Mania - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 9)

by Victor Methos

“Dale,” he yelled again, “please come out. I’m leaving for Honolulu and just wanted to chat again before I go.”

  Stanton took the stairs leading up to the second floor. They led to a long hallway and bedrooms on either side. The first was a child’s room, untouched in decades. Even the sheets were still on the bed, posters up on the wall. Another next to it the same as the first, and then a master bedroom with a large bed and a balcony. He poked his head into the bedroom and peered around a dresser before stepping inside. On the east side of the room was a walk-in closet, and Stanton went over to it. He held his breath, leaned against the wall, and opened the closet door before peeking inside quickly. Empty on first glance. As he was about to go in and explore further, he saw something on the dresser: a sheet of paper with scribbling on it.

  Stanton picked up the sheet of paper. All it said was, “Jon, I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

  Underneath the dresser, he noticed something by his foot. He picked up a strip of duct tape. Stanton got down flat on his stomach and looked under the bed to find a box just like the one at Tad Lockwood’s house. He pulled it out and ripped off the lid. It was empty. The duct tape was from the girl, and Dale had taken her with him.

  As Stanton rose, his cell phone rang with an unidentified number. He answered.

  “This is Jon.”

  A long silence, and then, “I’m sorry, bud. I really am.”

  Stanton’s heart dropped as he ran to the balcony and wondered if Dale was nearby, watching him. “Where are you, Dale? I’d like to talk.”

  “I’m sure you would, but I’m not stupid. You can’t do what I’ve done for so long and be stupid.”

  “What’ve you done, Dale?”

  “I’ve done some bad things, bud. Some really bad things. I couldn’t help it. It was so damn overpowering sometimes. I couldn’t eat or sleep unless I did it. I hope you understand.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you, and don’t ask me again.”

  Stanton went back inside and rushed downstairs and out the door, hoping to see Dale in a nearby car. “Don’t hurt the girl.”

  “I… I don’t know if I can help it. She’s my insurance policy for now, though. But only for one day. All right? One day you can’t go to the cops or do anything. And I won’t kill her for that day.”

  “And after that day?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t decided. But if you don’t agree, I’ll kill her right now.” He exhaled into the phone. “Sometimes it don’t feel like I’m in charge. I just can’t control it. I can’t hold it back.”

  “Dale, listen to me. You can get through this. You don’t have to let it in.”

  “Shoot, you don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A silence between them.

  “Well anyway,” Dale said, “you gimme one day, and I don’t do nothin’ to her for that day. And I’ll think about letting her go.”

  “I’ll give you as long as you need.” He paused. “Dale, you want me, not her. Let her go and come get me. I won’t be armed. I’ll just be at your house, alone.”

  He chuckled. “Want you? Want you for what? I like you, Jonny. I always have. And your daddy, even though he was a miserable son of a bitch sometimes. I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m not rotting in a cell getting raped every day, neither. I’ll kill her and myself before I do that.”

  “Just give me a call in a day and let me know she’s safe.”

  “All right. One day.”

  Stanton hung up. He stood in the road and stared at the wet cement, the way the rain soaked the grass, but didn’t glisten as it did in Hawaii. One day. He knew what the day was for: just long enough for Dale to escape the state. Though getting better, interstate communication between law enforcement was still shoddy at best. He could be pulled over in Idaho or Nebraska and the “be on the lookout” or BOLO call in Washington might not even show. Stanton couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let him get away with another girl. Not another one.

  He jumped into his Jeep and casually pulled away, as though unsure where to go, just in case Dale was watching him from somewhere. But as soon as he hit the interstate, he gunned it straight back to Seattle.

  34

  Stanton ran into the precinct while he turned on his phone. He’d had it off for the past hour and now saw that Katie had called twice and texted once, wondering where he was. He hoped she was here, but even if she wasn’t, Stanton would talk to Thomas. Clearly he didn’t like Stanton, but he wouldn’t ignore this just because of that dislike.

  Stanton hurried past the officer at the front desk and pretended he belonged there. He got all the way to the detective’s floor before anyone even asked him if he needed help.

  “I know where I’m going, thanks.”

  He walked into the bull pen and saw Thomas sitting on a desk, chatting with one of the detectives. Stanton walked over. When Thomas saw him, he rolled his eyes.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I need to see Katie.”

  “She went out looking for you.”

  “Then I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

  Thomas sighed and hopped off the desk. “Let’s talk in the conference room.”

  Stanton followed him through the bull pen to a conference room with a large table and high-backed chairs. Thomas sat down, and Stanton sat right next to him. Proximity sometimes bred feelings of likability.

  “There was a third man that was helping Carter. I’ve found him. He was a neighbor of mine growing up, Dale Brown. He’s taken off with a girl, probably an adopted girl. By tomorrow, he’ll be out of the state and he may kill her because it’s easier than traveling with her.”

  Thomas stared at him a second. “Wait here.”

  He rose and left the conference room. A minute later, another man walked in and sat down across from Stanton.

  “Detective Stanton, my name is Nathan Setter. I’m the captain of the Homicide Unit here. Detective Garcia has explained to me that you believe there was a third man associating with Reginald Carter, is that right?”

  Stanton nodded. “Yes, his name is Dale Brown, and his address is—”

  Nathan held up his hand, cutting Stanton off. “We can get to all that later. What I really want to know right now is, did you go into his home?”

  Stanton looked back and forth between the two men. “Yes.”

  “Without his permission?”

  “He fled with the young girl he was holding prisoner there. That’s what we need to focus on.”

  “The young girl that you think is his daughter.”

  “Probably. Look, why are you sitting here interviewing me? Let’s put out a BOLO on him and any vehicles he drives, call the airports and bus stations—”

  “Detective, you broke into a man’s house and shot him. An unarmed man. And now you’re telling me you broke into another man’s house?”

  “He was only unarmed after I took away the baseball bat he was trying to break my skull with.” Stanton paused. They weren’t going to listen to him unless he took a different approach. “Guys, I know this is your turf and you’re upset I’m stomping around. I get that. But do what you want with me after we make sure this girl is safe. Please, put out a BOLO call on Dale Brown. If he leaves the state, I’m not sure we’ll find him again.”

  Nathan glanced at Thomas, who shrugged.

  “Detective,” Nathan said, “I’m afraid it won’t be that easy. I’m going to need you to stand up please.”

  “For what?”

  Thomas rose and pulled out the handcuffs clipped to his belt. Stanton laughed. No other reaction seemed appropriate—disbelief, maybe even shock. Few things shocked him anymore. He was surprised that he didn’t actually have anything to say. So he just held out his wrists.

  “Actually,” Nathan said, “that won’t be necessary, Tom. Just put him in a holding cell for now. No other inmates.”

  Thomas put the cuffs away, and Stanton though
t he picked up a sense of disappointment from him. But he did take his arm and lead him through the precinct, making sure all the other detectives saw him being led away. They went downstairs to what Stanton knew was the drunk tank, where they kept intoxicated suspects until they sobered up. Stanton could always smell a drunk tank.

  “Hope you like our accommodations,” Thomas said.

  “It’s easy to hate, isn’t it? It’s much harder to be compassionate.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said, leading him into the cell and slamming the door. “I just don’t like you.”

  “I think you’ll find, Detective Garcia, that the difference between those two sentiments is slim. And when something becomes the object of your hatred, you’ll lose yourself in pursuit of its destruction.”

  Thomas leaned against the bars, staring at him with a smirk. “See, that’s why I don’t like you. You don’t talk with people, you talk at them. Like you just know so much more than them.”

  Stanton stepped close to the bars, never breaking eye contact with him. “I’ve hated a man for every second of my life since the time I was ten years old. It ate up everything else in my reach, destroyed relationships, careers, haunts me at night… I do know more about hatred than you do.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about acting on it. You’re not going anywhere for a while.” Thomas held his gaze a bit longer and then left, leaving him staring through bars at an empty hallway.

  35

  Stanton lay down on the bench and stared at the ceiling. All jails looked the same: plain and depressing. He could hear the patter of rain against the roof and listened to it for a long time, trying to anticipate the rhythm. The lights were fluorescent, which always caused a headache. When one started pounding away in the depths of his skull, he finally closed his eyes.

  Several things ran through his mind, and one of the most prominent was what they would charge him with. At best, obstruction of justice and burglary for breaking into the homes. At worst, they could charge him with the attempted murder of Tad Lockwood. It wouldn’t stick, it’d be pled down, but it’d be enough to keep him inside a cell and take away his badge forever.

  Next to him, he heard a sound. He looked down to see a fly on the steel bench next to him. The fly had been partially smashed and buzzed only sporadically, and he wondered if the fly had been there when he lay down and he’d smashed it, or if it was already like that. Stanton stared at the fly as its buzzing dimmed, and eventually it stopped moving. It seemed fitting somehow that the fly would die here, surrounded by steel and concrete like a giant coffin.

  Everything he’d been through and everything he’d done had brought him here. Maybe it was inevitable. His career had ruined two relationships with women he loved deeply. It had alienated him from his sons and, he knew because of the stress and the research done on police officer mortality rates, would take his life too early. And it all stemmed from one man’s action thirty years ago.

  He pulled out the photo from his jacket. He still had his firearm, too, which was amazing, considering the Seattle PD would be held liable if he happened to fire it while inside. As he’d told Thomas, his hatred would blind him, make him lose focus, and overlook things he should’ve caught.

  Stanton gazed at the photo for a long time. He thought about his first day of school. It wasn’t his parents at the doors seeing him off, holding his hand and comforting him. It was Elizabeth. It was always Elizabeth. She was the one who saw his sensitivity and knew he needed extra attention. His father dismissed his sensitivity as weakness, but Elizabeth saw it as strength, as something he could use to help other people. The only way Stanton could describe it was that she saw his soul bare, without any of the defense or pretenses he put up for other people. She knew who he really was in a way no one else ever had. That was the part that he couldn’t live with, the part that drove him to blindness, much like Thomas. That part led him to run into the darkness when other detectives were running away from it: the simple belief that the best part of his life had been taken from him, and he could never get it back.

  Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Katie turned a corner and strode up to the bars, a guard behind her. He opened the cell and she stepped inside. The guard lingered a moment and she gave him a look, letting him know he wasn’t welcome.

  “I’ll be back at the booth.” He shuffled off.

  When he was gone, Katie put her hand on his and said, “I’m sorry they did this.”

  Stanton put his arm over his eyes to shield them from the harsh lights. “I’m not sure they’re wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can see it so clearly, Katie. It’s always been there, and I’ve never looked at it. Our lives are like an album of pictures, and you just need to look back to see the pattern. I’ve never done that until now. I see the pattern. I see how blind I’ve been, how obsessed. And it’s destroyed everything around me.” He paused. “I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’m done. When I get out of here, if I get out of here, I’m going home.”

  “Now? Thomas told me you think there was a third person.”

  “There was. But I don’t know why it should matter to me. My entire life, I’ve been chasing ghosts that I’m never going to catch. It doesn’t matter.”

  “So you think this guy’s going to kill that girl and you’re just not going to do anything?”

  “I’m stuck in a cell.”

  “So? You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gives a shit about things like that.” She stood up. “It’s your choice, Jon. The DA isn’t going to file charges against you right now. Carter’s case is too fresh in everybody’s mind, and the public would be too pissed off if they charged a police officer who saved a little girl. They called Nathan and the chief, and they’re letting you go for now. So if you want to go home, you can go home. But if you want to know what happened to Elizabeth, you’re going to have to follow him.”

  Katie turned and walked out of the cell. Stanton watched her go. Everything she had said was true. If he could live without knowing what happened to Elizabeth, he could be on the beach in six hours, letting the waves lap at his ankles, the sunshine browning and invigorating him.

  Or he could go into the dark and follow in her footsteps.

  Stanton reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo. He had more photos of her—dozens, since he’d inherited them after his mother’s death. But this was the only one he remembered being taken. He had stood with her at a mall. They had meant for both of them to be in the picture, but the photographer, a fourteen-year-old friend of Elizabeth’s, had screwed up the zoom and it’d only snapped a photo of her. Out of frame, she held his hand as he smiled widely for the camera. Invisible to everyone but her.

  He ran the tip of his finger over the photograph, as though he could feel the softness of her cheek. A scent always lingered when she was around, some fruity shampoo or body wash a child of that age would choose. He had never smelled it again and wished desperately to inhale the fragrance one more time. When his mother had passed, he had gone to the house hoping to find that fragrance and instead found his father.

  George Stanton looked weak. His skin had paled and the once-mighty forearms that Stanton marveled at as a child were thin and hairless. “There’s some things you’re going to want,” his father had said. “I packed them up for you. They’re in your old room.”

  Stanton retrieved the boxes of photos, albums, and old memorabilia his mother had hung on to. He came down to the living room and saw his father reading a book, flipping so quickly through the pages that Stanton knew he wasn’t actually taking in the words.

  “I guess I’ll be going,” he said after loading the boxes in his car.

  “Guess so.”

  “Take care of yourself, Dad.”

  “You, too.”

  Stanton stood behind his father, trying to come up with something to say. Something that would establish that connection he’d always yearned for. He hoped it’d be like an electrical wire that was unp
lugged. Once the connection was reestablished, the current would flow immediately, as though it had never left. But he couldn’t think of anything. Nothing seemed appropriate.

  “Bye, Dad.”

  “Bye.”

  It was the last time Stanton had seen his father alive. He regretted so much in his life, but that moment was one of the most powerful. It woke him at night sometimes. He should’ve thrown his arms around his father, broken down his layers of defenses and let him know that he had a son. But both of them were too wounded by life’s events. And the most painful of those events was Elizabeth’s disappearance. And now, Stanton had a chance to put that to rest.

  He closed his eyes, said a prayer asking for strength, and then opened his eyes.

  Stanton sat up. The motion shifted the blood in his head and made him momentarily dizzy. He let it affect him, let it soak into his mind and enjoyed the sensation for a moment before he got to his feet.

  “Katie,” he said loudly, “wait.”

  36

  Stanton didn’t feel comfortable in the precinct, so they left in Katie’s car. She said she needed a coffee, and he sat quietly in the passenger seat and thought as they drove.

  “So? What d’you wanna do?” she asked.

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “We’re kind of in a time crunch, aren’t we?”

  “You ever heard of the Kent Study?”

  She shook her head.

  “It was a study done at the University of Glasgow to find the most efficient ratio between thought and action to accomplish various tasks. They gave everyone one minute to put together a puzzle or figure their way out of a chess maneuver or other things like that. Then they’d test different ratios on people who had similar IQs. They’d let some people think ten seconds and act for fifty, some were half and half… they tried a lot of different ratios. Do you know what the most efficient was? The one that led to the best outcomes? When they let the participants think for fifty seconds, and act for ten. Almost pure thought. I try to think it through before I act.” He paused. “At least, I used to. Before all this came to the surface again.”