The White Angel Murder Read online

  “My sister watches him during the day.”

  “I’m sorry?” Stanton said, turning to her. She was sitting on the edge of her desk, staring at the boy’s photo.

  “I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Must be hard not to see him as much as you’d like.”

  “It is. I think you said you had some.”

  “Two boys.”

  Stanton put Kelly’s phone number into his phone’s contact list and rose to leave. “Thanks for letting me use your computer.”

  “No problem … hey, I’m starving. Do you want to grab something to eat? Maybe we can swap notes on our cases or something.”

  “I can’t right now. How about a rain check?”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking down to the floor. “I was just thinking we might both be hungry. No big deal.”

  “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  “Sure, tomorrow.”

  Stanton walked to his office and shut the door. He pulled up Kelly on his phone, and dialed the number.

  11

  Stanton sat in his car in the parking lot of the Westfield UTC mall. Night had fallen and it had quieted the city. The high-pitched squeal of a siren would break the silence and it would trail off and disappear, and the silence would return only to be broken again a little later.

  His window was down and the air was warm and smelled slightly of exhaust, but a breeze was blowing and he leaned back and let it blow over his neck and down his collar.

  A few people left the Nordstrom and walked to an Escalade parked near him. They were females, teenagers, white and rich with empty looks on their faces. Their boredom would drive them to do things that their parents thought their station in life had bought them out of.

  The driver reminded him of a case from long ago. Another rich, young white girl that had began dating a Hispanic ex-con. She had met him through correspondence while he was incarcerated at the Los Angeles County California State Prison. When she was at a party at his house, he allowed all the party goers to gang rape her on the futon in the basement.

  “Detective?”

  Stanton turned to see a young girl standing by his car; far enough away that her face was only shadow and her hair glowed under the parking lot lamps.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see your badge?”

  “Sure.”

  He reached into his pocket and brought out the shield, offering it to her through the window. She approached close enough to look at it.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  He stepped outside of his car and shut the door. Leaning back against the driver’s side, he took out a small notepad and a pen. His ipad was far superior at organizing his notes, but there was something about the paper and pen that he needed. When he saw a full pad and had to go to another one, it told him that progress was being made. That the notes would, somehow, lead him to what he was looking for. Sometimes when he went through them again it felt like he had a map rather than just wandering aimlessly.

  “So,” she said, “you wanted to talk about Tami?”

  “Yes. Do you remember much about her?”

  “Yeah, she was cool. She was real sweet, ya know? Like if I needed a ride or to borrow some money she would always do it. Even if I called her at like three in the morning she would gimme a ride.”

  She pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one, letting the tobacco burn and crinkle and moved a strand of hair away from her face with her pinkie.

  “What would you guys talk about?”

  “I dunno. Stuff. She really liked surfing so she was always talking about that. She really wanted to go to Australia and surf. She said she was saving money for it.”

  “She had a boyfriend named James Arnold. The numbers we had for him are disconnected. You have any idea where he is?”

  “Oh, yeah. You don’t know? Jimmy died.”

  “When?”

  “Like … maybe three months after those other detectives talked to me.”

  Stanton’s pen stopped moving and he lowered the pad. “What other detectives?”

  “The two that came and talked to me after she was … after she passed.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “No, and they didn’t gimme their cards. I thought that was weird cause cops always leave their card, right?”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Um, one was Mexican and the other was a white dude. Kinda cute. I think he was flirting with me.”

  Stanton flipped to an earlier page in his notepad where he had written some names. “Francisco Hernandez and Taylor Stewart?”

  “I guess. I really don’t remember.”

  Stanton put the pad in his pocket and said, “Is there anything you can tell me that can help me find who did this, Kelly?”

  “I don’t think so. I just knew her from work, ya know?”

  “Did she have any other friends that you know about?”

  “Not really. She said she didn’t like other girls. But there was this guy she was kinda hanging out with. She didn’t want Jimmy to know about it cause he was real jealous. I think the detectives already talked to him.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “No, but I know he was a cop if that helps.”

  12

  Stanton woke and felt his shirt clinging to him with sweat. He sat up in bed and pushed himself against the headboard, feeling the firmness of the wood against his back. There was a glass of water on the nightstand next to him and he took a long drink, the water warm and beginning to taste like dust. The clock said 11:13 pm.

  He rose and put on sweatpants and a zip-up Nike jacket. His sneakers were under the bed and he pulled them out and slowly slipped them on his feet. There was something in the purposefulness of it that he wanted to feel right now and he wasn’t sure why.

  There would be no more sleeping tonight. At least not for another four or five hours. He took a diet cola out of the fridge and headed to his car.

  The city was lit neon blue in the darkness and the streets were still crowded from restaurants and bars and clubs that catered to nighthawks and the young. Palm trees were on both sides of the road he traveled on, appearing like giant dandelions against the backdrop of the moonlit sky.

  He remembered this city from when he was young. They traveled a lot as a youth, his father working his residency for two years in Montana and two years in Buffalo before moving to Seattle. He remembered that he liked Seattle for the first month he was there. After that, the gray skies and constant dampness discouraged him and he grew depressed. His fifth grade teacher recommended medication but his father, a psychiatrist, refused. “Only as a last resort,” he would tell his mother when she pleaded with him to put their only child on anti-depressants.

  The depression eventually grew so pronounced he could no longer get out of bed. They used medication but it only numbed him further.

  His parents coddled him, threatened him, bribed him and finally physically attempted to move him out of bed in the mornings. Occasionally he was in bed for seventy hours or more at a time. He had lost so much weight his mother was concerned he would starve to death and she would bring cake and chips and steaks to his room and feed him while she spoke about mundane things that had happened during the day.

  His father would try and hold therapy sessions but could never get his son to open up enough to help him. Eventually, he left him alone.

  The only comfort Jonathan had was his friend Stacey. She was Mormon and saw the pain in him when she came to visit him once to bring his homework. She invited him out to family home evening and for whatever reason, he went. The family was sweet and welcoming and did not judge or care where he had come from or what he had done. It was the only glimmer of happiness he had in those times.

  It was a long road to acceptance for his parents that their son had mental health issues and Jonathan remembered that night clearly
. He was woken by something and saw his mother sitting on the edge of the bed, softly crying into her hands. His father sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders.

  The next day, his father began applying to jobs in California. He found one in the ER at the University of San Diego Hospital.

  His father was the staff psychiatrist for the emergency room from nine at night until seven in the morning. He was to evaluate and decide the proper course of treatment for anyone coming through the ER that was determined to need a psych eval. Primarily, it was the homeless. They would be let out on the streets and told to come back at certain times for their medications and none of them were able to keep track of when to return. The next week or month they would be back in the ER because they walked into traffic or jumped off a building or were beaten up or stabbed or shot. Dr. Stanton had once told his son that you knew the world was truly going to hell when the mental institutions were closed and the jails were full.

  Stanton was enrolled in surfing lessons by his mother the week they moved to San Diego. The sand and sunshine and crisp blue water revived him and his mother told people he was like a different child. But the scar of that severe depression never left him and he carried sadness in his eyes for the rest of his life.

  Stanton arrived at his office shortly before midnight. The security guard was dozing and didn’t bother to feign attention when he saw him. Stanton took the elevator and then regretted not taking the stairs. The movement would’ve helped him right now and he needed to try and exhaust himself so he could get some sleep later in the morning.

  Nathan Sell was in his office and Stanton nodded to him as he made his way down the hall to his office. Jessica was still there as well, watching DVD’s of recorded interviews.

  “Hey,” she said as she paused the DVD, “what are you doing here so late?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Stanton said. He stepped into her office and sat down across from her. The chair was thickly cushioned and warm and he realized how much he would’ve liked to have been able to sleep. “I didn’t know there were any witnesses.”

  “Just over twenty people were in the area. No one saw or heard anything. Couple of ‘em look like they know more than they’re telling us. I’m going to hit them up tomorrow.” She took out two Ibuprofen from her drawer and washed them down with a Crystal Light. “How’s it going for you?”

  “I need to talk to the original detectives that worked the case. Few things aren’t adding up.”

  “Like what?”

  “They talked to a co-worker that they never put in their reports for one.”

  “Hm, well, everybody’s got their own style.”

  “I guess.” Stanton hesitated about telling her the victim may have been seeing a cop. Police were ravenously protective of their own and he didn’t want to seem like he was smearing a cop’s reputation if he didn’t have to.

  “Can I ask you something, Jonathan? Something personal?”

  “Sure.”

  She played with her pencil, tapping it lightly against a stapler on her desk. “I knew Noah. We’d worked a case together. A kidnapping where the perp came down here from Watts. In that time that he was your partner, did you ever—”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. I know they say psychopaths can be charming, but I always thought if one was in my life I would know. I would just know.”

  “How long did you know him?”

  “It wasn’t for very long. We both worked too much to see each other more than once or twice.” She bit her lip and said, “He asked me out.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no. But not because I wasn’t attracted to him. I was literally just too busy at the time. If I had fewer cases, I would’ve taken him up on it. When I found out what he did to those girls … I can’t tell you how sick I felt. I thought about quitting the force.”

  “You have nothing to feel sick over. There was a part of him that was human. That was the part that was likeable and friendly. But there was the other part too. It was a fight for him, but it had nothing to do with you.” He stood up. “I better get going.”

  As he left he heard the DVD turn back on, a male voice adamantly denying having seen anything. He turned to look at her but she was already focused on the screen.

  13

  Stanton left the office at three in the morning and was back at nine. He began placing calls. Taylor Stewart was in Iraq on active duty. Frontline infantry in the army’s third infantry division. Stanton called the local recruiting office and got the numbers to Army Investigative Command and to the local JAG office. Both offices said they couldn’t help him unless he had an official subpoena or writ. He knew the army ignored writs and subpoenas from state judges. It would have to be a federal judge and he would need a good reason. So far, he had none; other than leaving a name off of a report.

  Francisco Hernandez was different. Stanton was told by Human Resources that he was still with the police department but had been transferred to Vice a year ago. Stanton contacted the section chief at Vice and was told a meeting could be set up but it would take some time and would have to be outside of the city.

  He put his feet up on the desk and noticed the scuff marks along the edges of his shoes. It reminded him that he still needed to buy a couple of suits and he suddenly felt awkward in his sports coat. Like someone that had been placed in a group only to contrast everyone else’s conformity.

  There was something that had not escaped his thoughts: what if Noah was responsible for this girl as well?

  Noah Sherman’s victims had been blonds and brunettes and young but the killing pattern didn’t match. Noah didn’t like blood, and Stanton knew this first hand. He once nearly fainted at the scene of a suicide where the victim had shot themselves with a 20 gauge shotgun. The two victims that they knew about were strangled and the bodies were covered up; a last vestige of shame and guilt that Noah felt.

  Stanton had not thought about Noah Sherman in a long time and all the events and feelings that he had buried came rushing back into his head, like a damn had been broken and a flood enveloped everything in its path. He remembered Saturday morning racquetball at the gym. Noah was so competitive that Stanton had to let him win occasionally so it wouldn’t ruin his day. After their workouts they would shower and talk about women and kids and where they wanted their lives to take them.

  Stanton also remembered the night Noah nearly killed him.

  They had finished a long day working a drive-by shooting. Stanton had been in a fight with Melissa. Like most fights, it was over something so minor he couldn’t remember now what it was.

  Noah’s home was a large two-story house in the suburbs that he had gotten a deal on because the elderly woman that owned it had no children to leave it to. She wanted a quick infusion of cash to spend traveling to the places she always wanted to see.

  Stanton was going to spend the night to give Melissa a chance to cool off. They drank water and ate steaks and potatoes. Noah, always respectful about Stanton’s beliefs, never drank alcohol or swore in front of him. He even refused to drink coffee and Stanton always admired him for that small act of courtesy.

  When they had finished their meal they watched a boxing match on television and then went to bed. Stanton was to sleep in the guest bedroom but there were no pillows on the bed. He went upstairs to Noah’s bedroom and found him in the shower and asked where the pillows were. Noah told him to check the hall closet.

  Stanton pulled out two pillows and was about to shut the door when he noticed something tucked behind a neatly folded quilt. He pulled it out: they were red silk panties. Stanton grinned as he was about to tease his partner that a woman had forgotten her underwear when he noticed another pair behind them, and another pair behind that one. He pulled them all out. There were twelve total. They had been covering something and Stanton picked it up. It was a little tin box, black with a design of a flower on top. Inside were photographs, a necklace, and a ring. The photos were of women with pa
le, detached faces, crying into the camera. Police could only identify two of the victims. They were the ones Noah would later be prosecuted and sent to prison for, narrowly avoiding the death penalty through a plea bargain.

  When Stanton turned around Noah was behind him. Wet and naked from the shower, his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson in his hand. He lifted the gun and shot twice without hesitation. The impact threw Stanton backward and over the railing onto the main floor. It had knocked the breath out of him and blood cascaded over his chest and onto the carpet. He tasted the warm thickness of it in his mouth and began to choke.

  Noah rushed down the stairs.

  Stanton, unable to breathe, saw his holster hanging from the chair in the kitchen with his suit coat; blood pouring down his legs as he sprinted for it. He felt the weight of steel in his hand and turned and fired three shots, missing twice and hitting his target once as Noah fired and missed.

  He remembered the clink of the cartridges against the linoleum before the world went black, and he woke up in an intensive care unit, hooked to an IV and a ventilator.

  Tami Jacobs was likely not a product of Noah’s pathology. But the possibility couldn’t be excluded. Stanton would have to see him to find out for sure.

  14

  Pelican Bay State Prison is what’s termed a “supermax” facility. This is to designate that it is a prison within a prison; units segregated and separated to such a degree as to be considered the highest level of security within the Department of Corrections. The designation is only given to those facilities housing prisoners considered a threat to national or international security. Those too dangerous to attempt rehabilitation.

  The flight to Del Norte County had been brief and Stanton read an ebook on the history of the middle ages. The man next to him slept and began to snore. At one point his head collapsed backward, revealing four gold teeth and a thick white film on his tongue.

  Stanton exited the plane and found a taxi out on the curb. The Del Norte County Airport was small but well kept and Stanton was impressed that no garbage littered the sidewalks outside as you saw with larger airports.