Sociopath - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 6)
THE MURDER OF A FEDERAL AGENT...
Retired detective Jon Stanton is enjoying his new life when a single call shatters his peace: one of his oldest friends, a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, has been murdered in a small town in Utah. Investigating a double homicide, Stanton believes he had gotten too close to the killer and paid the ultimate price.
A BRUTAL SLAYING WITH NO DISCERNIBLE MOTIVES...
Stanton believes the key to finding the killer is in the initial double homicide. A female victim tied to a tree and ravaged holds the answers Stanton is looking for. He flies to Utah, leaving his new fiancé, to walk into the darkness one more time.
But the killer has plans of his own...
A short novel.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Victor Methos is a former prosecutor specializing in violent crime and is currently a criminal defense attorney in the United States. He is the author of forty bestselling books including THE WHITE ANGEL MURDER and SUPERHERO, both Kindle Top 100 smash hits.
school at Brigham Young University. Her major was education and she wanted to be a teacher for disabled children, or some other idiotic crusade. I went across the street to Café Molisse and stepped inside and saw her across the restaurant. She was helping four fags in biking clothes, one of them still wearing his helmet like a retard. I felt like taking a hammer and bashing through it and showing him his brains. Picturing it made me laugh out loud. The elderly woman standing next to me was
lowered my weapon and lifted the flashlight, going slowly from tree to tree, backtracking where I had been. JON STANTON I saw my boys again. Mathew was a grown man now. He was working as a police officer in some suburb of New York and I saw that his jawline had grown to that of a man’s; his once high-pitched voice flattened out. He was working cases indifferently and I saw him pocket a load of drugs from the car. My eyes followed him as he was home now and sitting on his couch. He
forest closed in around the little road like a hand closing around a stick. The GPS led her directly to the hospital without issue and she parked in the ER parking though he wasn’t in the ER anymore. She took the elevator up to Intensive Care and a guard, a portly policeman with a button missing on his shirt, was reading a Sports Illustrated in front of the room. “I’m his fiancé,” she said. The officer let her in with a quick check of identification and she pulled up a chair and sat next to
graphs, summaries, narratives and a preliminary blood report showing higher than therapeutic levels of hydrocodone in his system. I looked at the photographs. They were high definition and color. David was laying facedown on the linoleum, a pool of congealed blood around his head like a crimson halo. His hands and shirt and pants were soaked with it. It had taken nearly twenty-five minutes for a staff member to come upon the carnage. Both the nurse and David had died the same way: a slice
he thought he would be able to perform. He would have brought something with him if he was certain he wouldn’t be able to do it rather than just grabbing a branch. He thought he’d be able to, but when he actually got there he wasn’t. So he grabbed whatever was nearby.” She shrugged. “That’s one theory I guess.” I rose and exhaled as I did so, feeling a tug of pain in my knees. I was old enough now that even getting up caused a slight bit of pain. “I’d like to meet her parents.” 8 The