Victor Methos - Sin City Homicide

Jon Stanton tore up his palms as he leapt over the barbed-wire fence. He fell back in pain as the blood began to flow. Looking up, he could see the figure of a man wearing a jacket and baseball cap on the other side of the fence. He stopped momentarily, turned to him, and almost politely bowed his head before sprinting again.

Stanton leapt to his feet and took off his jacket. He threw it over the barbed wire and jumped up onto it, using his legs to push himself over before letting himself fall to the pavement on the other side.

Dashing through the alley, he spotted a stack of garbage cans next to a dumpster. He pulled out his.45 caliber Desert Eagle and spun around to the other side of the dumpster. No one was behind them.

Stanton ran into the dark street. It was well past midnight, and few cars were out so late on a Tuesday night. He heard a crash across the street, where the figure was kicking in the flimsy door of an apartment building.

Stanton sprinted over and held up his weapon as he entered the building. The light-blue carpets were worn, and the walls were stained. On his left, stairs led up to the other floors, and a second stairway to his right led down to what looked like a laundry room and the entrance to the parking garage.

Loud thoughts ran through his mind. Indian gurus called a mind that couldn’t quiet itself the wild monkey . He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, counting to ten in his head until his mind was calm. His sense of hearing was keen, but he couldn’t hear anything now. The building creaked and settled in for the night, but he couldn’t discern anything out of the ordinary.

Stanton stepped gingerly down the stairs, remaining as quiet as possible. Then he heard a mumble for the floor above, hardly lasting more than a moment. But he had heard that sound before and knew instinctively what it was: a muffled scream.

He bounded up the stairs two at a time. On the second floor, with his weapon in front of him, he went slowly from door to door, listening, looking for anything that could indicate the door had recently been opened. As he got to the end of the hallway, he looked toward the last apartment on the right. The lights were off, but the blue light of a television flickered under the door. The sound was turned completely off.

Stanton held his breath and said a quick prayer. He lifted his heel and bashed it into the door just underneath the doorknob. The door flew open and slammed into the wall as splinters rained to the floor.

In the living room stood Juan Roberto Gonzalez, holding a.32 caliber revolver to the head of a young girl, no more than twenty.

“I’ll fucking kill her,” he shouted. “Back off. Back off!”

“Where do you want me to go?” Stanton asked, his weapon aimed at the man’s head. Every time he had a clear shot, Juan pulled the girl up just a little farther.

“I wanna car. I wanna fucking car. Ya hear?”

“The whole state’s looking for you, Juan. Where are you going to go? They won’t let you cross the border. They’ll shoot out your tires before that happens.”

“Fine. She got a baby, too. I’m a pop her and then the baby and then myself. How’s that, motherfucker?”

Stanton lowered his weapon. “You win.” He pulled out his keys his other hand. “You can take my car. But leave the girl.”

“No way. She comin’ with me.”

“Okay, but leave the baby.”

He was quiet a second and then nodded. Stanton threw the keys on the floor between them and began to back out of the apartment, holding his hands high, his weapon dangling loosely in his right hand.

There were moments, he knew, when a person could see the future. Not fortune telling-he didn’t believe in that-but just moments where the outcome was certain, where nothing could change what was about to occur. He saw Juan’s eyes go to the keys. That was such a moment.

His hand tightened over his Desert Eagle, and he lowered it to shoulder height. Juan’s eyes went wide as he saw the movement and began to raise his gun.

Stanton fired. The round went through the girl’s shoulder and into Juan’s throat. He stumbled back as the girl screamed. Blood poured out of him, down his shirt, and onto the floor. He made an awful gurgling sound as he sucked for breath, but none came. He collapsed onto his knees and fell to his side.

Despite his insistance that he hadn’t been hurt badly enough to warrant the attention, Stanton sat in the back of the ambulance as a very young paramedic performed a routine check and bandaged his hands. The kid noticed the burn scars on Stanton’s neck.

“What happened?”

“Wasn’t as lucky that time.”

After the kid was convinced Stanton was fine, another detective informed Stanton that he would have to go down to the precinct the next day and provide a full statement about the shooting. The detective also took Stanton’s sidearm. Stanton then got into his car and drove to the Scripps Hospital nearby. He went to the ER, where the young girl was being treated. He waited until the doctors had cleared out before entering.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“You? What the fuck you doing here?”

“I just came to see if you were okay.”

“I would be if you hadn’t fucking shot me. I’m a sue your ass and the police. My uncle’s a lawyer and says we got a case.”

“Was he the first person you called?”

“What? Fuck you. You better-”

Stanton didn’t wait to hear the rest. He turned and made his way out of the hospital. He sat down on a bench near the entrance and watched the moon for a long time. He had left instructions with one of the rookies to notify him of any news about Juan Gonzalez. Twenty minutes later, he got a text-Juan had survived. He would live, but he would be in the ICU for at least a week until he could have reconstructive surgery on his throat.

Stanton breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t be sleeping that night, but at least he could lie in his bed and calm his thoughts. As he walked to his car, he saw a man in a suit carrying a briefcase enter the hospital with a younger man, who appeared to have just woken up. They were talking about what a great legal case they might have against the San Diego PD.

Stanton woke early in the morning and went surfing at Ocean Beach Park. Earlier that month, a couple had been canoeing not a hundred feet from shore when their canoe overturned. Only one body was recovered. He’d known them well. They had spent time together in the ocean, waiting for the waves to pick up. He had liked them, but he realized that he didn’t remember their names. It bothered him a few moments, then he pushed it out of his mind.

After showering and dressing, Stanton dialed a number on his cell phone as he left his apartment on the eleventh floor of one of the poshest buildings in San Diego. He’d rented the place from an absentee landlord who had relocated to Florida. Stanton put a check in the mail every month, and the guy left him alone.

“Hello?” A female voice answered the call.

“Hey, Mel, it’s me.”

“Hey, you just missed them. They headed out to their friend James’s house for a sleepover.”

Stanton cringed. He had warned his ex-wife repeatedly that sleepovers weren’t permitted. His sons, who were eleven and six, were too young, and he had seen far too much happen at sleepovers during his time as a Sex Crimes detective years ago. Too often, mothers wounded from marriages that had fallen apart unexpectedly fell victim to the charms of predators. These stepfathers and boyfriends sought victims wherever they could find them.