Victor Methos - Arsonist

It was mistake working here. He had realized that the day he started. But his dad paid him sixteen bucks an hour and he took all holidays off. There were no other jobs he could get as a high school dropout that would pay him that much without him having to risk his life.

He burped, the stale taste of flat beer coming up, and saw a man walk into the store. He was slim but somewhat muscular and wore a silk scarf wrapped around his neck. His bald head looked like someone had taken a blow torch to it and his face was bright red. The man walked over, a big smile on his face.

“Can I help you find somethin’?” Jerry asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for some equipment and my research told me you may have what I’m looking for.”

“What’d you need?”

“I work with flammable materials in high-level temperature environments.”

“Yeah, I can see the burns, man. You gotta be more careful.”

“That’s why I’m here. I need flame resistant clothing.”

“What kinda temperatures we talkin’ about?”

“Over a thousand degrees.”

Jerry whistled. “Man, only people that come in here for that are military guys. You in the military?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, I get it. Can’t talk about it. Yeah, a lotta special forces guys come in here and buy stuff and can’t really say nothin’. It’s cool. Well, lemme show you what we’ve got.” Jerry walked around the counter and nearly to the back of the store, the man following quietly behind him. They turned a corner and went past oxygen tanks and climbing gear before getting to the fire resistant suits. “How long you looking to spend in the suit at a time?”

“No more than an hour, probably a lot less.”

“Well then what you need are flat lock drop shoulder seams. They’ll get rid of your skin rubbing against the suit and you won’t chafe as easy. And if you’re gonna spend that long in ‘em, you’ll want something anti-microbial too. The inside of the suits can get nasty quick and you can’t wash ‘em. Do you care about high visibility?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lotta workplaces require high-visibility suits so companies make ‘em silver or yellow. But the black is cheaper ‘cause not too many people get ‘em.”

“Black, please.”

“With temperatures that high, you’ll definitely want somethin’ arc-rated. I think I know what you need.”

They walked a little farther down the aisle and hanging up was a long black suit that covered the body from head to toe. It had extra padding over the palms and soles of the feet.

“This here,” Jerry said, “this is top a the line stuff. Like I said before, military stuff. It’s got this cool mesh layering so you got four layers but it don’t feel like you’re wearing four layers. It’s self-extinguishin’ so it’ll never melt or burn. It’s really good stuff too ‘cause it’s had three treatments before it even leaves the factory. This bad boy here, you could walk on the sun with it.”

“I’ll take that.”

“It’s two grand, though.”

“That’s fine.”

“So what do you do for your oxygen?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You can’t go into high temps without oxygen, man. You’re crazy. We got some good masks and tanks right over here. They’ll protect your face up to the temps you’re lookin’ at.”

“I’ll take those too.”

“Cool. Anythin’ else?”

“No, that’ll be fine.”

Jerry gathered all the equipment and headed out to the front. He rang everything up: $2,723.17. The man paid on a credit card and when Jerry asked him for ID he showed an out-of-state driver’s license. Jerry packed everything and handed it to the man.

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, you got any problems you can call here any time and talk to my dad. He was a fireman. That’s why we got all this shit.”

“Thank you, I probably will do that.”

Jerry watched the man leave the store and turned to another customer. What a nice guy, he thought. He wished all his customers were like that.

Stanton stood outside the two-way mirror and watched the sketch artist work with Tabitha Richardson. He particularly watched the way she interacted and answered questions-with an air as if she was doing him a favor just by being in his presence. She was beautiful by conventional standards with bright green eyes and golden hair and her beauty would get her far in life, or it would destroy her. Stanton had rarely seen beautiful women who were mediocre. They would enter modeling or gymnastics or other sports and then marry well, or if they happened to have intellectual power as well, they would enter business, law, medicine or other professional fields, their looks bolstering their resume.

That was one path.

The other was one of early molestations and later abusive relationships laden with heavy drug use. Many times the two would be intertwined, with high-profile models that seemed to have their lives and careers in order who would buy cocaine cut with baby laxative on street corners or marry the most abusive husbands they could find. They would become porn stars and strippers and prostitutes. When their beauty faded away, they would be left with an empty shell of what had once been a life. Stanton saw many of them, in their fifties and sixties, still on street corners trying to coax johns into letting them in their cars.

Stanton thought how interesting it would be to conduct research on the effects of beauty in life. If ever he were to return to academia, he would have to keep that subject in mind.

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.