Victor Methos - Arsonist

“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.”

“That’s pretty graphic. Were you disturbed by that?”

“No.”

“Most people would be. Why were you not, do you think?”

“I don’t know. You get used to it. Or at least you convince yourself you do. But when I saw it, I started feeling lightheaded and then my chest started tightening. Before I knew what was happening, I had passed out.”

“What did you feel, Jon, the second you saw that body? What was the thought in your head?”

“I thought, how hard it was going to be for someone to get that blood stain out of those sheets.”

She laughed, and covered her mouth. “I am so sorry. That just wasn’t the answer I was expecting.” She scribbled down a few notes on a legal pad and cleared her throat. “Is that the first time you’ve ever had something like that occur? The attack I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Are you on any medications, Jon?”

“No.”

She stood up and took a prescription pad off her desk. “With your permission, I would like to write you a prescription for Xanax.”

“I don’t have anxiety.”

She glanced over to him and her eyes went down his arm to his fingers. He was rubbing his index finger and thumb together and hadn’t even noticed he was doing it until her gaze fixed on it. He stopped and put his hand on the armrest.

“There’s nothing wrong with medication, Jon. From what Dr. Patel told me about your work, it sounds like these attacks aren’t just an annoyance but that your life is at stake because of the situations you’re put in through your work. I think the Xanax will calm them, make them more manageable.” She handed him the scrip and sat back down across from him. “I’d like to talk a little bit more about your father if you don’t mind.”

Stanton glanced out the window. The clouds had accumulated and he could tell that rain would soon follow. He folded the slip of paper and put it in his jacket pocket and leaned back in the chair. “What do you want to know?”

Emma Lyon answered her phone on the third ring and heard her receptionist’s voice say that her two thirty appointment was here.

“Send him in,” she said.

She glanced around her office as she waited and decided that she really needed to straighten up. It was typical for a professor’s office: shelves upon endless shelves of books, a few degrees up on the walls, papers stacked a foot high on her desk. The office was small and most people would feel claustrophobic in it, but it was comforting to her. Like an old sweater she’d thoroughly broken in. Above her door was a sign that read, CHEMISTS DO IT SUBATOMICALLY.

She watched as the homicide detective walked in and shut the door behind him. He was carrying an iPad under his arm and wore a pinstripe sports coat with jeans and a tie. He had boyish good looks and despite herself, she knew she was blushing.

“Jon Stanton,” he said.

“Emma Lyon,” she said, rising and shaking his hand. He stood there a while. “Oh, sorry. Please have a seat.”

“So how do you like teaching here?”

“UCLA or Los Angeles?”

“UCLA.”

“It’s great. I get a lot of support, a lot of time to pursue research interests. Did you go here?”

“No, I taught here for a couple of semesters.”

“Really? Criminal justice?”

“No, psychology and psychopharmacology.”

“And you’re now a homicide detective? That’s quite a jump.”

“Less pay and worse hours; how could I resist?”

She chuckled, just a little longer than she wanted to. “So what can I do for you, Detective?”

“I heard that you consult law enforcement on arson investigations?”

“Used to consult. Now I just do defense.”

“Prosecution to only defense. That’s quite a jump.”

She ignored the implicit question and said, “So I’m afraid you’re out of luck if you’re looking to get a conviction.”

“I’m not. My department’s looking to blame the sixteen-year-old stepson of the victim that died in the fire. I think he’s innocent but the arson investigation doesn’t support that.”

She leaned forward on the desk. “Really? Well, now you have my attention.”

Stanton unlocked his iPad and pulled up some photos. He lost them when he accidently closed the window and then opened it again and handed it to her. “Sorry, just getting used to this thing. He died of smoke inhalation but you can see the body’s pretty damaged too. The arson investigator said there’s a lot of evidence indicating that the fire was set intentionally. If that’s true, I still don’t think the stepson did it but he was the only one around at the time. I’m afraid it might be pinned on him.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t trust a jury to acquit him?”

“No, absolutely not. Juries convict the innocent all the time.”

She handed back the iPad. “Well you’re the first cop I’ve ever heard say that.”

“I’m not a fool. Our system’s not perfect. But I could really use your help. We don’t have a lot of money but I can probably get you approved for our standard consultation fees.”

“I guess there’s no way I could turn down that offer and sleep at night if that kid gets life in prison. Okay, you got me on board, Detective. I have a space open this afternoon around four thirty and I’d like to go see the house.”

“So soon? It’s not going anywhere.”

“The sooner the better. Some of the evidence I’m looking for dissipates over time. I know you send police escorts but I would ask for no more than one person. I like to work in some solitude.”

“It’ll just be me. Should I come pick you up?”

“I can meet you there. If you would please just leave the address with my receptionist.”

He rose. “I really appreciate this, Emma.”

“If he’s really innocent, then it’s my pleasure. But I’ve gotten quite a few detectives in here over the years and they’re not always happy with what I find. Don’t be surprised if he’s not as innocent as you think.”

Stanton smiled and tapped the desk. “Thanks again. I’ll see you down there.”

Sunlight was coming through the window in the kitchen and it lit up the room with a golden glow. Monique opened her eyes only slightly and could see the warm light cascading over her bare legs. As a child, she would sit in the kitchen and play with toys while her grandmother and aunt baked. The smell of pies and cookies was sometimes too much to bear and she would sneak some morsels when they weren’t paying attention.

The house was quiet. She could hear the creaking coming from the attic. She had always thought they had mice but never could find any evidence for it.

She moved her arms but they wouldn’t respond. Bringing her head down just enough to take a quick look, she could see that her wrists were tied with some sort of plastic wrap. Her ankles were tied as well but not as tightly. The last thing she remembered was the feeling of suffocation and she thought she was drowning before her head hit the carpet and everything went black. And there was something else too…laughter. She remembered the echoing laughter that had come from behind her.