Sin City Homicide

28

It took Parr nearly half an hour to get through to someone at NV Energy who could answer his questions. He spoke with a manager named Nate, who had a Texas twang. Parr gave him the address and asked who had been out to read the meters in the past three days.

“Sir, we barely do that anymore. It’s only on some of them older homes. Usually, we can just read ’em right here on our computers.”

Parr thanked him for his time and hung up. The next step was to re-canvas the neighborhood. Uniforms had already canvassed two blocks in every direction, but they hadn’t asked about someone claiming to be from the electric company. Parr would have to grab some men and do it again. He looked at his watch and realized it was noon-most of the neighbors would be at work. He would have to wait until five or six and pull overtime. Besides, he had something much more important to do.

He had been purposely stalling, and now forty-five minutes had passed. That was enough time for Stanton’s nervous anticipation to cook a little in the interrogation room. Parr picked up his notepad, a pen, and a photo of the unidentified body that had been nearly incinerated in a ’97 Ford Taurus. He walked down the hall to the interrogation room where Stanton was waiting.

Jon Stanton didn’t look like much. He was slender, with a boyish face. He looked like the kind of guy who would stop to help someone on the side of the road, the type who celebrated every holiday and never had anything to complain about. Parr thought he looked like a Mormon missionary who was just a little too old to still be out there, trying to convert people.

He sat down across from Stanton and looked him in the eye. He took Stanton’s wrists softly in his hands and looked at the deep purple bruising that wrapped around them.

“You sure you don’t want a medic?” Parr asked.

“No,” Stanton replied. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“We didn’t get a proper introduction earlier,” Parr said, flashing his best smile. “I’m Alma Parr. I’m the captain over Robbery-Homicide.”

“Alma. Do you know that’s the name of a prophet in the Book of Mormon? He was a warrior. He left his people to wander through the wilderness and convert his enemies.”

“Yeah, well, it’s also an old German name, and my grandparents were fresh-off-the-boat Germans.” Alma placed his pen down on the pad. “I know you went through the story and what happened with the detective from Missing Persons ’bout an hour ago. That was just a formality. He needed that interview to close your case.”

“I didn’t know one had been opened.”

“Mindi pulled some strings and had it opened. We usually wait seventy-two hours. Anyway, I was outside the mirror, watching. So you picked the lock with a nail?”

“It’s easy to do. Hairpins and paperclips actually work better, but you use what you have.”

Parr shook his head. “Quick on your feet. I like that.”

“You must have been the same to get out of Iraq without a scratch.”

Parr glared at him. “How’d you know I was in Iraq?”

“Oh, sorry. The tattoo.”

Parr looked down at his biceps. Part of a tattoo of a rifle half-buried in the ground, a helmet propped on it and boots set in front, poked out from under his sleeve.

Stanton said, “The tattoo’s really dark, so I guessed it was pretty recent.”

Parr shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

“Where were you?”

“Fallujah. For two tours.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk about you, Jon. I checked out your record. You got more arrests than any other detective in Homicide over there in San Diego. That’s pretty fucking impressive. How do you do it?”

“Same as everyone else.”

“That’s not true. There was a note in the file-and excuse me for looking at this-but there was a note from the precinct shrink after you took out some dirtbag, saying that you had a photographic memory and-what was the term he used? Unhealthy? Yeah, he said you had an unhealthy amount of empathy. That you can slip into other people’s shoes, and sometimes, you can’t even stop yourself.”

“I follow the same procedures every detective in every city does. I’ve gotten lucky a few times.”

Parr looked down at the burn scar on his neck. “And you’ve gotten unlucky a few times, too, haven’t you?”

Stanton sat quietly for a few moments then said, “Did you get divorced because of the war? Excuse me for looking, but I can see a slight indentation on your ring finger. You still wear the ring at night when no one’s around, don’t you?”

Parr said, “I want to know what happened to you when you were abducted.”

“If you were standing behind the mirror, you already know. This is about something else, and you don’t want me to know what. Just be straight with me. It’ll save us both time.”

Parr exhaled loudly. His rhythm felt out of sync, and frustration was growing in his belly. The mention of the ring had thrown him off. He would have to stop wearing it at night.

He took the photo out from under the notepad and laid it in front of Stanton. It was a body that had been cooked to the driver’s seat of a car. The figure was absolutely unidentifiable, and his toothless mouth was agape, the gums charred black.

“What about it?” Stanton asked.

“Do you know anything about it?”

“No. When did it happen?”

“Four days before you flew into Vegas.”

“If it happened before I got here, how am I supposed to know about it?”

“You tell me.”

Stanton leaned back in the chair. “I’m guessing you’re the one who put the tail on me.”

“Jon, I’m gonna be straight with you, like you said. I don’t give a rat’s ass about this piece o’ shit. He was probably some dope-head, pedophile, or who the shit knows what. But I do care about Marty Scheffield. I’m sure you wouldn’t do that to another cop, so you’re not a suspect. You don’t need to worry about that. But this piece o’ shit here, I don’t care about. You tell me you did it, and I say, ‘Good.’ I need to close this case and make sure it had nothing to do with Marty. You can clear that up for me right now.”

“I’m not a dope fiend off the street, thinking you’re my friend, Alma. I can see the hatred in your eyes when you look at me. Your smile can’t hide it.”

Parr chuckled. “I’m just trying to help you. One cop to another.”

“Am I the only suspect for this?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Is there anyone else you’re looking at for this crime?”

“Maybe.”

“How did my name come up?”

“You were identified by a witness.”

“At the scene?”

“None of your damned business.”

Stanton pushed the photo toward Parr. “I had nothing to do with this. Whoever told you I did is lying to you. Should I be asking for a lawyer, or are you going to let me go?”

Parr glanced at the camera and jumped to his feet suddenly, knocking back his chair. He grabbed Stanton by the throat and squeezed, staring into his eyes, looking for the fear he was accustomed to seeing, but Stanton didn’t respond. His passive gaze never wavered or broke eye contact. Parr let go and chuckled.

“Just kidding with you, Jon.” Parr took the photo and held it inches from Stanton’s face. “But I’m not going to let you get away with it. You’re gonna fry for this. This ain’t hippie-dippie California.”

He turned and left, letting the door slam behind him.