Arsonist

CHAPTER 47

It was almost midnight by the time Stanton parked in the underground garage and got out of his car to get some sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday and as much as he wanted to be back at that condo or in the hospital or interviewing the Richardsons, he couldn’t. It was the Sabbath and he fully believed that God had commanded us to rest on that day. So Slim Jim had taken over and would be contacting him Monday morning with the results of interviews and anything else they’d found in the condo.

He went inside and sat on his balcony before opening the journal found at the girl’s condo. There were passages that seemed to fade in and out of coherence but sometimes a lucid thought would come through. One passage stated that:

A baby screams when born and an old man screams when he dies how can anyone believe that a life that begins this way and ends this way is meant for anything but suffering?

He stared for a long time at the imprint on the back. MSH. They could have been the owner’s initials, but the imprint wasn’t written in. It was stamped, like an old library card of the type he had in elementary school. He brought his laptop outside on the balcony and googled “MSH.”

Several businesses came up as did a hormone with “MSH” as its acronym. He brought up a Word document and began typing in a column. He wrote:

HIGH SCHOOLS OR COLLEGES

FRATERNITIES

BUSINESSES

HOSPITALS

GOVERNMENT AGENCIES

NOVELTY STORES LIKE HALLMARK

There was always the possibility that the owner had simply ordered a stamp with their initials, and he couldn’t rule that out. But the stamp looked faded and old and the journal itself was something one would buy in bulk: a plain cover with cheap paper. It didn’t strike him as something a person would pick out while perusing a novelty store.

He limited his Google search to southern California and began searching for high schools with the acronym MSH. He followed through with colleges, universities, and private schools. One school did come up: the Madison Selena Hollinger School for the Blind. He clicked on their website and cut and paste the address and phone number into his Word document.

He then moved on to hospitals. The third result from the top caught his interest: the Mckay State Hospital of California. Stanton clicked on the link. He went to the ABOUT US tab and read their mission statement. It was a hospital for the criminally insane.

His guts tightened and his knees and belly had an icy feeling run through them. They were replaced by the warm sensation that came with adrenaline running through his body and heightening his senses. He saved the link to his favorites and did the same on his phone before reading through everything about the hospital. The clock on his laptop said 9:53 p.m. He decided to chance it and called the main line for the hospital.

“Mckay,” a feminine male voice said on the other end.

“Yes, this is Detective Jon Stanton with the San Diego Police. I’d like to set an appointment to see, hold on…is it a Dr. Nathan Reynolds?”

“Yeah, he’s the administrator. I’m just the night security I don’t set the appointments. But if you come in Monday morning he’ll be here. Come in like after ten ‘cause he has rounds until nine thirty.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Stanton hung up. He was about to decide what to do next when his phone rang. It was an unknown number.

“This is Jon Stanton.”

“Yes, is this the person that just called the Mckay Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And who are you exactly?”

“I’m a detective with San Diego Police. Robbery-Homicide. Who am I speaking with?”

“Just one moment…hm, I just searched your name and phone number and it came back accurate. Well, Detective, this is Dr. Reynolds. I was told by night security that you’d called for me.”

“Yeah, they told me you wouldn’t be in until Monday.”

“Saturday nights are my call nights and I usually just spend them here. I prefer security not let anyone know.”

A flash entered Stanton’s mind. It was brief, no more than a second or two, but it encapsulated Nathan Reynolds life and gave Stanton a foundation that told him what type of man he was dealing with.

A man that had gone through multiple divorces, women marrying him for his status and realizing that being married to the ego of most physicians was full-time work. He saw a man that drank or gambled or womanized, or had some vice that he clung to that he felt was necessary. No matter the cost. Stanton saw loneliness and pain, and belief that the time he spent with madness eased that pain. He pictured Nathan Reynolds sitting in a cluttered office with the screams of the insane around him, saying, At least I’m not them.

“I’m glad to hear that, Doctor. I had a few questions.”

“Certainly.”

“I found a journal. It’s bland looking and the corners are rounded with a rubber coating on them. There’s a stamp that says MSH on the inside of the back cover.”

“Yes, that’s one of ours. We issue journals to our patients for therapeutic purposes.”

“This journal was found at the scene of a kidnapping and we think the owner might be responsible for several homicides.” The line went silent, and Stanton noted that the doctor had even stopped breathing. “Doctor? Are you there?”

“Yes. There should be a code on the cover of the journal on the lower left hand side. A number.”

“Yes, it’s 1842.”

“Just a moment…Detective, I don’t think I can release this information without a court order. You will simply have to secure one for me.”

“You have a name, don’t you? Doctor, this man targets families. He’s killed-”

“I know perfectly well what he’s capable of, Detective. But I won’t be responsible for any HIPAA violations and lose my license. You will have to get a court order.”

“Can you tell me at least when he was last incarcerated?”

“We don’t incarcerate our patients, Detective,” he said, annoyed. “We treat them.”

“I apologize. When was he last in for treatment?”

“He was released a little over a month ago.”

“May I ask why?”

The doctor exhaled loudly. “There was a woman that worked here. She no longer does, Detective. She advocated for his release.”

Stanton read exactly what he was saying: the woman, probably a treating psychiatrist, had been sleeping with the man.

“Doctor, without any violations, is there anything else you can tell me?”

“He’s extremely intelligent, Detective. Once I re-read his file without her sugar-coating it…look, get the court order and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“I’ll see you Monday then, with a court order.”

“Very well.”

Stanton was too wired for sleep. He stood up and paced his apartment and then went back out on the balcony and sat down. He thought about going night surfing as the waves were high, but no one else was out there and surfing alone at night wasn’t something he ever did. Instead, he lay back and began trying to decipher the entries in the journal.

Stanton woke early on Sunday after only having slept a few hours. The journal entries had filled him with a gray weight that clung to him like heavy glue. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind by going for a jog. He ran the length of the beach in a long circle wearing trail shoes that sunk into the sand. He ran for over half an hour before sprinting as long as he could, his breath leaving him, his heart tightening in his chest. Stanton walked for a few minutes and then collapsed on the sand, staring up at the blue, cloudless sky. He sat up and brought his knees to his chest and watched the waves lap the shore until he had regained enough strength to walk to his apartment.

After a shower and a shave, he went to his nearby church for service.

The pews were not crowded. Outside of Utah, Nevada, and Hawaii most Mormon churches were not filled to the brim with parishioners. It created a tighter-knit community, as their numbers were limited, but it also meant that each person had more obligations in the church to keep it running smoothly.

Stanton sat in the back, listening to a sermon given by a young woman who was preaching on how to resist temptation when the doors to the church opened and a man stood there. Stanton had never seen him before but he wore a pressed, black suit and a baseball cap and scanned the room as he entered. Stanton turned away and back to the speaker when he saw the man make his way up the aisle and sit next to him.

“You know,” the man said without turning to him, “the thing that’s always amazed me about the faithful is that they preach everything in here but in the real world they’re no better than the rest of us. They sleep with prostitutes and they drink and have abortions. Some of them molest children or beat their wives. So they ask forgiveness. Forgiveness for things they can’t control.” He turned to him. “Your Heavenly Father must laugh himself into a coma every day. He issues us passions and then forbids us to give in to them. And these people,” he said, motioning with his hand over the pews, “they carry guilt with them and hand it off to their defenseless children. And to top it off, they give money for the privilege of subjecting themselves to this slavery. Religion is quite the racket.”

Stanton was about to say something when his pulse began to pound. He knew who the man was. He recognized the sleek jawline and the eyes that were set just a little too close. Though the hat covered his head he guessed he was bald underneath.

Stanton’s hand slid down to the firearm at his side.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the man said. “You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

The young lady at the podium closed her talk and the man stood up and cheered. He whistled and hollered and everyone turned to him. He shouted, “Fucking A!” and sat back down.

“I don’t want to spatter your brains in a church,” Stanton said. “Come outside quietly and I’ll just arrest you.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “How’s Emma doing?” Stanton didn’t respond and he kept talking. “She’s quite the fighter. When I fuck her I bet she’s going to put up-”

Stanton had his throat and pressed him against the pew. The man tried to laugh but only a low hissing would escape his lips. Stanton pulled out his cell phone and dialed Emma’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He dialed again; straight to voicemail.

“What did you do?” Stanton whispered.

He tried to speak but nothing would come out as he began to turn red. Stanton let go of the man’s throat and sat back, his hand on his firearm.

“She’s fine,” he said, coughing. “Oh, man. This is fun. I’m glad we did this.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“I’ll do better. I’ll take you there. But you can’t call anyone. Just me and you. Two buddies.”

Stanton shook his head. “No way. I’m hauling you in.”

“You’ll never find her and she’ll starve to death.” He held out his hands as if in surrender. “I don’t have weapons. You can keep your gun, I don’t care. I promise you, I’ll take you to her.”

After a couple moments of thought Stanton spit out, “Stand up and walk outside. If you run I’ll shoot you in the back.”

“Spoken like a true disciple of Christ.”

The man stood up and they headed out the double doors. Stanton walked behind him with his hand on the Desert Eagle at his hip. They got out into the sunlight in the parking lot and the man took in a deep breath and turned to Stanton.

“Let’s take your car, Jon. You probably wouldn’t trust taking mine. It’s a little bit of a drive.”

Stanton removed his firearm and held it low so not to cause panic. He led him over to his car and the man got into the passenger seat. Stanton climbed into the driver’s seat with the gun held to the man’s chest.

“I could shoot you right now and no one would question me.”

“But you won’t. I did some reading up on you. Quite the Boy Scout. Sorry about your wife. Is she really marrying someone from the Chargers? Never liked football. Too much aggression. I think you’re the same way, aren’t you, Jon?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

Stanton struck him with the weapon lightly on the head and pressed the muzzle against his temple, his head pushed against the glass of the passenger side window.

“Did I do something to upset you, Detective?” he said with a chuckle. “It couldn’t have been those little kiddies I fried, could it?”

Stanton took out his phone.

“I have to urge you, Detective, not to do that. I will clam up and ask for a lawyer and she will starve to death. She’s somewhere no one ever goes. All I’m asking for is that you take a drive with me out there. After that, I will turn myself in.”

“No you won’t.”

“I give you my word.”

He pulled the gun away from his head. “You don’t want to turn yourself in. You want to die.”

The man grew quiet. “And you presume to know too much. Now are we going to go see Emma or go to the station and let her die?”

Stanton bit his cheek. He transferred the gun to his left hand and pulled out the keys with his right before starting the car.

“I knew you were as smart as you looked, Detective.”

They pulled out of the church parking lot onto San Bernadisto Drive and got onto the freeway.

“Stay in this lane,” the man said. “It’ll be about twenty minutes.” He leaned back in his seat as if on a leisurely drive. “I read that you almost died and were in the hospital for nearly a month. Your partner, what was his name? Sherman? Or whatever it was. I read they found out it was a fake name and don’t know who he is or where he is. He got away pretty free and clear, didn’t he?”

Stanton didn’t respond.

“Anyway, I was in a hospital for a long time too. It’s an odd place, isn’t it? Not quite prison and not quite freedom. You seem to turn in on yourself. Your mind begins to eat itself like your body does when you don’t give it nourishment. I had to read a lot to keep that from happening, but who knows? Maybe it happened and I’m just not aware of it? That’s always puzzled me, Detective. I know you have a doctorate in psychology. Tell me, how does one know when one has gone crazy? If you’re crazy, you can’t tell you’re crazy, right?”

Stanton said nothing as a car cut him off and he slowed down.

“Are you really not going to not talk to me this whole trip? It would make it quite boring, you know.”

“How many?” Stanton said.

“In total? I don’t know.”

“No, you know. You keep track.”

“I used to keep track. But after the first few, you begin to forget things. You would be amazed how mundane killing can get, Jon. How banal. It’s like anything else. If you do it enough, it gets boring.”

“But you can’t stop.”

“No, I can’t stop. I wouldn’t want to. It’s still fun. One day it won’t be but right now it is. Do you remember the Zodiac Killer? How they never found him and they think that he was locked up on other charges or died? I don’t think so. People don’t consider that murder just started boring him and he moved on to something else. That’ll probably happen to me as well. But you know how that is, you’ve killed a lot too.”

“Not like you.”

“Why? Because you did it for the ‘good’ of the public? What if someone you had killed, let’s say one of the murderers, would’ve killed someone who was going to kill others down the road. Like by being a drunk driver? Is that then an evil or good act he’s performed? If you measure it by substantive parameters, it was a good act that saved lives. There are too many variables in life, too many unknowns to say what’s good and what’s evil. Those terms have become outdated.”

“When you equivocate good and evil, only good loses out.”

He chuckled. “That seems to be the curse of this time, doesn’t it? I’ve been gone many years and coming back even I was shocked with what I saw on television, what was considered acceptable behavior. I can see, physically see, that society has become more Godless and corrupted. My father had predicted it, but I never believed him. He was a preacher; you and he, I think, might’ve gotten along. Except of course that he raped all the women that surrounded him.” He laughed. “I think some of the animals too. Every man has his appetites I suppose. You’re going to want to merge with this interstate.”

Stanton swung left and they followed Interstate 15 for what was easily another half hour. They were in a low-income area and Stanton could see several government housing projects blotting the landscape. Covered in graffiti, one had an abandoned car in front that had been taken apart piece by piece.

Getting off the freeway, they drove another few minutes. They came to a line of abandoned homes and the man pointed to one and said, “Stop in front.”

Stanton took out his cell phone. “She’s not here,” the man said. “You may want to wait before calling it in.”

“You said you were taking me to her.”

“I am. Be patient, Detective.”

He got out of the car and Stanton followed.