She screamed and dropped the glass. The phone was right behind her on the wall and she grabbed it as she heard glass shatter behind her. She got the numbers in, but before the phone could dial out, she felt a hot impact against her head, and the next thing she saw was the floor as it rushed toward her.
CHAPTER 35
Jon Stanton sat in the pew at his local Mormon ward with his head down to the floor. It was a fast and testimony meeting. Once a month, the members were asked to fast during the day and pray and ask the Lord for something; for themselves or their families if they required it but mostly for others. The money they saved on the meals would be given to the poor. Then at sacrament meeting the sacrament would be passed and the time would be turned over to the members to come to the podium and bear their testimony. That meant anyone could get up there and talk about whatever they thought was relevant.
Most of the members discussed small miracles they had seen in their lives and didn’t feel there was any explanation other than God’s hand. Some members told stories of things that had occurred to them and challenged their faith. But a small percentage of members felt they could vent and discuss whatever they wanted. Stanton’s Bishop, who was in charge of the meeting, was an elderly man who was hard of hearing and didn’t have the heart to take the microphone from anyone, and so those few that wanted to were given a chance to rant.
Stanton’s eyes closed and he felt himself slipping into sleep so he leaned back and stretched his neck. The past four days had been a blur. He had followed up on the car that was left behind at the scene of Gunn’s attempted murder. It belonged to a woman in Watts who the LAPD couldn’t locate. The shells for the shotgun were bought from Wal-Mart, the gun itself probably was as well. A young man had checked in to a hospital with two gunshot wounds that day but it was in Los Angeles and by the time word got down to SDPD, he was already gone.
Stanton had also followed up on Monique Gaspirini, interviewing neighbors and going over the crime scene video, painting a picture of the type of person that would do something like this. As far as he could tell, it was the worst type of offender: a sexual sadist. Most murders of this sort were either rage or sexually motivated but a sexual sadist was both rage and sex. It was the most dangerous type of personality disorder that Stanton dealt with in his work.
There had been a case he remembered of a sexual sadist that had kidnapped a young college student and tied her to the ceiling of his basement for torture. She had died early from a heart attack, perhaps surviving no more than ten minutes. He was so enraged, he beat her corpse with his fists for over half an hour. Flustered, he dragged the body out in broad daylight and a neighbor had called it in.
Stanton had been working eighteen-hour days without stop. Given that he spent at least one hour a day surfing, that left only five for showering, eating, dressing, spending time with his children, and sleeping.
Sacrament was over, closed with a hymn, but he hadn’t noticed. He sat in the pew and waited until the rest of the congregation filed out before standing and following them. There were two more sessions, but he simply didn’t have it in him to go. He decided he needed to get home and sleep before he passed out behind the wheel of his car.
As he walked out of the front doors of the building, a woman brushed past him. She stopped and turned and said, “Detective Stanton?”
He turned to her. She was middle-aged with a creased face and no make-up. A large purse was slung over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“I’m Jenna Pywe. You don’t know me, but I’ve emailed you before. I got a response but I just wanted to meet you in person. I hope you don’t mind me coming here. I know you’re Mormon and this was the closest Mormon ward to your house.”
Stanton ignored the fact that she had just revealed she knew where he lived. He was too tired to question her. Besides, with the internet, anyone could find out anything about whoever they wanted.
“I’m on my way home. What is it you need?”
She reached into her purse and came out with a photo. It was of a young girl, perhaps eleven or twelve.
“This is my Claudia. She’s been missing for two years now. I called the detective from Missing Persons every Friday to check on her case but eventually he stopped returning my calls. He sent me an email saying that the case was cold and there was nothing he could do until more evidence turned up.” She thrust the photo toward him. “Please, I’ve heard things about you. I know you have the highest rate of solved crimes in all of San Diego. I read the interview in the Tribune that said some people in the police think you’re psychic. Will you please help me?”
There was such deep sadness in her eyes that Stanton could tell the pain was as fresh as the day she realized her child was missing. It was the type of pain that consumed everything else in its path and left nothing behind. In the creases in her face, Stanton could see all the nights without sleep, the job she had been regretfully let go from, the isolation from family and friends…he saw all of this in just a few seconds, and there was nothing he could do about it. Right now, there was nothing left in him. His mental energy was completely spent and all he could do was get home.
“I’m sorry,” he said, without taking the photo. He turned and walked to his car, not looking back.
CHAPTER 36
There was knocking at the door. It seemed distant, almost like it was on another planet. Stanton roused himself awake and listened. He heard it again. He rolled over and put the pillow over his head.
The knocking turned to doorbell ringing. Reluctantly and with a loud sigh, he stood up, nearly stumbling over his nightstand, and walked out to the living room. He glanced at the clock on the oven as he went past the kitchen: 11:17 p.m. Stanton opened the door and saw Emma Lyon standing there in UCLA sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure. How’d you get in by the way?”
“I just waited until someone walked out of the front doors. Your building isn’t very secure.”
Stanton sat on the leather chair as Emma took a spot on the couch. She looked out the balcony’s bay doors to the moon hanging in the sky outside.
“I love the view.”
“Thanks.”
“Would it be rude to ask how a cop affords a place like this?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and he smiled back.
“I saw the news, Jon. I saw the family. The faces of the young girls that died in that fire.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy to see.”
“I want you to know why I don’t help the police. I’m not some anti-government nut. I have reasons.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m not judging you, Emma. You have to do what you think is right.”
“My father was wrongly executed. I have a hunch you already looked that up.”
“Not me, but someone I know, yeah.”
“It’s something that doesn’t leave me. I can completely understand how murder victims feel but it’s even worse than that. I wish he had been murdered because then I could just blame one person. But how do you blame bureaucracy? Do I blame the prosecutor that convicted him or the public defender that didn’t lift a finger to help him? What about the judge that kept out good evidence or the morons in the jury?”
“I don’t know who you blame, Emma. I don’t have the answers.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “But I know you can help keep that from happening to other people. Benny doesn’t know what he’s doing. Lord knows how many innocent people are sitting behind bars right now because of him. If I can close these cases and prove what an incompetent he is, those cases can be reopened and looked at for errors. You could help with that. You could save people’s lives.”
She nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m going to help you with these cases, and then I’m leaving San Diego. For good.”