Arsonist

CHAPTER 4

Stanton waited patiently in the small room at Scripps Hospital as the results of his neurological testing were retrieved. Diagrams and charts of the brain’s anatomy were up on the walls with a poster from the 80’s that showed an egg frying and said, This is your brain on Drugs.

The door opened and a nurse came in and grabbed his medical charts, which she’d forgotten. Stanton could see the markings of a tattoo that had been removed on her forearm. It was a man’s name and underneath was a heart.

“The doctor will be right with you.”

Stanton was alone again with his thoughts. He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. His parents had taken him to a child psychiatrist when he was younger. Though his father had been a successful psychiatrist before switching to the world of academia, Stanton had suffered such a deep depression as a child that his father felt helpless before it.

The psychiatrist was quirky and fun, but was unable to help him. Eventually, Stanton stopped going. It wasn’t until they moved from rain-soaked Seattle to San Diego with its 320 days of sunshine and the beach close by that Stanton pulled out of the depression. Being back here, having doctors try to figure out what was wrong with him, made him feel like that kid again, sitting in front of a psychiatrist who knew there was nothing he could do for him.

A knock and Dr. Kumar Patel stepped inside. He was Indian with a gold bracelet around his wrist. His face was buried in Stanton’s charts and he sat down next to him.

“Well, I wasn’t able to find anything, Jon. Motor activity is fine, there are no meningeal symptoms, cranial nerves, sensory system, coordination, everything is fine. The MRI didn’t show any abnormal legions or subarachnoid or intracranial hemorrhages. Physically there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“That’s kind of what I figured. I thought it might’ve been fatigue.”

“That’s possible, but I don’t think that’s what it was. I think you had a panic attack.”

“Now? I’m thirty-six. Why would they begin now?”

“It’s rare, usually they show up sooner, but you know as well as I do they can happen later in life. You have a PhD in psychology, think about it clinically. If a patient came to you, with a job as stressful as yours, divorced, working long hours, and he described this incident, what would your first thoughts be for a diagnosis?”

Stanton exhaled through his nose and looked to a poster up on the wall. “It would be stress induced panic disorder.”

“I’m referring you to a specialist. She’s a psychiatrist I went to medical school with.” The doctor rose. “I still remember the class you taught at UCLA on cognition and schizophrenia. You were one of the best professors I had. I was a little jealous ‘cause you were younger than me. If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you ever go to medical school or stick with the University? What made you want to be a cop?”

“Right now, Kumar, I have no idea.”

Stanton left the hospital and sat in his car a few minutes, enjoying the heater as it rained outside. He turned on some music, INXS, and closed his eyes. He felt fine and comfortable and then when he began thinking about work, about the stacks of files on his desk, the tightening feeling in his chest returned. Each file was a life, a life somebody else destroyed. And like a stone thrown into a murky pond, the ripples affected everything around them. Families were devastated, friends were left in shock, teachers, church leaders, and neighbors would begin to be a little more cautious. Perhaps not getting so easily attached to people in the future, at least subconsciously, for fear of something like this happening again.

Stanton felt lightheaded. He took out his iPhone and looked at the contact he had just added for Dr. Jennifer S. Palmer. He dialed and a receptionist answered. He explained that he was a referral from Dr. Patel and that they would be faxing over paperwork later in the day. An appointment was set for tomorrow morning and he hung up.

As he started his car and pulled out of the hospital, he felt jittery. Therapy, in the macho, testosterone world of homicide detectives, was seen as a weakness. The fact was that many, if not most, of the detectives were in therapy or on medication or in need of it. But it was something that was shunned and not spoken about.

Stanton’s cell phone rang. It was Lieutenant Childs.

“What’s up, Danny?”

“Hey. How was the visit to the hospital?”

“Fine.”

“That’s it? Just fine?”

“They didn’t find anything wrong.”

“I figured that. It’s nerves, man. It happens. Pressure builds up in the motherfuckin’ job and it needs a release. If you don’t give it one, it’ll take it itself. That’s why I keep tellin’ you to come boxin’ with me.”

“I don’t think getting punched in the face is going to help me very much. But thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, what the hell was I sayin’? Oh, yeah. I got a case for you and Gunn. Body found in a burned-down house. Could be electrical wires or suicide, or shit knows what, but I want you on it. Dude was an old man and probably lit himself on fire fallin’ asleep with a cigarette in his mouth. There was a sixteen-year-old stepson that lived with him. You want me to upload the file onto the server?”

“No, I’ll take a hardcopy.”

“New world, brother. You gotta use a computer some time.”

“I like having a file. There’s something comforting about it. It’s real, not just information on a network.”

“Well get your no-computer-havin’ ass back here then and pick up the file. I got the fire investigator meetin’ you down there in two hours.”

“Thanks. I’ll swing by after lunch.”

Stanton hung up the phone. Fires were usually the most boring of all his cases, but also the easiest to close. Nine times out of ten, they were as Childs described them: somebody left a cigarette out near a quilt or didn’t wire something properly or left flammable material near a furnace.

As he stopped at a red light, he glanced down at his iPhone, and googled: stress induced panic disorder treatments.