Arsonist

CHAPTER 13

Stanton sat in the passenger seat of Gunn’s sedan while they called in to the precinct and ran the plate number. The day was boiling hot and he could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck and soaking his collar. He turned on the air conditioning as Gunn finished his call.

“Tommy’ll call us right back,” Gunn said. “He’s away from his desk, whatever the fuck that means.”

“He’s probably having lunch.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

Gunn waited a moment before saying, “So, the shrink. How was that?”

“What’d you mean?”

“Like what’d you guys talk about, is it helpin’, you know?”

“It’s fine. I’ve been to a lot of psychiatrists. My dad was one too. Whenever something happened at school, like I got into a fight or something, he thought it was a psychiatric emergency and I would have to go to his office and take Rorschach tests.”

“Man, I thought my old man was bad for givin’ me beatings when he had one too many.” His phone rang. “Hello?…Tommy, what’d you fall into the crapper?…yeah, oh yeah?…well we can talk about that later. You got a hit for me?” Gunn grabbed a pen and started writing on his hand. “Uh huh…uh huh…got it. Thanks.”

“Where is it?” Stanton asked.

“La Jolla. Maybe half an hour from here.”

Gunn started the car and pulled away. The freeway was relatively clear and Gunn had the radio turned to a rock station blaring Metallica. It was giving Stanton a headache and he knew most of his headaches turned to migraines.

“You mind if we turn this off?”

“No,” Gunn said. “So what kinda music you like?”

“Not this.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way and as they pulled off the La Jolla exit Gunn folded a piece of gum in half and stuck it in his mouth. They followed the off-ramp down and turned right, getting into a residential area that was packed with apartment complexes and single family homes. It was middle-class and the cars, though not luxurious, were freshly washed and waxed and the lawns were well maintained.

They came to a home with a large tree on the front lawn and a mini-van in the driveway. Silently, they sat looking into the house and could see a woman in a long-sleeve shirt and khaki pants vacuuming as two children ran around.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Gunn said. “She must’a given me a fake plate.”

“I don’t think so,” Stanton said.

He thought of the victim in this case, Michael Cisneros. A young homosexual male with no known gang affiliations or criminal history. Cisneros had only his mother who was suffering from Alzheimers and was unemployed. He was the type of victim a monster might think could disappear without anyone noticing.

“You tellin’ me the dude that put twenty holes in Cisneros is married to fuckin’ June Cleaver?”

“One or two wounds to the internal organs or throat is enough to kill a person within minutes. When there’s that many wounds, it’s pure rage. It wouldn’t be some drug dealer in the ghetto who got ripped off or something like that. They don’t hide what they are. This person hides himself to the world.”

“You can tell all that about our perp from some body in a dumpster?”

“It’s not just a random attack. Victims are always chosen and they’re chosen for a reason. Sometimes it’s unconscious. A lot of mass murderers when they’re confronted with photos of all their victims are surprised how similar they all look. They didn’t even realize they were being driven to find a certain type of person.”

Gunn threw up his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Get the fuck outta here. Nicky fed me a bogus plate for cash. I’ve had CI’s do it before.”

“Cisneros’ mother told us he was gay, right? And semen was found in the anal cavity during the autopsy.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you think of a better cover for a homosexual psychopath than living in suburbia with a wife and kids?”

Gunn looked back to the house, watching the woman as she wrapped the electrical cord of the vacuum up and put it back in the closet. “I still say it’s gangland.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Gunn exhaled. “You’re gonna miss your arson investigator.”

“We’re not doing anything tonight, right? Just watch the house and get a profile on him when he comes home. We’ll run his history and ask around about him before we pull him in.”

“Ask around where?”

“Gay bars and clubs that Cisneros went to.”

“Fuck. We just got off a stakeout. I hate this shit. It’s bad for my bowels. I can only go at home.”

“You’ll be fine. Drop me back off at my place and call me as soon as he gets home.”

Gunn pulled away from the curb, glancing one more time into the house.