The White Angel Murder

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.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Pelican Bay prison.”

Stanton had been surprised how easy it was to secure funding for his flight here. He simply phoned Tommy and told him why he needed to go. Two hours later, a ticket was dropped onto his desk by a receptionist. Normally he would have to pay for it and then fight for months to get reimbursed by the department, if he ever got reimbursed at all.

“Why you headed out to the prison, man?”

“Just need to talk to somebody.”

The driver nodded as he turned right at an intersection without looking if anybody was coming from the opposite direction. “Had some homies up there myself. Back in the day. Some near twenty, maybe twenty-five years ago.”

“Oh, yeah? What were they in for?”

“Psst, all sorts a buuullshit, you know. Robbery, dealin’ drugs, attempted murder. You run wit them gangs and go out and rob somebody they add damn near ten years to your sentence.” The driver pulled out a lighter and held it in his hand. “So who you talkin’ to out here?” He pulled out a small pipe with his other hand from the ashtray and Stanton got a waft of the unmistakable smell of marijuana. “You mind?” the driver said.

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

The driver shrugged and put the pipe back. He took out a flask from his pocket.

“My old partner.”

“Partner? Like business partner or somethin’?”

“No, I’m a cop. He was my partner.”

The driver slowly lowered the flask and placed it on the passenger seat. He unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in his mouth. He didn’t speak the rest of the time they drove, mumbling the fare when his car stopped next to the prison.

“Wait for me here,” Stanton said.

The facility was massive. Buildings spread out over a large clearing in what was essentially a forest. He stood near the entrance almost ten minutes, quietly pacing back and forth, before going in.

He walked to the X-shaped cluster of white buildings. They were surrounded by electrified barbed wire fencing and a small box was by the entrance. He pressed a button.

“Yeah?” a voice bellowed.

“Detective Stanton, San Diego PD. I have a visit scheduled with Noah Sherman.”

“Yeah, I got you.”

The fence slid open and Stanton stood a few moments, staring at the white steel door a guard had opened. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and looked to Stanton, motioning with his head for him to come over.

He walked to him and the guard nodded and held the door.

Prison, any prison, has a smell to it. Sweat and flatulence and rotting food and rotting flesh. The corridors and reception area held only the slightest trace of the zoo contained a few hundred feet away and Stanton was given a visitor’s pass by the front entrance guard and led to a small room. He was sat on one side of a glass partition on a cold stool that was bolted to the floor. There were phones on both sides of the thick glass and he pulled out a small digital recorder and began recording.

He ran his hand along the glass and then over the concrete border. The ceiling had exposed water pipes and he followed them with his eyes to each wall. There were three other stools and glass partitions, but no one was using them.

A bolt on a door on the opposite side of the glass slid open and the metal creaked at the hinges. A muscled guard with tattoos running up his forearms walked behind a handcuffed Noah Sherman, the handcuffs wrapped in chains that ran around his ankles. The guard sat him down and then held up his hands, indicating ten minutes, and Stanton nodded. The guard went back out through the door and left them alone.

Sherman was in a yellow jumpsuit with white shoes, the laces removed. His hand went to the phone and he put it to his ear. Stanton picked up his end and could hear his breathing through the receiver.

“How are you, Noah?”

“You never ask a prisoner how they are. Then you put them in the position to either lie or talk about how miserable they are and they don’t want to do either. You’re supposed to say, ‘How you holding up?’ or ‘How are they treating you?’”

“How are they treating you?”

“I was raped my first night here. Do you know what it’s like to be raped, Jon? I bet you don’t. Two inmates paid a guard off with some weed and they were given a half hour with me. They took turns.”

“I’m sorry,” Stanton said.

“You’re sorry?”

“I didn’t put you in here.”

There was silence between them a long time.

“What the fuck do you want, Detective?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“You haven’t been here for two and half years and now you want to see me? Bullshit. Did they find another one of my bodies? There are more you know.”

“I know.”

“Are they still looking?”

“I don’t think so. Not in San Diego County. I heard they had a task force in Los Angeles.”

“I heard that too.” Sherman spread his legs in a wide stance and leaned forward. “So, you got a few minutes. What do you want to talk about?”

Deception or circumlocution, he knew, wouldn’t work. He would have to take a bold stance and stick to it. “Did you kill a girl named Tami Jacobs? Blond, twenty-three. A small apartment in La Jolla. It would’a been about a month before you went in.”

“You really think I’d be honest with you if I had?”

“Yes, I do.”

He grinned, exposing yellowed teeth. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Pride maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you remember it?”

“I would need to look at a photo.”

Stanton pulled a small picture from his pocket. It was of Tami with her family in her University of Iowa sweatshirt.

“Pretty girl,” Sherman said. “Do you have any of her after the deed was done?”

“No.”

“You didn’t bring any?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you would masturbate to them later.” Stanton noticed that Noah began gently rocking back and forth. He had seen him do this before, and had never paid attention to it until now. “Was it you?”

“Do you ever ask yourself why I would send you to that closet knowing what was there?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think I did that? I wanted to be caught?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Your first murder was probably immaculate. Little evidence, never told anyone … but by your fifth and sixth you started forgetting things. Little things at first and then it just became more and more chaos. Eventually you couldn’t remember anything. You probably had forgotten what was in the closet until you told me.”

Sherman made a sucking sound through the gap in his front teeth.

“Was it you, Noah?”

“No. It wasn’t me.”

He put the photo back in his pocket and rose to leave. He hung up the phone and Sherman said something through the glass but he couldn’t make it out.

Stanton stepped into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him. He leaned against it and saw the sweat rings under his arms and wished he’d brought a shirt to change into. He could hear the madness contained just a few feet away. Men that had become ghosts to their families and friends, and animals to each other. He wanted to put his hands to his ears but instead he began walking toward the exit.

On his way out the guard at the front entrance said, “Them two boys that cornholed him, they ended up dyin’ some months later.”

“How?”

“One was burned in his cell. The other had his junk bitten off or somethin’ and bled out in the showers. We know the muthafucker did it but there ain’t no good proof.”

Stanton nodded to the guard and stepped outside. He had specifically asked for a room that wasn’t being monitored. If Noah knew their conversation was being listened to, he would’ve lied. Stanton would have to speak to him again. But he decided it could wait.

He looked around and realized the cab had left.