“I don’t know. Skinny, dressed well, not fat. This guy looks like a fucking lumberjack.”
Henry got back into his car and pulled out of the gas station and continued down the road. Gunn followed. Stanton kept his eyes glued to the car, trying to see if Henry was glancing into his rearview or side mirrors. It was too dark and they had put a lot of distance between them. It was impossible to see.
“So what’d your girlfriend think of Benny’s report?”
“She won’t look at it.”
“Why not?”
“I honestly don’t know. I don’t think she likes cops.”
“Oh, good. I’m sure you guys will be happy together.”
“What about you? I heard you were—Stephen.”
“I see it.”
Henry had gunned it through a red light, forcing them to blare their horn when they went through as a truck had to slam on its brakes and swerve to avoid a collision. Gunn went into the opposite lane and oncoming traffic was scattering like insects at his approach. He tapped his brakes and twisted into the right lane and floored the accelerator.
“What the fuck!” Gunn shouted.
“He made us. Don’t lose him.”
“I won’t.”
The Subaru sped through a stop sign and then angled right, just barely missing a couple that was crossing the street. The tires were screeching and it looked like it was about to tip but the brake lights never came on.
Gunn made the same turn and went up on the sidewalk as the couple was still in the street. Several people had to jump out of his way before he could get the car back onto the road. The Subaru was still racing ahead. It ran another red light and caused a collision between two sedans. Gunn swerved around them.
“He’s heading to the freeway,” Stanton said. He called dispatch, giving the make and model of the Subaru and the direction they were heading. He asked for a chopper and dispatch told him that both choppers were occupied but they’d get one there as fast as possible.
The on-ramp was clear and the Subaru sped up and quickly merged, getting over two lanes before Gunn had even made it past the on-ramp.
“Get to the left lane,” Stanton said.
A semi was behind them and Gunn kept trying to get over and the semi would speed up. Gunn blared his horn and flipped him off. The driver kept speeding up so Gunn took out his firearm and held it out the window. The semi immediately slowed down and Gunn got over two lanes.
The freeway was busy but not congested. The Subaru was up ahead maybe sixty feet. It was darting in and out of oncoming traffic. It was in the far left lane and it suddenly twisted violently to the right as it tried to maneuver into another lane and it spun all the way around before crossing three lanes of traffic and crashing into a barrier.
“We got him,” Gunn said.
The door opened and Henry got out, blood leaking down from a cut on his forehead. He ran into traffic and nearly got clipped by a mini-van before jumping over the railing and down a slope.
Gunn hit his brakes in front of the Subaru and the two men leaped out and started running. Gunn was over the railing without looking and Stanton took a moment to catch sight of Henry who was racing down the hill. Stanton hopped the railing and followed them. Gunn was yelling, “Police!” but Henry wasn’t slowing down.
Out a hundred feet or so were some abandoned buildings. They had been used as factories and warehouses and went bust years ago when the real estate market bottomed out. Now they sat vacant, too expensive to rent and too much of a hassle to buy.
The first building was maybe six stories. It was rusted and broken down with graffiti and boarded up windows. Henry swung open the door and ran inside, Gunn right after him. Stanton pulled out his Desert Eagle and followed.
The interior smelled like burnt oil and dust. Henry’s and Gunn’s footfalls were so loud that it felt like they shook the building. It was too dark to see where they were; the only light was the moon coming in through the broken windows, but Stanton could hear them a floor above him now. He took out a penlight and saw some stairs at the far side of the room he was in.
The stairs creaked and shook as he took them two at a time. He saw Henry on the far side of the space running up another set of stairs to the next floor. Gunn was right behind him, no more than twenty feet. Stanton sprinted for them but by the time he got to the next set of stairs they were already heading to the next floor. But he could hear the wheezing and the swearing. Henry was tiring.
“I got you motherfucker!” Gunn bellowed through the warehouse. A loud crash and a scream.
Stanton raced to the other set of stairs and to the next floor. He put his penlight in his teeth and went gun first along the railing. He saw a mass of movement in front of him and saw Henry on his back as Gunn was punching him in the face.
“That’s enough,” Stanton said. “We got him.”
Gunn struck him several more times and then stood up, shaking his fist, which was now covered in blood. “Faggot bit me.”
“Let me see.” Stanton shone his light on Gunn’s hand. There were indentations of teeth, but they didn’t break the skin. “You’ll be okay.”
Before Stanton could stop him, Gunn kicked Henry so hard he twisted to his side and vomited. Stanton grabbed him, pinning him against the railing.
“That’s enough. He’s down,” Stanton said.
“Motherfucker,” Gunn said, out of breath, his eyes pinned on the man writhing on the floor. “You cuff him and get his ass to the car. If I do it, he ain’t gonna make it the whole way.”
CHAPTER 26
Nehor Stark went around the small house and made sure the clear liquid had doused the frame. The windows were soaked as were the doors. The interior was covered and the vapors were only a soft hint; they were seeping out of the house and tingling his nose. Only one more place to douse before the show.
He walked around the perimeter of the house. It was red brick with white trim and a nice fence surrounding it on all sides. The neighborhood was upscale and he had to hide in the bushes when a group of teenagers peeled out of their parents’ driveway across the street in a new Mercedes. The car came back for some reason and one of the girl’s ran inside. He watched her; her legs silky and smooth underneath the lamplight. As she came back out she glanced up, and their eyes locked.
Nehor immediately turned to his right and looked down to the sidewalk, pretending to be passing through. The canister was dropped from his hand into some bushes. He walked for a few moments before looking back and saw the taillights of the Mercedes up the street. He ran back to the house.
There was a shed in the back that held the lawnmower and other equipment. He sprinted for it and jumped, swinging his legs onto the roof and standing up. He glanced around to see if anyone was out, but the neighborhood was quiet. He climbed up the roof of the house.
The sky was dark with the exception of two stars and the moon, gray-black clouds slowly drifting by and covering its light before the icy glow returned a few moments later. Nehor watched the moon a long time and then undressed. Blood spatter was on his clothes and it looked black in the moonlight. He thought it oddly beautiful that it appeared darker than anything he had ever seen.
Nude, he began to douse the roof with the small canister he had brought with him. He went in geometric shapes; circles first, and then a pentagon. The pentagon would show through the fire; it didn’t mean anything to him, but the neighbors would be unsettled every time they looked over to the house. Maybe some of them would even have to move out later on.
When the canister was empty, he threw his clothes on the front lawn and then climbed down using the shed in the backyard. He went to the front of the house and stood on the lawn, listening to his breathing. He reached down into his duffel bag and brought out the match. He held it lightly in between his fingers and twisted it to the left and the right. He was quivering and sweat was beginning to show on his skin. It glistened in the moonlight.
He struck the match.
The front door was open
and he flung the match on the porch. The porch instantly lit in three-foot-high flames, which raced around like a caged animal trying to find a way to escape. They dashed inside the house and the flames began to grow. Within thirty seconds, smoke billowed out in large clouds, darker than the night, and he could hear the screaming coming from inside. The flames grew and the roof caught fire; there was, in a single instant, a powerful, thunderous, glorious, explosion. The house now barely stood as the fire engulfed it.
Nehor stepped close to the house. He was erect now. He wanted to inhale the wondrous smoke, but he wouldn’t last longer than a minute before he lost consciousness. One day, when he found somewhere secluded enough, he would indulge himself. But for now he approached the little house cautiously.
The flames were so hot they melted the barbeque on the front porch. The conflagrations singed his skin and he felt his pubic hair catch fire, the tips lit red as they coiled like burning ants. He made a note to shave himself next time.
His skin was boiling. He could feel the heat inside him as sweat drained from every pour. It was cleansing him. He felt himself burning away, his memories, his thoughts, his emotions…they were lifted into the night like ashes and drifted away. The only things he could feel now were the pain and the heat that made him feel faint.
Another explosion flung him onto his back. The screaming had stopped; the fire had eaten that. He looked back and saw one of the neighbors on the porch, the phone to his ear. He grabbed his clothes and the duffel bag and ran to the car that waited for him up the street.
Monique Gaspirini woke to the sound of her car pulling into the garage. She was huddled underneath the sheets. They were pulled over her head and covered every inch of her. It was something she used to do as a child to protect herself from the boogeyman and she had found these past few days that she couldn’t sleep unless the sheets were over her head.
As the door opened downstairs, she thought of her mother and why she hadn’t called. Then again, she never called. They didn’t check up on her and Monique had always thought she liked it that way but she would have done anything to hear her mother’s voice on the other line of that phone.
Footfalls up the stairs. They were fast, faster than usual. Monique heard the door to her room open but she didn’t want to take the sheets off. She didn’t want to see him. As long as she didn’t see him, she could pretend he wasn’t real.
The light turned on. She smelled an odor from him she hadn’t smelled before; like burnt rubber. Slowly, she slid the sheets off her head, and looked.
He stood in the doorway nude and fully erect. Smoke was coming off his skin in barely visible wafts and all the hair on his body had been singed. The skin on his belly appeared like it was peeling. She saw his look, the horrible look in his eyes as he stared down at her. She screamed.
Slowly, he came into the room, and shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER 27
Stanton watched Henry Wenchowski through the two-way mirror. He was nervous and fidgeting with a ring on his finger; his wedding ring. He appeared like a kind uncle or perhaps a young grandfather.
Gunn stood over him, questioning him. Henry denied everything and insisted he had witnesses to prove where he was the night of the murder. He appeared shocked that he would be accused of being a homosexual and asked for a lawyer. Stanton stepped in.
“Stephen, why don’t you grab a drink and call the public defender’s office? Let’s see if we can find him a lawyer.”
Gunn shrugged and left the room.
Stanton sat down across from Henry. “How old are your girls?”
“Twelve and eight.”
“I’ve only got boys. I’ve heard girls are easier.”
“They definitely take care of their father better, at least I think. I don’t have any boys. It was only girls in my family.”
Stanton leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry we have to do this to you, Henry. You seem like a decent guy. I wish there was another way.”
“I’ve asked for a lawyer,” he said, glancing away.
“We’re getting you one but we gotta wake up a public defender. They might not get in till morning. So like it or not, you’re with us for the night. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you about the case. I just wanted to chat and let you know that I’m sorry. Will you chat with me without a lawyer?”
“Fine, I’ll chat but if you’re truly sorry then why don’t you let me go?” he said desperately. “I’m telling you, there are at least three people that will testify to where I was that night.”
“I have no doubt, and if it was only the Cisneros thing, I’d let you go. But you ran. That’s a felony to run from the cops.”
“I was scared. I didn’t know who you two were. If I’d have known you were cops I certainly wouldn’t have run like that.”
“I believe you. But at this point it’s out of my hands.” He leaned forward. “You’ve already asked for a lawyer so anything you tell me can’t be used against you, but I’m curious about something. Will you talk to me without your lawyer if I ask you a question about something in the case?”
“What question?”
“Does your wife know you’re gay?”
“I am not—”
“Henry, we’re civilized men. Lying to each other doesn’t become us. It’s not polite.”
Henry bit his lower lip and looked away. He said, quietly, almost as a whisper, “No, she doesn’t know.”
“What would she do if she found out?”
“She’d leave me of course. She’s a good Christian woman. She wouldn’t tolerate that.”
“I’m sorry, Henry. I’m sorry you have to be in this situation.”
“Please,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes, “just let me go. Just let me live my life and I swear you’ll never see me again. Never.”
Stanton reached out and held his hand. “All right, Henry. I’m going to trust you. I’m going to assume that you can get those witnesses to me. I want them to call me tomorrow. Can they do that?”
“Yes, of course. First thing.”
“Okay, have them call me and if they verify your story, we won’t file charges.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” he said, weeping. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
“I’m being honest with you, but I want you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Were you having an affair with Michael Cisneros?”
“Yes,” he said, breaking down, his head lowered.
“Did you do what you did because he was going to tell your wife? Because he was trying to destroy you?”
“Yes, yes,” he wiped the tears away from his eyes. “He said he was coming to my house. He wanted me to leave my wife and I said no. I love my wife. But he wouldn’t stop. He just wouldn’t stop. And then he showed up at my house. At my house!”
“What did you stab him with?”
“I don’t know. Some kitchen knife. Something I had on hand.”
“Okay, okay, it’s okay, Henry. You’re going to be okay.” Stanton rose. “Wait here for me.”
“Can I go now?”
“Not yet.”
Stanton walked out. Gunn and another three detectives were standing in front of the two-way and they started clapping.
“That,” Gunn said, “is how you get a fucking confession.”
“What about his asking for a lawyer?” one of the younger detectives asked.
“No good,” Gunn said. “Jon asked him again if he could talk to him without a lawyer and he consented, twice. In California consent negates the askin’.” Gunn pretended to bow to Stanton. “The master.”
Stanton walked past them without saying anything. He had done his job; the Supreme Court of the United States had long held that police officers were allowed to lie about everything to garner a confession. But every time he did it, it took a piece of him. He didn’t enjoy it in the least and felt no triumph, no joy in the act of catching a killer. But there was no c
hoice; no one else could do it, and he wouldn’t have stopped killing. Not after he saw how easy it was.
“What’s the matter?” Gunn said, walking up behind him.
“I’ve never enjoyed that part of it.”
“You kiddin’ me? That fucker cuts up some young kid and you’re broken up for lyin’ to him?” Gunn put his arm around him. “Come on, we’re goin’ to a bar to celebrate.”
“I don’t drink.”
“I know, but you’re still comin’ out with me. I know just the place.”
Coochie’s stunk of beer and old vomit. It was a surfer bar that had been converted to a cop bar after several officers made a habit of going there after their shifts. Eventually the owner accepted the new branding and offered the officers a discounted rate on beer.
Stanton, Gunn, and several uniforms sat in the corner booth, drinking and telling war stories. Stanton sipped a Diet Coke and listened. The drunker they got, the more outlandish the stories and the more heroic their behavior. One officer was telling the story of how two drug dealers, lesbians, had offered him a threesome to let them go. He said he didn’t take them up on it and the men started laughing and shoving him and he appeared to blush and didn’t say anything further about it.
“What about you, Jon?” one of the uniforms said. “You ever take some cream or a bit of pussy?”
“This guy?” Gunn laughed. “This guy feels bad ‘cause he lied to a queer murderer.”
“Oh shit,” one of the uniforms said, “you goin’ queer on us Johnny boy?”
“Goin’?” Gunn said. “Nah, I’m just playin’. He’s going skydivin’ with me tomorrow and that takes balls.” Gunn shot the remnants of a glass of whiskey. “You know what? Fuck that, let’s go now.”
“What?” Stanton said.
“Let’s go now. I ain’t kiddin’.”
“In the dark?”
“Hell yes in the dark.”
“I don’t think we can do that.”
“I’m an instructor; we can do whatever we want.”
Arsonist Page 11
