“We didn’t want to bag him until you got here.”
Parr slipped on latex gloves. One of the forensic techs in the room looked about to say something but caught himself. Parr glanced back at him. He averted his gaze and walked out of the room. The nerds bugged Parr. They weren’t cops, and they never had to deal with victims or the late-night hospital and morgue visits, but ever since that damned TV show, they acted as if they ran the police force.
Parr lifted the lid of the chest. Inside, a body was curled into a ball. The wound on the back of the man’s head looked like a gunshot wound, but there was too much hair in the way to see for sure. Parr knew who it was and didn’t have to check, but he did anyway. He tilted the head to get a clear look. It was Marty Scheffield.
“What the fuck happened?” he said, to no one in particular.
“We don’t know,” Javier replied. “The assistant from the ME’s office thinks he’s been dead for two days but only recently stuffed in there. They’re not sure yet. They gotta do the autopsy.”
Parr stood up. “Why would anybody do this to him? He had no enemies. He never hurt nobody.”
Jay said, “I know. I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”
Parr gazed off into space for a few moments then said, “Did we find Stanton?”
“No, but a neighbor in the back reported seeing two men earlier in the day. One wearing a ski mask and the other chasing after him. Description of the pursuer matches Stanton.”
“And the neighbor didn’t call it in?”
“No. They said they didn’t want to get involved.”
“Oh, they’re fucking involved now. Get their asses to the station. If they resist, tell them they’re suspects and it’s better they cooperate. Arrest ’em if they still cause a fuss.”
“I’m on it.”
“And, Jay, better cancel that trip to San Diego. I need you here.”
“You got it.”
Parr turned back to the chest. He had known Marty more than a decade. Marty had helped bring him onto the force. He’d been Parr’s sergeant when he’d first started. Marty had come to his house when his wife left him, since he had nowhere else to go. Parr had helped Marty relearn how to read and write after his accident.
Parr decided he wasn’t giving the killer the chance to get away with it. If Jon Stanton was in any way responsible for this, he would not be leaving Las Vegas alive.
23
Stanton stood on the edge of the platform at the front of the church as music started to play. It was Bach, but it was distant and muffled. He hardly heard it because his stomach was so wound up in knots that he had a massive headache. His best man, a friend from long ago, was standing next to him. Melissa stepped out into the aisle and began walking toward him, and his tears began to flow. He’d thought they would be together until the end. He had pictured college graduations, weddings, retirements, old age… he’d never thought he would be saying goodbye to her at thirty-four and having to speak to her lovers.
Pain had a taste. It had a presence. It was a thing. If allowed, pain could dig into a person like a worm and spread through the whole body. Pain affected not only the body but the soul, too. The dreary-eyed who drove to jobs they hated and returned home to families they despised may as well have been riding in their own coffins.
Pain was what woke him-the thought of his children raised by another man while their memories of him faded until he was an abstraction in their minds. He was their father, yes, but more just the form of a father. He pictured Melissa standing on the stage, but he wasn’t the one next to her.
Stanton woke on his back. Above him was concrete. A lightbulb with a long cord dangled from the center of the ceiling. The floors were bare cement, but there was no dirt or dust. The walls were also clean. He could see a furnace and an intricate array of pipes and wires, and shelves or cupboards filled the other side of the room.
His head began to pound. It came in circular waves that started at the back of his head, and the circles grew tighter and tighter until they were focused in the space between his eyes. The pain radiated through him so forcefully that he gagged, turning to the side as vomit spewed out of his mouth.
When he was through vomiting, he lay flat on his back, the room spinning around him, and tried to monitor his breathing. He took long, deep breaths and exhaled slowly, focusing his mental energy on the spot just two inches below his navel. He pictured flowing water running through his arms, legs, torso, and head. He let the water pool at his navel and slowly spread to his limbs, his lungs, and his heart, returning strength to them.
Stanton visualized this for over five minutes before he felt well enough to sit up. But feeling the dizziness returning, he scooted back to lean against the wall. He noticed for the first time that thick plastic cuffs wrapped each of his wrists, which were behind his back, held together by plastic bars. A rope was around his ankles, but it was loose and moved freely.
The pounding in his head returned, and he had to close his eyes. He sent the water from his navel to the back of his head. He pictured that the pain was a fire, a raging inferno in the space in his head. The water cooled it, brought it under control so he could function, or at least stop focusing entirely on the pain.
In a survival situation, his first concerns were to secure shelter, water, weapons, food, and a means of escape. He needed no shelter, and there was no water or food that he could see. The basement was bare and probably wouldn’t provide any weapons. The only thing left was to find a means of escape.
His wrists were bound so tightly that he was certain they were turning a light purple by now. The more he fought the intricate cuffs, the tighter they became. He put his foot in between his wrists and pushed as hard as he could, but the cuffs didn’t budge. Rather, they constricted around his flesh.
Stanton ran his eyes over the windowless walls. A small set of wooden stairs led up to a door that was bolted with several impressive-looking locks. Farther down the room was a metal cabinet. Its doors were open a few inches, but he couldn’t see inside. There was also a poster of a nude woman at the beach, her toes dug into the sand. Her youthful glow came through in a massive smile as she lifted one free hand in an apathetic but sexual gesture.
Stanton’s gaze went back to the cabinet. It was out of the ordinary, the statistical outlier, the thing that didn’t belong.
His priority was to remove the cuffs then examine the cabinet. He tried to stand by leaning forward on his fists and pulling his legs up from behind him. He tipped over as his fists gave out from too much pressure against the concrete. He struggled back up and tried again. He kept his balance enough to realize that he had at least six inches of slack on the sloppily tied rope around his ankles. Someone had been interrupted when they were binding him.
He reached down and began to loosen the ropes so he could make it to the cabinet, then he heard a phone ringing upstairs. He held his breath, listening intently. It rang five times and stopped. As he reached back down to the rope, he heard another sound: footsteps heading toward the basement door.
25
Parr walked into the precinct at six in the morning. He hadn’t slept. He didn’t need to. In Fallujah, he had been dropped into enemy territory with a shortage of rations. His pack had to weigh less than twenty-five pounds to keep him light. Ammunition, the radio, his rifle, a handgun, and a knife made up over fifteen pounds. That left little allowance for food and water, so he was expected to find these on his own. A small container in the bottom right pocket of his pack held prescription amphetamines given to him by the army medic. Taking amphetamines was voluntary for the snipers, and many refused. But a few, the ones the army didn’t expect to come back, got the script.