Victor Methos - Arsonist

“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.

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.”