The White Angel Murder

28

Assistant Chief Rodney C. Anderson was in the men’s room when Stanton checked in with his secretary. He took a seat on one of the couches and waited. There was a coffee table in front of him and issues of law enforcement magazines from across the country lay across it. There were a few issues of Guns and Ammo and a hunting magazine called The Happy Outdoorsman. On the cover was a man dressed in full camouflage hunting gear holding up the severed head of a buck. Stanton turned it over.

A few minutes later, Anderson walked up and said hello. He was tall and bald, slim at the shoulders with jowls that were just beginning to appear.

“I was told you need to speak to me, Detective.”

“I do. Mind if we talk in your office?”

“Not at all.”

His office was orderly and sparse. The only ornament that said anyone even occupied the space was a photo of Anderson and his wife on a boat. His arm was around her and he was smiling. It creased his face in a way that said he was not a man used to smiling.

Stanton was seated across from him and Anderson took his time settling into his high-backed leather chair. He sat rigid and folded his hands across the desk. Stanton knew instantly he was a man that had served time, a long time, in the military.

He took the letter out of the envelope and placed it on the desk. Anderson picked it up and read it. He didn’t flinch. Stanton was impressed that he showed no reaction at all. He just calmly placed it into his waste bin next to the desk.

“I assume he sent that to you recently?”

“I got it today. It was postmarked for yesterday, the day he was killed.”

“What are you suggesting, Detective?”

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”

Anderson took a deep breath and his hands went to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, looking at Stanton, but he guessed anybody could’ve been sitting in that chair and receiving the same look.

“When I started in this department,” he said, “it was a whole different beast. There was … predictability in it. Most of the guys came from the armed services. Uh, were you in the service at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Helluva experience, Detective. Vietnam. You know I used to stick my rifle up and shoot without looking at what I was shooting at. I was an eighteen year old kid and what I did almost all day was shake.” He stood up and walked to a cupboard that was in a corner. He took out a clear bottle holding what appeared to be whiskey and poured a glass. He looked to Stanton. “A glass?”

“No thank you.”

He took three fingers of whiskey and came and sat back down. “Twenty-four hours a day, Detective, I shook. And I was always wet. If it wasn’t raining I was drenched in sweat. The humidity was something you can’t even imagine. The weather just stuck to you. You could taste it, it had a taste.” He took a long drink and placed the glass down on a coaster of the American flag he pulled out of a drawer. “Anyway, that’s all the past now. Most of the detectives I know up here want to get flashy positions so they can get the good jobs later. Guarding dim-witted celebrities or whatever. You know, that’s one of the hallmarks of a civilization in decline, when the celebrities are more revered than the day-to-day folks. Happened in Rome, happened in Gaul, happened to the French and English.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anderson finished his whiskey. “So what is it you want, Detective Stanton? I know the chief suspended you. Do you want to be reinstated? At a higher grade, I’m sure?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to find who killed Tami Jacobs.”

Anderson looked at him a few moments and said, “Why? It’s one homicide. You got us by the balls on this thing and you don’t want to use it?”

“No, sir. If I may be frank, I was retired before this case. I don’t care about my career. But the type of person that killed her is very rare. And very hard to catch. Given the timeline, I expect that since her death he’s killed anywhere from one to ten other girls depending on whether he is a plant or roving killer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Plant killers fix themselves in one spot, like if they have a home somewhere. But roving or rogue killers travel around, usually in between cities and states and sometimes even in between countries and look for victims. Because law enforcement has been slow in communicating with disparate agencies, they go for years, sometimes decades, without getting caught.”

“And you think that’s what you got here? A rogue?”

“I don’t know what I have, sir. He’s extremely smart, probably trained or self-taught in forensics. There’s little physical evidence left. What I do know is that outside of a shark attack, I’ve never seen a victim as badly mutilated as this girl.”

Anderson nodded as if he understood. “And all you want is to catch him? No fame or money?”

“No, sir. I don’t even need my badge back. I just want to make sure I’m given access to a few things I may need.”

“You shame me, son.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk again. “Well you got your badge back. I’ll clear it with the chief. What else do you need?”

“Why did you order that information be kept out of her case file?”

“Because like Detective Hernandez, I was following orders too. And there’s only one person in this whole place that can give me an order I have to follow.”