Arsonist

CHAPTER 2

Detective Jonathan Stanton looked through the binoculars from the attic of the old house. The window wasn’t bigger than a couple of feet and it was dirty, but it was enough to see inside the bay windows of the house next door. He lowered the binoculars and took a deep breath before checking his watch. It was past midnight.

The door swung open and his partner, Stephen Gunn, stepped inside the room with a pizza and two beers. He placed them down on the small table they had in front of the old futon and opened the beers.

“Beer?” he said.

“No thanks.”

“Not thirsty?”

“I don’t drink, Stephen. But thanks.”

“No shit? Recoverin’ alcki?”

“Something like that.” He turned and walked over to the futon, sitting next to him. They’d brought up a television and it was playing an episode of the Honeymooners. He took a slice of pizza and folded it in half before taking a bite.

“So,” Gunn said, “I’m not complainin’ or anythin’, but you have any idea why they paired us up?”

“No. I came in last week and the board was changed. Your name was next to mine. I usually work alone so I asked Danny about it. He said they wanted all homicide detectives in new pairs now. Policy implemented by the chief.”

“Hm. Probably because of that bullshit with Weeks. You hear about that?”

“No.”

“Weeks was bangin’ an informant for the Salano crew. Turns out the informant was gettin’ intel from him and feedin’ it back to the crew.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “You seen Weeks around lately?”

“No.”

“’Cause he got knocked down to writin’ parkin’ tickets.”

“Poor guy. I always liked him. Struck me as a little lonely, though.”

“Who isn’t lonely?”

A noisy engine signaled that a car pulled up outside. Stanton jumped to his feet and grabbed the binoculars. He saw a red Ford pull to a stop in the driveway. Two men got out, Hispanic, and walked to the side door of the house. They knocked and a female in a black tube top answered and let them in.

“Looks like Maria has company.”

“Who?”

“Not sure. Two Gs. They had tats on the backs of their necks.”

“Spiderwebs?”

“Think so. Hard to tell from here.”

“That’s the Aztec Kings. Street gang up from West Hollywood.”

“What’re gangsters from West Hol doing in San Diego?”

“Nothing good.”

Stanton exhaled and put the binoculars down. “We’ve been up here three days, Stephen. This is a waste of time.”

“Body’s supposed to be cut up at this house, man. That’s the word.”

“From your snitch who has twenty drug cases against her?”

“From my snitch who’ll do anythin’ for me to keep her ass outta the can.” He slapped his knee. “Sit tight, man. It’ll happen.” He guzzled half his beer, let out a loud belch, and then leaned back on the futon. “You haven’t done too many stakeouts, have you?”

“No.”

“That’s ‘cause you came from Sex Crimes. I got to Homicide through Narcs. That’s all I fuckin’ did was stakeouts. I was up in this shitty bar once in El Cajon for three weeks. I’d come in at nine in the mornin’ when they opened and leave at two in the mornin’ when they closed. One of the worst times of my life except for when I was in Iraq for three tours. Got some pussy, though. Those biker chicks are crazy.”

Stanton sat back down and put his feet up on the table. “I’ve seen this episode,” he said.

Stanton was awakened by a car door slamming. He looked around and saw that he had fallen asleep on the futon. Gunn was on the floor, a pillow underneath his head and a quilt over him though the temperature was easily eighty degrees.

Stanton stood up and walked to the window, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. A digital recorder was up on the window sill and they were supposed to record the date, time, and their name and badge numbers before each entry of activity they logged. He reached for it when he noticed the car. It was a Chrysler that had pulled next to the Ford. A skinny Hispanic male stepped out and ran to the door and pounded on it with his fist. He was looking around nervously. He looked back to the house and Stanton stepped to the side of the window.

When he looked back, the two males from earlier stepped out. The three of them then ran down to the Chrysler and opened the trunk. Inside was a heavy, large object covered in black plastic. They began to lift it out of the trunk.

“Stephen.”

“What?”

“Get up here.”

Gunn rolled off the floor and came up. Stanton gave him the binoculars and he looked out of them for a bit before saying, “Holy shit. This is it.”

“We gotta get ‘em in the house. If we go down while they’re outside, they’ll run.”

“I’ll place the call for the units.”

As Gunn put in a call for additional backup, Stanton took his Desert Eagle off the nightstand and placed the holster on. A mirror was up over the futon and he caught a glimpse of himself and the deep scarring on his neck from second-degree burns. He pulled up his collar and headed out the door.

He was down by the front door and waited a few moments until Gunn came down. All the lights in the house were off and Stanton had to feel around for the doorknob. When he found it, they slipped outside into the warm night.

The neighbor’s driveway was gravel and they took their steps slowly. Coming around the Chrysler, they looked inside. Hanging on the rearview mirror was a figurine of Jesus, crucified on a white cross.

Walking to the side door, Stanton looked inside. The backup units would take at least fifteen minutes to get here. He looked back to Gunn and, as if reading his thoughts, Gunn whispered, “Fuck it. Let’s go in.”

Stanton tried the door. It was locked. There was a window just off to the side and before he could look through it Gunn was already up past him and climbing inside. Stanton watched as he went in and landed softly on his feet like a cat. He walked over to the door and unlocked it for him.

The interior smelled like cooking meat and tomatoes that had been burnt. Stanton quietly shut the door behind him and they stood in the kitchen a while, listening to the sounds of the house. Gunn shrugged and they made their way to the hallway.

The television was on in the living room, turned to an all-Spanish channel. One of the men, the one that had driven up in the Chrysler, was already asleep on the couch. A bathroom was off to the side in the hallway and Gunn stepped in and came back out with a small hand towel. He walked behind the man and motioned for Stanton to stand in front of him.

In a quick motion too fast for Stanton to see in the dimly lit room, Gunn wrapped the towel around the man’s mouth and then choked off his air with an arm-lock around his throat. His screams were little more than a muffled whisper. Stanton searched him as the man struggled. No weapon. He took out his cuffs and double-locked them on the man’s wrists behind his back. Gunn shoved the towel as far into his mouth as it would go and turned him face-down on the couch. He took out his weapon and placed it against the man’s head.

“Shh,” he whispered, “I don’t want this weapon to accidently go off, do you?” The man quieted down. “Where are your homies?” He tried to speak and Gunn said, “No no, just nod your head. Are they upstairs?” He nodded. “Are they armed?” He nodded again. “How many are here? Nod for each one.” He nodded three times. “Three with the girl?” He nodded again.

Stanton said, “We’ll wait for the units.”

Gunn made a face as if he’d eaten something sour. “They’re right upstairs, man. Let’s catch these esays in the act.”

“I think we should wait.”

The man on the couch started making noise and wiggling to get free. Gunn slapped him on the back of the head and said, “Shut your mouth.”

“He could be lying. There could be more of them up there.”

“We didn’t log anybody but these three and the girl. What’d, they sneak in through the sewer?” He looked down to the man. “Stay here and keep quiet. If you make noise, I’m going to come back downstairs and shoot you up the ass. It takes twenty minutes to die from a shot in the ass. Do you understand?”

The man, sweat now pouring down his face, nodded.

“Good.” He looked to Stanton. “Come on, Partner. Unless you wanna stay downstairs and swap tampons with our girlfriend here.”

Gunn made for the stairs. Stanton had an uneasy feeling in his gut but he couldn’t let him go up there by himself. He took out an extra pair of plastic cuffs and wrapped them around the man’s ankles before heading for the stairs.

The stairs were carpeted and didn’t creak. Gunn went up one side and Stanton the other. At the top of the stairs they saw several rooms. One of the doors was halfway open and he could see a linoleum floor. He pushed the door open slightly and looked inside.

In the bathtub was the nude body of Jesus Juan Estrada. A low-level pot and heroin dealer; one that had been working as a confidential informant for the San Diego PD until he disappeared a week ago. Deep purple bruising on his face and body revealed hours of beatings. His genitals had been cut off and there were dozens of cigarette burns covering him.

“Poor bastard,” Gunn said, poking his head in.

A rustling noise from one of the other rooms. Sheets being moved around. The detectives looked at each other. Gunn hopped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. Stanton quickly went down a few steps on the staircase and laid flat on his stomach.

A man in boxer shorts and a cloth undershirt came out of one of the rooms. He walked into the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat and began to piss. Gunn slowly moved the shower curtain. He looked to Stanton and winked.

Gunn leapt out of the shower and wrapped his arm around the man’s neck. He took him down to the ground with such force that it rattled the house. The man was immobilized. Stanton ran up the stairs when he heard a female voice coming out of one of the rooms saying, “Jesus, que es lo que esta pasando?”

She stepped out of the room and saw Jesus down on the floor of the bathroom with Gunn on top of him and she screamed. Stanton went to quiet her when he heard shuffling coming from another room. He fell to the floor and a second later the pop of a handgun echoed through the house as rounds came through the door on the far side of the hall. One hit the woman in the side and she dropped. Stanton lifted his weapon and began firing through the door. He got off five rounds before the return fire stopped.

Stanton ran to the woman. Blood was pouring out of her and soaking the carpet. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her wound, applying pressure as he dialed dispatch with his other hand.

“This is Detective Jonathan Stanton, SDPD, 17469. I need an ambulance at 1327 Rondido Drive. We have a suspect down with a gunshot wound to the abdomen.”

Gunn shouted, “Motherfucker.” He took out his cuffs and put them on Jesus’ wrists before standing up and coming out into the hallway. He leaned against the wall and slid over to the door that the shots had been coming from. Reaching over with one hand, he swung the door open. Stanton could see inside. On the floor, sitting up against the bed facing the door, was a man in boxer shorts with his shirt off. A bullet hole just above the ear drained his body of blood and turned the sheets behind him a dark black. His eyes were glazed over and a revolver sat limp in his right hand.

Stanton felt a wave of nausea. He had seen far worse and thought it just a result of the physical exertion. The woman on the ground was crying and he went to comfort her when he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

He checked himself for gunshot wounds but found none. Despite that, his lungs grew tight, as if he were breathing through a straw. He began gasping for air as Gunn came over and said, “Hey, man, you okay?”

Before Stanton could respond, he felt a tightening in his chest and pain shocked his body like an electric current. His vision blurred at the edges as panic raced through him, and he lost consciousness and hit the floor.