Detective “Slim Jim” MacAfee strolled up next to him, a microwaved burrito in his mouth. He stood there, chewing for a moment, the sauce and cheese dripping down his chin onto the floor.
“Who’s that?” he said.
“That’s the sole witness on your arson case, the Humbolts.”
“Benny said the evidence is inconclusive on that.”
“You believe him?”
“No. The fucker’s lazy. I didn’t read about a witness in the reports.”
“She wasn’t in them.”
“How’d you find her?”
“I don’t know. I just thought she knew more than she was telling me.”
If Slim Jim didn’t believe that answer, he didn’t show it. He continued biting into his burrito and sucked down a Sprite. Before he was done with it, the sketch artist gave a thumbs up and stepped out of the room.
“Girl’s got a good memory. Saw this guy for no more than ten seconds at night but could recall the shape of his lips.”
“Did you get a good print?”
“See for yourself.”
Stanton took the drawing. His heart raced and his guts tightened up like a fist. “Slim Jim, this girl’s life is in danger. We’re getting her into protective custody right now. Send some uniforms to her house. Her family’s in danger too.”
Nehor Stark bounded up the stairs to the second floor, his flame resistant suit swooshing as he jumped up the top three steps. He kicked in the first door on his right. It was a bathroom. He tore down the shower curtain and looked in the tub. He pulled open the drawers underneath the sink so violently they broke. He bashed his fist into the mirror and it broke in a spiderweb of cracks.
The next room was the master bedroom. He pulled the covers off the bed and kicked over the mattress. He noticed a sound in the bedroom and thought a dog or other family pet was in there with him but then realized he was grunting like an animal. He kicked over the dresser and ripped the closet doors off before rummaging through the clothes inside.
“Where is she!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Nehor went through the next bedroom and tore it apart. There were photos and drawings on the walls and he ripped them down, glass shattering into hundreds of pieces on the soft, white carpet. He ran down the hall to the next room, another bedroom. He tore curtains away and shattered the plasma TV against the wall, mumbling, “Where is she?” to himself.
He tore their clothes off the hangers and ripped them apart. There was an echoed screaming and he knew it was his own.
Finding nothing in any of the rooms, he bounded down the stairs and to the kitchen. He opened several drawers, dumping their contents on the floor, and finding the largest kitchen knife he could, he went to the living room.
Gagged and tied together with polyester rope, the Richardsons were crying and squirming underneath the tight grip of the ropes. Hal Richardson, the father, had a large wound on his head that was pouring blood over him, soaking the portion of rope around his chest a dark crimson. He appeared faint, like he could pass out at any moment. Nehor went instead to Katie, the mother, who he had left untouched.
“Where is she?” he said, placing the tip of the knife against her throat.
Katie shook her head.
“Your whole family is going to die and I’m going to make you watch. If you tell me where she is maybe I’ll decide to let all of you live and just take her. Is that a deal?”
Katie broke down, her head lowered, tears streaming down her face. She nodded.
“Good,” Nehor said, reaching over and taking out the cloth that had been stuffed into her mouth. “Now where is she?”
“She’s down the street at a neighbor’s house.”
“Which neighbor?”
“Are you going to harm them?”
“No,” he said, frustrated, “now which fucking neighbor?”
“Six doors down. The Taylors.”
He pulled the knife away. “Thanks.”
Nehor jumped to his feet and went to the three red canisters that lined the wall on the south side. He began emptying the remnants over the floors and tracing a pattern into the hallway.
“Why are you doing that?” Katie cried. “You said you would let us go?”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
She screamed as he finished the hallway and came inside, pouring the clear liquid over her two children and her husband. He went to retrieve another canister when he saw movement outside in front of the house. It was a police cruiser.
He stood frozen, staring out the window as two police officers got out of the car. They could be going anywhere, he thought. Then they walked up the yard and to the front porch, ringing the doorbell.
He didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. He couldn’t survive going back to living in a cage. He would die here then, with this family and the two officers. He would set the fire such that it would cause an explosion as soon as the officers got through…no. No, why should he do that when there was a perfectly good backdoor?
Nehor glanced to the family as he ran past them. Briefly, he considered slitting their throats before leaving and he took a step toward them. As he did so, one of the officers pounded on the door and said, “San Diego PD, please open the door.”
Nehor’s face twitched in anger. He threw the knife as hard as he could at Katie, the handle hitting her in the head and causing her to scream. He laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
He ran out the backdoor into the dwindling evening light. He jumped into a neighbor’s yard over their fence and then ran to the street where Amber’s car waited for him.
CHAPTER 40
“This is fucking bullshit!”
Stanton ducked a can of cola as Tabitha threw it at him. He approached her and grabbed her arms, sitting her down on the couch provided in the lounge. He stood over her as she folded her arms and sat back, anger raging in her face.
“It’s for your own safety. And if you throw anything at me again, you’ll be sitting in a cell instead of in the lounge.”
“Good, I don’t give a shit. Put me wherever you want, faggot.”
“It’s almost six o’clock. Is your family all going to be home at this time?”
“Fuck you.”
He bent down, looking her in the eyes. “Tabitha, I’m trying to save your life and the lives of your family. Now please, it’s very important. Is your family going to be home?”
She scoffed. “Yes.”
There was a knock at the door. Childs opened it and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him so no one could hear and walked over, glancing down at Tabitha before turning to Stanton.
“The family’s at Scripps right now. They’re safe but they were found tied up in the living room.”
Stanton looked to Tabitha and her eyes went wide as she realized which family they were talking about.
“He came to my house?” she said quietly. “That guy came to my house?”
Childs said, “He almost killed your family. Jon Stanton just saved your life. Maybe a thank you is in order instead of throwing shit at him.”
Childs turned and left as Tabitha stared blankly at the walls before tears ran down her cheeks. She put her hands to her face and began to cry. Stanton sat down next to her and calmly waited until she was ready. A moment passed before she leaned over on his shoulder. He let her cry it out and when she had regained control of herself he stood up.
“I’ll take you to your family.”
They drove in silence all the way to the hospital and Stanton parked in handicap parking before walking her to the ER. Her family was gathered in the same room, the father in a bed with a bandage around his upper skull. The rest of the family sat quietly until they saw Tabitha. She ran to her mother and they hugged and began crying. Stanton stepped outside the room.
A uniform was outside sitting in a chair. He was reading a Rolling Stone and not paying attention to what was going on in the room. Stanton leaned down in front of him so he could see his eyes.
“The man who’s after this family, he won’t care that there’s a policeman outside the room. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let them out of your sight. If they want to go home, tell them they can’t yet and that they’ll have to sleep in a hotel. Don’t even let them in to get clothes. He may have wired the house with explosives.”
“I won’t let anything happen to them, Detective.”
“I know you won’t. Thank you.”
As he was already here, Stanton decided to visit Gunn. He went up to his floor and walked into the room without knocking. Gunn was lying in the bed, staring up at a television that was blaring a game show, something set in a classroom with Jeff Foxworthy as the host. Stanton pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. Gunn didn’t move or say anything.
After a long while, he finally said, “Did you bring me anythin’?”
“Like what?”
“Like some beer? I can’t get any booze in here.”
“You know I wouldn’t buy that for you.”
“I know. Just thought I’d ask.” He turned and looked at him. “You look like shit, Johnny. You gettin’ enough sleep?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Stanton leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the edge of the bed. He looked to the television. A woman in a tight dress answered that the capital of New York was Manhattan and lost all the money she had made. A young boy to the right of her shook his head in amazement.
“Did you mean what you said, Stephen? That you’re gonna go after the people that put you in here?”
“If I say no will you stop askin’?”
“Probably not.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“I’m chasing down the owner of the car. It belongs to a woman who by all accounts has disappeared. I think if I can find her though I can find the men that shot you.”
Gunn shrugged. “I ain’t too worried about it.”
Stanton removed his feet from the edge of the bed and leaned forward. “There’s lines that once we cross they disappear, Stephen. They won’t be there anymore and we just end up becoming exactly what we hate.”
“Thanks for the advice, Ma.”
Stanton rose, placing his hand on Gunn’s forearm. “I’m your partner. I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“What the fuck? What are we on a fuckin’ date or somethin’? Get your hand off me, Jon. I ain’t gonna do shit ‘cause I don’t know shit. I know about as much as you do about who shot me.”
“You’re lying, I can tell.”
“Fuck you, Jon. The world ain’t black and white, good and evil, all right. Get off your Jesus complex bullshit and come down to earth with the rest of us.”
“Jesus saved my life, Stephen. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”
“Sure, why not. Weirder shit’s happened.” He coughed. “Ah, my fuckin’ ribs. You’re aggravatin’ me, man. I think I should get some rest.”
“If you need anything, you call me.”
Gunn sighed. He held up his hand, knuckles out and Stanton bumped it with his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”
“Can’t change who you are,” Stanton said.
Gunn shrugged. “Keep me up to date on that arson shit, will ya? It’s been on the news.”
“I will.”
“And be fuckin’ careful. This guy sounds like one sick fuck.”
CHAPTER 41
Emma Lyon waited at her office until darkness fell before she rose from her desk and headed out the door. She had a full day of lectures tomorrow, but she would regurgitate old lectures she had prepared or just do it by heart. She had given the same lecture on the third law of thermodynamics so many times, she occasionally dreamed about it and ran through the entire lecture before waking, tired and groggy, early in the morning.
She heard footsteps behind her as she walked down the corridor out to the parking lot and turned to see Philip Christensen come out of a lab and smile as he saw her. He caught up to her, sipping on a Mountain Dew Code Red and stopped a moment to tie his shoelace.
“You comin’ to that symposium?” he said.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause we work for an asshole.”
“So? You’re tenured. Just come and see what he does.”
“What he’ll do is give me all the 7:00 a.m. classes, and channel the funding to other people. He can’t fire me, but he can turn me into little more than a TA.”
Philip took a long drink. “Fuck it. It’s still better than a real job.”
“That it is.”
They got outside and said goodbye as Emma got into her car. She put a Mozart CD into the player and waited until the music came on before pulling out of the parking lot and onto Springhill Drive. She turned west and onto the interstate heading southeast. It was jammed with cars, their taillights like glowing red orbs hanging in darkness. Construction had blocked one of the lanes and it was stop-and-go traffic for almost half an hour before she got off the nearest exit and took side streets to Harvard Ave. Down half a block was the burnt-out remains of the Brichards’ home.
She parked across the street and finished listening to the piece that was playing. Then she checked her digital recorder before slipping it into her pocket and getting out a flashlight that was in her glove-box. She looked at herself in the mirror and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car.
The air was warm and she thought it odd that that’s the first thing she noticed. She glanced up to the moon and saw that it was full. It appeared brighter than usual and she thought it must’ve been the fact that there were few street lamps in this neighborhood to provide light pollution.
She glanced around the neighborhood to make sure no one was out watching her. Though it had been found to be an accident, many of the neighbors had probably heard Stanton on the news describing it as arson and they would be jumpy. Many of them would be armed and inexperienced with firearms and might take a shot at her, thinking her to be a prowler. She waited near a telephone pole until she made sure that no one in any of the surrounding homes was watching her through the windows.
She went up to the porch, one of the only portions of the house that was still standing. She noticed a melted barbeque on the porch right next to a pet bed where the blankets had been charred but not burnt. Fire was odd that way. It seemingly chose its targets. Emma had seen video of fires that had been set by arson investigators across the country and when you ran them at a slower speed you could watch the flames zip around the house, up the walls, over furniture. And then for no apparent reason, it would skip something; like a lamp or a table. It would shoot over or around it. Investigators didn’t pay much attention to it and figured it simply had something to do with the flow of oxygen in the room and flammability of the substances around the item, but it was unsettling to see on video. The fire appeared alive.
She took out her digital recorder and hit the “rec” button.
“Brichards’ home, July first, about 10:00 p.m. There’s a little doggie bed on the porch. I didn’t see mention of a dog in the police reports. The medical examiner didn’t make note of a dog with the remains of the bodies. What happened to the dog?”
She held the recorder low as she walked around the perimeter of the home. Normally, she would take photographs and measurements but she skipped those. Benny, she assumed, at least had the competence to measure accurately.
Emma walked in through what had been the front entrance and slowly took in the home. She took out her flashlight and ran it slowly around the hallway and then the living room. She ran the light around the baseboards and then squatted and observed them more closely. She went back to the hallway and examined the baseboards that had been left, going over the bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom as well. There were no puddle configurations indicating the use of an accelerant. She slipped out a small plastic container and
a metal device that looked like a scalpel and took several pieces of the baseboards in the hallway, living room, and bedroom, put them in individual plastic baggies, and placed them in the container. There were pieces of broken glass in the bedroom and she examined them and placed a few pieces in her container.
There was little else she could do right now. Analyzing any secretions from the bodies, surveying body position and the types and locations of burns are much better indicators of arson than most inanimate material but she didn’t have those now. Other than a few photographs in a file. She held the recorder up to her lips.
“Maybe I was wrong. There’s nothing here now other than a few samples. I don’t see any indications of purposefully setting the conflagration other than the position of the victims in the photographs. None of the victims were attempting to flee, which means they were probably tied up in some fashion. The bodies have already been buried and I won’t be able to get access to them to test for any rope or plastic restraints. Unless the labs come back with a miracle, I’ll have to agree with the county’s fire investigator that this is probably an accident.”
Emma did one more walk through of what had been the Brichards’ home and then went to her car. There was a cat near the driver’s side tire and she knelt down and ran her hand along his back as he arched and began to purr.
She glanced back to the house. Her gut told her this was purposeful fire setting, but the evidence didn’t add up. It didn’t help that most of the evidence she could have used was either buried in the ground or had been washed away with a direct spray of a hose. Inexperienced firemen rarely can spot the difference between arson and accident upon coming to a fire, and many times most or even all the evidence of arson is washed away before a fire investigator is notified of the scene.
Witnesses could tell her if there was an odor or if the fire took an unusual pattern, indications of the use of an accelerant. As was yellow fire with dark, black smoke. One of the easiest ways to recognize an accelerant were flames that burned directly from the floor, which most witnesses had no trouble identifying. She regretted that there were no witnesses here to give her a clear answer.
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