Victor Methos - Arsonist

Stanton felt lightheaded. He took out his iPhone and looked at the contact he had just added for Dr. Jennifer S. Palmer. He dialed and a receptionist answered. He explained that he was a referral from Dr. Patel and that they would be faxing over paperwork later in the day. An appointment was set for tomorrow morning and he hung up.

As he started his car and pulled out of the hospital, he felt jittery. Therapy, in the macho, testosterone world of homicide detectives, was seen as a weakness. The fact was that many, if not most, of the detectives were in therapy or on medication or in need of it. But it was something that was shunned and not spoken about.

Stanton’s cell phone rang. It was Lieutenant Childs.

“What’s up, Danny?”

“Hey. How was the visit to the hospital?”

“Fine.”

“That’s it? Just fine?”

“They didn’t find anything wrong.”

“I figured that. It’s nerves, man. It happens. Pressure builds up in the motherfuckin’ job and it needs a release. If you don’t give it one, it’ll take it itself. That’s why I keep tellin’ you to come boxin’ with me.”

“I don’t think getting punched in the face is going to help me very much. But thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, what the hell was I sayin’? Oh, yeah. I got a case for you and Gunn. Body found in a burned-down house. Could be electrical wires or suicide, or shit knows what, but I want you on it. Dude was an old man and probably lit himself on fire fallin’ asleep with a cigarette in his mouth. There was a sixteen-year-old stepson that lived with him. You want me to upload the file onto the server?”

“No, I’ll take a hardcopy.”

“New world, brother. You gotta use a computer some time.”

“I like having a file. There’s something comforting about it. It’s real, not just information on a network.”

“Well get your no-computer-havin’ ass back here then and pick up the file. I got the fire investigator meetin’ you down there in two hours.”

“Thanks. I’ll swing by after lunch.”

Stanton hung up the phone. Fires were usually the most boring of all his cases, but also the easiest to close. Nine times out of ten, they were as Childs described them: somebody left a cigarette out near a quilt or didn’t wire something properly or left flammable material near a furnace.

As he stopped at a red light, he glanced down at his iPhone, and googled: stress induced panic disorder treatments .

Stanton sat outside the burnt-out shell of a house and sipped a Diet Coke as Joy Division played on the CD. The neighborhood was quiet and upper-middle class; the type of place where something like this would be talked about and dissected for years to come.

The home was just a two-story brick and stucco with a small front lawn. Police tape was pulled across the windows since they had been blown out during the fire. Stanton could see the charred exterior around the windows and front door.

A car came to a stop in front of him and he saw Gunn motion to him with a salute using two fingers. Stanton nodded and took out his phone and texted him.

where’s the fire invest?

sleepin’ with yo mama

my mother’s dead, jerk

really? what kind of sick fuck do we have as a fire investigator?

Stanton grinned and then noticed the old Ford truck that pulled up in front of the house. A man got out wearing an old bomber jacket and took a kit from the bed of the truck. Stanton stepped from the car and approached him.

“Are you Benny?”

“Yeah, you Jon Stanton?”

“Yeah,” Stanton said, shaking his hand. “How are ya?”

“Good. Looks like we got ourselves a little barbeque.”

“A man was killed in that house,” Stanton said, hoping there wouldn’t be any jokes or lighthearted comments.

“Don’t mind him,” Gunn said, walking up, “his mother died recently.”

“Really? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She didn’t die recently. Let’s just get on with this.”

The man shrugged and looked the house over. He took glasses out of his breast pocket and slipped them on. “Let’s get this party off the ground.”

They walked up the lawn and to the front door. Then Benny walked back down to the lawn and around the house in a full circle. Stanton and Gunn followed behind quietly. Benny then took out a small camera and began snapping photos. He took ten of the exterior and then pulled out a pen and graph paper and began making diagrams. He did this for so long that Gunn sat down on the porch and began surfing the internet on his phone.

“Okay,” Benny finally said, “let’s go inside.”

The interior smelled like campfire and melted tires. Benny quickly glanced around and then turned down the hall and went into the bedroom. Then he came out and went into the kitchen, another bedroom, and then the living room. He stopped there and took the camera out again.

“You gotta start where there’s the least damage,” he said. “That means the fire didn’t start there. See there’s just smoke and heat damage here. Now we just gotta follow it out to the source.”

They walked back out into the hallway. Wires were hanging down from the destroyed ceiling and there was some sort of sticky ash on the ground that clung to Stanton’s shoes. They were Italian imports, handcrafted, and he wished he’d kept some sneakers in his car.

Some debris was at the end of the hallway. Benny removed it and the three men noticed charring at the base of the wall.

“See here,” Benny said, pointing. “Gases become buoyant when they burn so flames burn up. These char marks that look like puddles-they show the flames burning low. Now we just gotta follow the burn trail down this hallway here.”

As they walked down, Gunn leaned close to Stanton from behind him and whispered, “Since when is he the fuckin’ professor?”

They walked into the bedroom on the far right where the responding officers had found the body. It was cleared out now and the sunlight that came in through the broken windows illuminated the room.

“We got more pour patterns here. See if the fire’s burning low, it means an accelerant was used. And look at that glass there. Those broken pieces by the window. See those spiderweb pattern cracks? That’s called crazed glass. That means the fire burns fast and hot and causes the glass to do that. That also means an accelerant was used. What you got here is someone who poured something over this house and lit it on fire. You got yourselves a murder.”

“What are these Vs?” Gunn said.

“The smoke and heat from fire goes outward, so when something catches fire, it creates that V pattern. The bottom of the V points to a place of origin for the fire. I noticed one out there in the hallway too. That means you got one point of origin in here, and one out there. One accidental fire maybe, but not two at the same time. This was started by someone.”

Gunn nodded. “Son of a bitch, you are the professor.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Stanton said, “if he wanted to kill himself there are much less painful ways than being burnt alive. And if it was someone else, why didn’t they create a fire wall and lock him in? If they would’ve poured an accelerant over the entryway and by the windows, the vic couldn’t have gotten past them to get out. Why would they pour them in such random places?”

Benny spit near the wall. “Who the hell knows? That’s your guys’ department. I told you this here was a murder and I bet if you talk to that stepson a his, you’ll find out he was the one that did it.”

Stanton opened the file in his hand. The victim’s name was Marco Yazzie. The stepson was Fernando Yazzie. Fernando was the only one home when the fire began. He ran out of the house screaming, calling for help. Several neighbors ran over, and in their initial statements, stated that he was frantic.