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.
CHAPTER 3
Nehor Stark stepped out of the McKay State Hospital in San Diego and stood on the pavement of the parking lot. He looked up to the sun and then shielded his eyes. Though they allowed time outside in the yard, the hospital had minimized his exposure to sunlight and it surprised him how painful sunlight could be when you hadn’t seen it in a long time.
He looked around the parking lot. No car, no waiting family, no children or friends or lovers. There was only him, the clothes that he wore, and the two hundred dollars he had in his pocket.
The hospital had called a cab for him and he waited at the curb. He’d been an avid fan of television while inside but actually seeing the newer model of cars, particularly the shining sports cars that whizzed past him on the street, filled him with a sense of wonder and he smiled. It was like he had stepped out of a time machine in the future. There were going to be so many things to experience and enjoy. So much fun to be had.
The cab came to a stop in front of him and he climbed in to the back. He took out a scrap of toilet paper he had in his pocket that had an address scribbled on it. He handed it to the cabbie and then turned and stared out the window.
“Who you got up there?” the cabbie said.
Nehor looked to him. “What?” The sound of his voice surprised him. It was metallic from disuse. During the past years, he hadn’t used it much. In therapy he would usually sit quietly and stare at the floor. The doctors typically assumed his medication had made him inert and let him be.
“At the cemetery, who you got up there?”
Nehor bit into his cheeks, a habit he had developed through boredom. “Your wife.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “Just drive.”
The cabbie mumbled something about assholes in his cab. Nehor watched him. He was growing more upset as he sat and stewed. His emotions so controlled him that even a slight insult dug itself deep inside him, like a worm.
“You know what, asshole,” the cabbie finally said as he pulled to the curb, “get out.”
“Why?”
“Fuck you why. I don’t have to drive nobody I don’t want ta. Get the fuck out.”
Nehor thought a moment about how to respond. What would somebody say in this situation? “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Please just drive.”