Arsonist

CHAPTER 45

Stanton checked the clock on the wall behind him rather than pulling out his cell phone. Six and a half hours had passed since he’d sat down and started taking calls. By his estimation he’d handled over a hundred and fifty of them. Most were nutcases calling and pretending to be responsible for the fires or claiming they were married to the man in the sketch. A couple asked if there were any female officers they could speak with, probably hoping to talk dirty.

But there was one call that stuck out. A fifty-one-year-old woman who believed that her son was the man in the sketch. Stanton pressed her and she offered a few details. He was a loner at school and kept to himself at any social events. He seemed interested in girls as the mother had caught him watching pornography several times, but he couldn’t speak with them without stuttering or looking away. The other day his mother saw him starting fires in the backyard.

“How old is he?” Stanton asked.

“Sixteen.”

“I highly doubt it’s him. The man we’re looking for is probably mid to late twenties. But I’ll still send down an officer to speak with him.”

“Please hurry, Detective. I think he’s going to really hurt someone.”

Stanton stretched his arms and stood up, arching his back as far as it would go before twisting his neck from side to side and spinning his arms. It was all in an effort to appear like he was limbering stiff muscles, but in reality, he was trying not to fall asleep.

He went around the makeshift call center and listened to everyone’s phone calls. Some of them were diligent and actually calling to try to help, many were not. Stanton walked the room once and went for the door to hit the vending machines for a Diet Coke when one of the interns said, “Detective, I think you should hear this.”

Stanton turned and walked to him. The intern put the call on speaker. It was an older woman stating that she had seen the man coming and going from the condominium next door. There was a young woman that lived there and she never had men over so it was odd to see him there.

“How old is the young lady?” Stanton asked.

“In her twenties I think. Pretty young thing. She’s in pictures she said.”

“Have you ever seen the two of them together?”

“No, he just comes and goes. He may be housesitting because I haven’t seen her lately. He looks just like the picture I saw on the news.”

Stanton got the address and thanked her for her call. They hung up and Stanton stood quietly a moment before saying, “I’m running down there myself. Tell Danny where I am when he comes by.”

“Sure.”

The condominiums were well kept and most of the cars in the ports were old Cadillacs and Lincolns and Buicks. Easily fifteen or twenty years old but appeared new, freshly cleaned with few dings and scratches. There were colorful flowers next to the common walks and a few of the windows had American flags hanging from them.

Stanton found the condo he was looking for and parked out front. Joy Division was playing on his CD player and he turned it down as he listened for anything around him. An elderly couple was up the private road a bit, arguing about something as they made their way to their car. Stanton waited until they had driven away before stepping outside and sitting on the hood of his car, looking around.

When he was satisfied that he wouldn’t hear anything he went to the front door of the condo and knocked. He rang the doorbell and put his ear to the door. There was no sound from inside. He walked around out front and noticed that the window leading to the kitchen was broken out and the shattered glass hadn’t been cleaned. He pushed through the shrubs and looked through the window. The kitchen was clean except for a few bowls that were lying out. All the drawers and cupboards were closed. He was about to turn away when he quickly glanced at the floor.

With murder scenes in homes and apartments, most landlords don’t tell prospective buyers and renters about the space’s history. As they pass by stains on the floors, most people assume they’re from wine or fruit juice. But when you see blood stains enough, you learn to recognize them. Blood is very unique. Blood from veins is bluer and darker than the red arterial blood and a good homicide detective can tell the difference right away. Stanton knew the small trail of droplets on the kitchen’s linoleum floor was of arterial blood, at least a few days old, that no one had bothered to clean up.

He looked both ways and saw that no one was around. He called into dispatch on his cell phone and gave his CAD call number for the homicide unit and requested back-up. The nearest unit was at least ten minutes away at another scene. He decided he couldn’t wait ten minutes.

Stanton hopped up onto the window and crawled into the home. The window was right above the sink and he put his palms down on the counters and pulled himself through before jumping onto the kitchen floor. He brushed off the shards of broken glass that had cut up his knees.

He waited quietly until he couldn’t hear his heart beating so loudly in his ears. He took out his firearm, a Desert Eagle.45, and held it low as he followed the trail of blood to the carpet of the hallway.

The condo smelled of apple blossoms. A bodywash or shampoo a teenage girl might select. A portrait of a family was up on the refrigerator. Three young girls and a mother and father. They were at Sea World in front of the walrus exhibit and the mother was making rabbit-ears on the father. Stanton went gun first down the hallway.

Creaking came from upstairs but not in a way that suggested someone was walking on the floor above him. More like the floorboards were settling in. He scanned the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary and he saw the stairs leading to the second floor. He took them gingerly as he made a slow ascent and heard a groan behind him.

He spun around, his weapon aimed at the origin of the sound coming from the living room, and noticed the bare feet sticking out from near the coffee table. The nails were painted red and the skin was tanned almost to the point of being orange. He leapt off the stairs and ran to the table, his weapon still in front, as he saw the young woman sprawled on the carpet in between the couch and the coffee table. A white bandage was wrapped around her head and near the back was a dark red stain on the gauze.

Stanton came and sat by her and soon heard sirens outside. The girl was only semi-conscience and a chain was binding her to the entertainment center. But Stanton didn’t remove it. Instead, he held her hand. She looked up at him once and said, “Can I go home now?”

“Yes.”