The White Angel Murder Read online

  As they drove away he stood and watched, the image of Tami Jacobs in her bed pushed out of his mind.

  21

  Stanton went into work early on Monday. Their unit meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock and he wanted to get a few hours of work in before that. The floor was empty except for a few offices that had their lights on and he found the silence relaxing as he went to his office and booted up his computer. While he waited for the monitor to warm up, he looked out to the passing traffic and was grateful he had the window.

  He logged into the SDPD intranet using the password the administrator emailed him and went to the human resources tab. He found the file for Francisco Hernandez.

  Francisco’s life was a story Stanton had heard before. He had grown up in a gang and had a record as a juvenile that he had gotten expunged. At nineteen he had pulled himself away from his gang life and joined the police department to help clean up the degradation of his neighborhood he must’ve seen. He didn’t graduate high school but finished his GED later in life and then an associate’s degree in criminal justice at a local city college when he was twenty-two.

  His third year on the force, he was involved in a shooting. A young Mexican kid tried to shoot him when he had pulled him over for speeding. Francisco managed to fire two rounds before being run over by the car. After any officer involved shooting, it was standard procedure to have a visit with the precinct psychiatrist and have him write a psychological profile and clear the officer for duty. Stanton searched for the profile, but didn’t find it. It was confidential and wouldn’t be in the HR file.

  He rose and went to Tommy’s office.

  Tommy had his feet up on the desk and was talking softly on the phone. So softly in fact that Stanton had thought he wasn’t in. He sat down across from him and waited. Tommy made a motion of one minute and then continued to speak. He appeared to be placing an order for something but when the conversation was done he said, “Love you.”

  “I need a favor, Tommy.”

  “So soon?”

  Stanton threw an envelope with five thousand in cash on the desk. “That should buy me one favor I think.”

  “What happened?”

  “I saved the department some scratch. Like I said, I think it buys me one favor.”

  “Depends what the favor is.”

  “I need the psych profile for a detective.”

  Tommy stared at him a moment and then burst out in laughter. “Can’t you ever ask for a credit card to buy gas or a new gun or something like that?”

  “I don’t need those things. I need a psych profile.”

  “Why? Oh wait, let me guess, you can’t tell me?”

  “I could but I prefer not to.”

  “Well, indulge me, Detective. Please.”

  “I want to find something I can use to convince the detective to give me the information I need.”

  “You mean blackmail?”

  “No, I don’t. Just something that can give me some insight into him.”

  “That’s out there. Even for you. What’s going on?”

  Stanton looked out the window. The building across the street had construction crews on the roof and they were standing around in the morning sunlight, two of them hard at work and the others laughing and joking.

  “I can’t get this girl out of my head, Tommy. She came here looking for a new start because her life back home was so messed up. What she found instead was the grim reaper waiting for her in her apartment one Wednesday night. She was twenty-three, a kid, and she went through just about as much pain as a human being can go through before she died. She deserves something for that, Tommy. She deserves me to get this guy.”

  Tommy thought about what he said and then straightened up in his chair. “You’ve always had a way with words. Who’s the detective?”

  “Francisco Hernandez. He’s in Vice.”

  “We could both lose our jobs for this. You know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, we’re going to do it anyway, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  *****

  Francisco’s profile was there in less than two hours. It came in paper form with instructions from Tommy to shred the document afterward and never mention it to anyone again. It was two pages long and Stanton knew the psychiatrist had not been paying attention. It was a paycheck to him; process as many cops as possible and get them out as quickly as possible.

  The profile talked about issues with authority and antisocial tendencies. One section spoke about prior drug use, marijuana, but didn’t go into details. It was in the second to last paragraph of the second page that Stanton found what he was looking for: Subject transferred from the Sex Crimes Unit after two weeks due to his inability to separate current caseload with the sexual assault suffered by his younger sister to which he was privy.

  He felt a twinge of guilt in his belly, but he thought about Tami in her bloodied bed and chose the lesser of two evils. He left the building as the rest of the unit was assembling for the mandatory Monday morning meeting.

  22

  Stanton stopped at the evidence locker at the Central Division precinct. The evidence custodian was an older officer, one that had passed his prime and the prospect of giving a damn a long time ago. He had probably already served his twenty and retired, but come back to the force. Stanton had seen that plenty. Their spouses would pass and they would find themselves sitting at home, surfing the television and then warming up a meal in the microwave before going to bed. A lot of old-timers came back and looked for desk jobs or court duties or work as paper-shufflers. The positions no one on their way up wanted.

  The custodian only casually glanced at Stanton’s credentials and got him the file he wanted. Inside was a CD and Stanton signed for it and slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

  He drove back to the Boca Del Ray and parked farther down the street this time. There was a van and a large truck and he parallel parked between them. The two men from the other night were replaced by two different men; boys really. They couldn’t have been over twenty. It was early enough in the morning that the scouts weren’t out. They wouldn’t be up until around noon.

  It was hot and his car began to cook him. He turned on the air conditioner but the air that spewed out was warm and dusty. He rolled down the windows instead and loosened his tie. The seats only reclined so much and he put his head back on the rest, and waited.

  104.9 was playing a collection of Mozart’s The Magic Flute and he listened to the entire opera before they played pieces from Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. He watched the people entering and leaving the apartment complex. Many were young kids who should have been in school and he knew their parents were strung out somewhere, aching for their next hit. Occasionally he would see a hooker waiting on the street corner but they were run off quickly by the gangs. Though technically part of the Sureños, these lower-level gangs weren’t part of the hierarchy coming out of Los Angeles and operated independently. Unlike the Sureños proper, they had not realized drugs were a losing game. They were not expanding to other areas. They were old school and wanted their corners; and they would live and they would die on those corners.

  It was nearly three hours later that Francisco Hernandez stepped out of the building. He was wearing khakis riding low and a thin white t-shirt. He hung out and smoked a cigarette with the two men on the patio and then went out to his car in the back. It was a decked-out Bronco with shining rims and fresh paint; a flame across the sides and gold trim around the bumpers.

  Stanton pulled away from the curb and followed him. He was just far enough away that he could see him, but no closer. Francisco would see a tail.

  The Bronco eventually stopped at a car wash and Francisco got out and threw the keys to one of the employees. He went inside and Stanton parked around the corner and walked to the entrance. He peeked through the glass double-doors and saw Francisco flipping through a magazine. He waited outside. When the car was done Francisco paid
and came outside.

  “I like the car,” Stanton said.

  Francisco stopped and turned to him. He shook his head and glanced around. “You just ain’t gonna leave me alone, are you? I’m gonna have to—”

  “I told you last night if you give me five minutes you’ll never have to see me again.”

  “And I told you fuck you.”

  “I can’t keep it a secret forever. I’m not going to stop, but at some point the esays are going to notice a cop following you and start asking questions. Or maybe they won’t ask questions?” He stepped closer to him. “Five minutes. That’s all I want. Besides, they’re still drying your car”

  “Fine. Five minutes.”

  “Come with me to my car. I have something I’d like you to hear.”

  They walked around the corner and climbed into Stanton’s Honda. Francisco got into the backseat. He ducked low enough so that no one would see him and waited for Stanton to speak first.

  Stanton put in the CD.

  It was muffled at first, filled with static, but then voices began to come through. They were speaking quietly and then you could hear tape ripped off of flesh and there was a scream that made the speakers rattle. It was of a young girl and she was begging for her life. Male voices were laughing and swearing and yelling as the young girl begged and cried. The CD continued for over seven minutes and Stanton played the entire thing.

  He looked back to Francisco and his face was ashen white. He hadn’t moved the entire time, curled up on the backseat with his head below the window line. Stanton stopped the CD.

  “I had this case five years ago,” he said, facing forward. “Three ex-cons. They got out of prison and decided to celebrate. She was fifteen. They picked her up on her way home from school and recorded while they raped and tortured her in the back of a van. When they were done they threw her out onto the middle of the freeway in broad daylight. No one stopped. She died in the hospital from brain trauma and blood loss.” He turned to him, eyes locked. “Tami Jacobs went through the same thing. This type of killer, a sexual sadist, is the most dangerous type of person. They can’t achieve climax without inflicting pain. They have no remorse, no guilt, and they’re usually smart. They fantasize so much about what they’re going to do to their victims that they know ahead of time what evidence they are likely to leave behind. And they don’t stop. Ever. There have been cases of them being imprisoned and the guards finding insects they keep in their cells to torture. They’re Satan.

  “I’m probably not going to catch him, Francisco. Not without your help. And he’ll keep killing. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll probably leave the city too and kill somewhere else. Our investigations will be disjointed. He’ll get away.”

  It was subtle, but Stanton could see the crack. It began in Francisco’s forehead; just a slight crease. And then his eyes softened.

  “What do you want to know?”

  23

  Stanton hit record on the digital recorder in the front seat. He turned back to Francisco. “Kelly Ann Madison. On the day of Tami’s murder she traded shifts with Kelly. You spoke with her but never put it into your report. Why?”

  Francisco grew visibly agitated. He moved around in the seat and stared out the window and then would look down at his hands and then out the window again. Stanton stayed quiet.

  “I was told not to,” he said.

  “By who?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Francisco, I need your help.”

  “I know. But I can’t. But he ain’t the killer you’re looking for anyway. And I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Snitch for what?”

  Francisco shook his head without looking up.

  “I know it’s a cop, can you at least acknowledge that for me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, forcing the words out. “But he didn’t do her.”

  “But he knows who did, doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t know, man,” he scoffed. “This is bullshit, man. All turning to shit. I thought I was doing a favor, you know. Looking out for my brothers in blue, you know what I’m saying?”

  “They will never know we spoke. I will deny everything and not testify in court about it.”

  “Can’t help you, brother. I said all I can. I ain’t no snitch.” He opened the door and got out of the car. He walked to the driver side and rested his hands on the top of the car. “Keep digging, Detective. You’ll find what you’re looking for. But I can’t help you.”

  *****

  Stanton returned to the office and collapsed into his chair. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling a long time and then pulled out two Excedrin from his pocket. He took them with water out of a day-old plastic bottle. He noticed for the first time that Jessica was standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, rough day?” she said.

  “Yeah.” He put his feet up on the desk and crossed his hands over his stomach. “How was the meeting?”

  “Didn’t happen.”

  “Why?”

  “You weren’t there. Harlow said everyone or no one. They’ve been waiting for you to come back. Conference room in ten.”

  Everyone was seated by the time Stanton walked in and sat down near the front of the room by Harlow. His head was pounding and he was starting to see stars. He leaned back as far as he could but the fluorescent lights penetrated his eyelids. He stood up and turned them off. Sunlight was still coming through the windows and breaking into fragments through the blinds.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Stanton asked.

  “That’s fine,” Harlow said without looking up from an ipad. He quickly glanced around and made sure everyone was here. “Jon, I know you’re busy, we all are. But I would really like everyone here Monday mornings if possible.”

  “I had to catch a witness when they weren’t expecting me. I’ll make sure I’m on time next week.”

  “Great,” he said, a grin coming over him. Stanton knew he thought he had just performed some wonderful managerial sleight of hand. “Let’s get to business. Ho, what’s going on?”

  Chin was dressed in a Calvin Klein pin-stripe suit and wore designer sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead. His blue tie had little British flags on it.

  “Todd Grover, this was the liquor store owner that was shot in his store. The original arresting officer’s report was sloppy cause he was green. He left the PD to become manager of a nightclub downtown. We tracked him down but he didn’t remember much. Most of the witnesses have moved away or gotten locked up. I think one of them died. In the ghetto nobody sticks around for too long I guess. We’re following up with them though. Shouldn’t be too long before we track a couple of them down.”

  “Good as can be done,” Harlow said. “Nathan.”

  “Alberto Domingez Jovan. Shot in front of twenty people in the parking lot of a strip club. I don’t know nothing has become I don’t remember nothing. Rough going for now but there’s one witness I spoke with that’s holding something back. When I was at her house I smelled weed. I’m thinking get a bust and use it as leverage.”

  “Good thinking. Run anything you need by Tommy. Philip, what’dya got?”

  “Rodrigo Carrillo. Killed during a drive-by. I’ve got a suspect.” He waited for a reaction and when he didn’t receive one he cleared his throat. “Gang member that, get this, dated his girl after he was killed. They met at his funeral. I’m putting together an affidavit for a warrant of his house. I think he’s still got the firearm they used in the drive-by.”

  “Good work. Keep me informed. Jessica?”

  “James Damien Neary. Stabbed while walking home. No leads, no witnesses panning out. So far, it’s just random.”

  “Nothing’s random,” Harlow said. “Keep digging. You’ll turn up something.” Jessica nodded but didn’t look at him. “Jon?”

  Stanton thought a moment before speaking. “Tami Jacobs. Have a lead I’m following up on.”

  “What is it?” Harlow said.

  �
��She may have … she may have been dating a cop that was never identified.”

  “Christ,” Harlow said. “You sure?”

  “Not yet. But a co-worker said a cop used to pick her up from work. Tami talked about him a couple of times and told people they were sleeping together.”

  Harlow thought about mentioning something: Stanton kept using her first name instead of victim or subject. It made him uncomfortable but he decided to skip it. “Why wasn’t that in the initial reports?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Jon,” he said, pointing his finger, “that information doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”

  “Yeah.”

  Harlow tapped his finger against the desk, staring out the window. He was lost in thought a long time and then said, “Jessica, drop Neary. I’m bringing in a couple of new detectives to the unit soon and I’ll pass it to one of them. Partner up with Jon and follow this Jacobs case through.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. All right, I’m pleased so far guys. I’m hearing good things and it seems like resources are being used wisely and sparingly. Keep it up. Meeting next week we’ll probably have some new faces so treat them well. Dismissed.”

  Stanton watched as Harlow rose and dialed a number on his phone. He was speaking before he was out the door. He had never before used the phrase dismissed to excuse a meeting.

  “Well,” Jessica said standing up, “I guess that’s it for Neary. Where are we on Jacobs?”

  Stanton motioned for his office and they walked there together. He shut the door and sat her down. He sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms.

  “One of the assigned detectives on the case told me that someone higher up ordered him not to include good evidence in the initial homicide report.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. Usually when it happens it turns out someone’s just covering their butts.”