve caught him. Deception is just what those types of personalities do. I have to accept that, and move on.”
“Why did you say whatever his name actually was?”
“He went by a lot of different names. The task force that was after him the year after his escape found that every name he had used was fake. They don’t know his real identity.”
“What was he like?”
“He had all of the traits I admired in a person. He was honest, loyal, tough…I never once saw him afraid of anything or unwilling to help somebody that needed it. When I found out what he really was later on…I think maybe he had the ability to see what it was we look for in people and that those are the traits he needed to show me. Once the veneer was off, he was narcissistic and cowardly. Essentially the exact opposite of the man I knew.” Stanton shifted in his seat and stared out the window a long time before speaking again. “I think he knew he could manipulate me right from the beginning.”
“I was only assuming you two were close because most police officers that come in here are closer to their partners than they are to their spouses. It sounds like you two actually had that type of relationship.”
“We did. He’d call me at one in the morning if he was drunk at a bar and I’d go pick him up. He’d come over for Sunday dinners…he knew I wouldn’t go out to eat on Sundays, so every Sunday he would make a dish and bring it over and join us for dinner. He was actually one of the best chefs I’d ever met, but now I’m thinking he probably picked it up on the way over.” Stanton bit the membrane on the inside of his cheek and then ran his tongue over the indentation. “I let him play with my children…” He took a deep breath. “But it doesn’t matter now. My ex-wife is remarried, my children are growing up, and he’s off in another country hiding in apartments and warehouses. It doesn’t affect me anymore.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I can even see it in your body language. You’re more uncomfortable now than when we talked about a recent break up.” She leaned forward. “Jon, there’s a group that I have. They’re a group of survivors, much like you. I’d like for you to come to our next session.”
“What kind of survivors?”
“Well, one of my patients in that group was married to a man who was a pedophile that hung himself. Another is the mother of a gang leader who was executed.”
“Oh, those kind of survivors. I don’t think I would feel comfortable there right now.”
“Well, when you’re ready, I think it’d be incredibly beneficial for you
to hear other people’s stories. And it would really help them as well. Some of them have tremendous anger toward the police and I think you could really help turn that around. And it would make you realize you’re not alone.” She checked her watch. “Our half hour’s almost up. Is there anything else you want to discuss with me right now?”
“No.”
“How’s the Xanax working?”
“Fine. I haven’t had any of the more serious side effects. Just a stomach ache the past couple of days.”
“That should go away on its own. If it doesn’t, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
He rose. “I won’t. Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you next week. And Jon? Please consider coming to that group.”
Stanton nodded, and was out the door without saying anything. When he got to his car, he had to sit a moment and calm his breathing before he started the engine, and pulled away.
CHAPTER 17
On the corner of Thirty Third Street in Logan Heights, several young girls sat in a car, holding cash out the window. The day was clear without a single cloud in the sky. Several cars were driving by and could see exactly what was occurring as the girls handed the cash over to a man in orange shorts and prison tattoos over his arms and shoulders. The man whistled behind him and a young boy of about twelve ran into an alleyway and came back out with a small plastic baggie. He handed it to the girls, blew them a kiss, and then ran back to the alley.
Detective Stephen Gunn watched this from his car as he finished his cigar and threw it out on the sidewalk. He got out of the car and dodged traffic until he was across the street. As he approached the girls, he could see the man with the tattoos leaning against their door, a smile on his face now. He could hear their conversation.
“You girls suck dick?” he said.
One of the girls giggled. “No.”
“That’s bullshit. I know y’all suck dick. Why don’t we hit my apartment and smoke some weed and you can show me how you suck that dick.”
Gunn stepped around the car so the man couldn’t see him and came up behind him. He grabbed him by his head and slammed him, nose first, into the car. The man swore and instinctively went for the Glock tucked into his waistband when Gunn pulled out the weapon, de-chambered it, and threw it over by a garbage can.
Gunn held up his badge to the girls. “Unless you want to be suckin’ his dick while you’re in jail, I suggest you get the hell outta here.” They started the car. “And girls, I’ll be takin’ that crystal you just bought…thank you. Now get the hell outta here.”
Gunn pushed the man away. Blood was pouring out of his nose. “You broke my fuckin’ nose.”
“How you been, Juan? You know, it’s funny, I’m sittin’ there today just hard at work and I realize, you know what? I haven’t heard from my good pal Juan in almost three weeks. Imagine that, man. I ain’t heard from you in three weeks.”
“Yo I been sick, man. I just got back out here on dees corners man.”
“Yeah? ‘Cause I drove by here couple days ago and saw you hangin’ out with your faggot friend over there.”
“Yeah, I been back for a few but I been outta the game for a minute.”
Gunn glanced around. “Where’s my fuckin’ money, Juan?”
“I told you man, I been outta the game. I ain’t got no money.”
“Really? You ain’t got no money, huh?” Gunn took a few steps toward him and Juan jumped back. “You old school, Juan? Right? You always talkin’ about how life was like back in the day. I mean you’re only like, what? Thirty-five? But since all you wet-back gangsters die out here at twenty that’s pretty old to still be in the game, right?”
Gunn jumped at him and grabbed him by the throat. He brought him near so that he could smell his breath and look into his eyes.
“Here’s a rule you can fuckin’ remember: this is my corner. This ain’t your corner; it ain’t the LHG’s corner. This is my corner and I call the fuckin’ shots. Now you pay me what you owe me or we got a big problem, you and me, and maybe that butt-buddy of yours over there gets a little promotion ‘cause his boss is missin’ in action.”
“I’ll get you the money, man. I ain’t playin’. I’ll get it to you. I need some time, though, man. I just got back in the game, man. I wasn’t lyin’.”
“You got three days to get me three weeks’ worth of payments.”
“Three days? Man, I can’t do that. I can’t sell fast enough, man.”
“Well then you better rob a fuckin’ truck or take out a loan or something ‘cause either my money or your balls are goin’ home with me in three days.”
“All right, man, all right. I’ll find it. I’ll find it.”
Gunn let him go. “See, I knew you were reasonable. That’s why I like you, Juan. Reasonable.”
As Gunn got back into his car, he saw Juan go and pick up his firearm from near the garbage. He stared at him with venom, but just quietly tucked the gun into his pants and went back to work.
It was nearly six in the evening when Lieutenant Daniel Childs walked into Jonathan Stanton’s office and leaned against the doorframe. He had found conversations with his detectives went a lot faster and saved him more time when he didn’t sit down or come in.
Stanton sat at his desk, busy at work on his computer. Childs watched him a long time. He was researching something about homosexual sadists; a study that, from what Childs could tell, was conducted almost fifty years ago.
“You’re the only detective I know that researches the way you research.”
“Most crimes are solved by snitching. The type I specialize in aren’t. Some of the time they don’t even know they’re doing it.” He turned and faced him, putting his feet up on the desk. “Gotta take every advantage I have.”
Childs took a few steps in the room so he could read the screen. “Schizo-Affective Disorders in Homosexual Psychopathy. I prefer Sports Illustrated myself.”
“This study was conducted in the sixties and it’s spooky how accurate they are. These people, like the one I think we’re looking for in Cisneros, are incapable of happiness. They want to impose their own misery on everybody else. This guy we’re after, he has a family. I bet to everyone in the community they seem like the perfect family but at home he’s probably a Vlad Dracula. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tortures his children as a form of discipline.”
“You one dark mutherfucker, Jon. You need to bowl or play tennis or whatever white people do to clear your head.”
“I’m all right.”
“How’s the dating situation goin’?”
“I’m okay, really, Danny, you don’t need to worry about me. I was actually just debating whether to call somebody I met for a date.”
“Oh yeah?” Childs said, sitting down. “Who is she?”
“She’s the arson investigator we hired.”
“Well call her.”
“Maybe later.”
“No, no, this is a direct order, man. Call her right now while I listen and ask her to dinner and a movie or whatever the hell Mormons do for fun. Ice cream, whatever.”
“I really don’t think—”
“I ain’t kiddin’. Direct order. Come on, call her.”
“All right, fine. Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and pulled her up in his contacts.
“Ew, she in your contacts already? This is serious.”
Stanton smiled as the phone rang. Emma answered on the third ring.
“This is Emma.”
“Hey, Emma, it’s Jon. Stanton. From the SDPD. We worked—”
“Of course I remember you, Jon. What’s up?”
“Hey, um, I was just wondering if—”
“You’re probably calling about the samples. They’re not done yet. The labs that I trust take about—”
“No I wasn’t calling about that. I was calling about something else. Um.” He looked to Childs, who made a motion of sticking his finger in a hole. Stanton had to suppress a laugh. “I was j
ust wondering if, um, you’d like to grab dinner some time? With me. Grab dinner with me.”
“Oh, well…yeah, why not?”
“Okay, how about Friday.”
“Friday’s no good. I got a symposium on ion-selective electrodes.”
Childs whispered, “Oh, man, beaten out by an electrode.”
“Well,” Stanton said, “how about Saturday?”
“Let me check…yeah, that should be fine. Should I come pick you up? Or, well, I don’t know. Do you want to come pick me up?”
“Sure. Just text me your address and I’ll swing by around seven.”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
“See you then.”
Childs busted up laughing. “Oh, man. Nothing better than two nerds trying to flirt.”
“She’s not one of your strippers, that’s for sure.”
“My strippers are top-quality American beef, Brother Stanton. You should try one sometime. Might loosen you up a bit and get you to stop thinking about homosexual schizophrenic-whatevers torturing their kids.” He stood up. “Much respect, Jon. That took balls, I know.”
“Thanks.”
As Childs left, Stanton looked at his phone. He calendared his date using Siri, an iPhone personal assistant application, and smiled as he saw it appear on his calendar.
CHAPTER 18
Jesse Brichard finished his shift and found his sedan in the airport parking lot. He sat in the car for a moment and then took out the silver flask that was in the glove compartment and threw back a few drinks, spilling some drops on his pilot’s uniform.
He remembered why he’d wanted to be a pilot: the idea of freedom. The bastards could take your house and car, your money…but they couldn’t take the sky from you. His father had been a pilot and his father before him. It was a family tradition. But with each successive generation the pay and benefits shrunk to the point that he now worked a second full-time job just to support his family. It’d gotten so he could make more managing a fast-food restaurant than he could making sure three hundred people landed safely and got home to their families. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. Maybe they would just replace him outright with robots?
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