Victor Methos - Arsonist

“What about the spiderweb patterns on the broken glass?”

“That’s more likely caused by rapid cooling than rapid heating. I read your arson investigator’s report. The V marks he claimed indicated an accelerant also happen during flashover, whenever a new fuel source is ignited.”

“How certain are you of this?”

“Ninety-nine percent. I’ll be a hundred percent after a few days in the lab. The only way to tell the difference between puddle configurations caused by accelerant and those caused by flashover is to analyze samples in the lab. I’ll know in two days for sure, and I’ll write a report and submit it to your office.”

She began placing samples onto small circular dishes and then started packing up. They walked outside into the sunlight together and Stanton stood next to her as she placed her kit back in the car.

“I’ll give you a call in two days, maybe less,” she said, climbing in and starting the car. “Congratulations, Detective. You probably saved an innocent kid’s life.”

Monique Gaspirini sat up in her bed. She had been moved here by the man last night so that she could have access to her restroom and sleep on an actual bed rather than the kitchen floor. The ties around her wrists had been removed but her ankles were bound with a length of plastic and then knotted to the bed. She could get to the bathroom, her television, and a few feet into the hall, but not to the window on the other side of the room.

Her alarm clock said 5:34 p.m. and she listened for exactly two minutes and didn’t hear anything. Sometimes the man would leave for long periods of time and not come back for hours. He would only leave at night and return at night. So far, he hadn’t been here all day.

She fell to the floor and pulled on the length of plastic around her ankles. Though it was something she had done a hundred times and knew was useless, something drove her to pull on it with all her strength. She then looked at the knot that was looped several times and wrapped around the frame of the bed. Monique grabbed one of her shoes and began pounding on the knot. She struck it until sweat was pouring down her face and bits of shoe had flown over the floor. Exhausted, she leaned back against the bed, tucking her hair behind her ears. She curled up, her knees to her chest, and began to cry.

Not long after that she heard the backdoor downstairs open and then footsteps. Every single time it happened, she lost her breath, and her heart would pound so loud in her ears she was afraid it would explode.

The footsteps got louder and then went quiet; he was coming up the stairs. Her door opened and the man stood there. He was wearing a suit now. He wore a white button-down shirt underneath with no tie. He was clean-shaven. But there was an odd smell to him. It was like paint thinner or nail polish.

“Are you hungry?” he said. She didn’t respond. “You know, it’s hard for me to look after you if you don’t-”

“Are you going to kill me?” she said, looking him in the eyes.

“Ah, it speaks. Am I going to kill you…what do you think?”

“I hear you laughing and talking to yourself at night. I thought there were two of you at first but I know that you talk to yourself now. I think you’re crazy and you’re going to kill me.”

He sat down in the chair that was against the wall and leaned forward on his elbows. “You’re a very beautiful girl. Why no boyfriends coming over to check up on you? Oh, wait,” he said, snapping his fingers, “yes, yes he did.”

She felt her heart sink into her stomach. “What did you do to him?” He laughed as he rose to leave the room. “What did you do to him? WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!”

The door slammed shut and her scream echoed off the walls. She heard noises downstairs for a few minutes and then a door open and close before a car engine started. It was her car, and she tried to stand up and watch it out the window but couldn’t see that far. She collapsed back down to her knees. She would’ve cried again, but no tears came this time.

Stanton sat in the waiting area of his psychiatrist’s office and listened to the low mumble of the patient she was finishing up with. The patient was crying and asking her if he could come back later this evening. Eventually the door opened and a man walked out with tissues to his eyes. Jennifer waited until he was gone and then motioned for Stanton to come inside.

When he sat down, she poured herself a cup of water from a tray on her desk and offered some to him. He took it politely and drank down a few sips.

“How have you been?” she said.

“Good.”

“You have a little bit more stubble than when you came last. Are you growing a beard?”

“No, I just haven’t shaved in a bit.”

“So tell me what’s going on in your life.”

“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.”