Victor Methos - Arsonist

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.

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 choice; 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.”