The White Angel Murder

36

It was dark when Stanton pulled out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. He didn’t like driving during the day. There was no doubt that a BOLO call went out for him with his make and model. He thought about trading his car in. There were a few places he knew that would take his car, no questions asked, and replace it with another one. Granted, one of less value and reliability.

He drove down the boulevard and watched the moon reflect off the choppy water of the Pacific. A yacht was out past the pier, slowly drifting with the waves, and he wished he were on that yacht right now. Enjoying the ocean breeze.

It was nearly two hours and forty-five minutes of driving before he came to a stop in front of the Boca Del Ray apartments. Two young Hispanic males were on the porch again though they were different from any of the ones he’d seen. He walked over to them and they stared and sucked on spliffs loaded with weed and tobacco.

Stanton held up his badge and brushed past them without saying anything. His heart was racing as they entered the code and opened the door. He stepped inside and as the door shut behind him he heard one of them say, “One less pig you gotta worry about.”

The building was quiet tonight and a thick odor of marijuana hung in the air. Stanton remembered it was the first of the month. Welfare checks were distributed today. Many were cashed at all night check cashing businesses and the money was promptly spent on drugs and liquor. It would last six or seven days and then they would be scraping by the rest of the month until the next distribution.

He walked to Francisco’s apartment. Police tape covered the door and someone had tagged gang signs over it in black and red spray-paint. He took out his keychain and the Swiss Army knife attached to it and slit the tape along the edge of the door. A pad lock was on but the wood was so weak he just put his shoulder to it and gave it one good push and it cracked open.

The room was hot and stale from a lack of circulation. A dark black stain stuck out of the carpet where Francisco’s body had been found. Like a wound that won’t quite heal. Dirty footprints were over the kitchen linoleum and all the furniture had been taken from the apartment; probably by people in the building who had heard that somebody had passed away.

Stanton walked to the kitchen faucet and ran the cold water. He put his hand underneath and felt the bubbles on his palm before taking a long drink. He turned the water off and walked into the living room. He peered through the blinds outside and didn’t see anyone. It wasn’t a good view; just cars and a large withered tree that stuck out of the ground in front of the building like a massive weed. A car’s headlights shone toward him and then away as it U-turned in the street. He stepped back and stood in the living room a long time before moving.

Stanton walked down the hall from the kitchen to the bathroom and bedroom. There was a linen closet in the hallway and he opened it. A couple of dirty sheets were thrown on the ground and the top shelf was broken and leaning to one side.

He closed the closet door and went into the bedroom.

The bed was still there. A king-size with a stained mattress and chipping headboard. He glanced under the bed and opened the closets. They were empty. The view out of the window was the back of the building; an open space covered in dirt and weeds with an overflowing dumpster. The yellow of the street light gave it a warm glow but appeared like the lights in a university basement.

There was a loud crash and he froze. Instinctively, he reached for his firearm and felt nothing but the cloth of his shirt. It went quiet again and then another crash. It was coming from upstairs and he listened intently as people began yelling in Spanish. He exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath, and made his way to the bathroom.

He stood outside the door and peered in before flicking on the light. He had bought latex gloves at the store and he pulled them out of his pocket and put them on.

He stepped inside and shut the door. It was quiet here and he couldn’t hear the yelling any longer. He looked over the mirror and ran his hand along the edge of the sink and over the faucet. He bent down and looked from one corner of the tile to the other and studied the bathtub and the toilet.

Chin Ho and the forensics team believed there were two or even three assailants and that they killed Francisco in here and then dragged him into the living room. Stanton knew it wouldn’t take three. A single person was much stronger than anyone thought, especially when they were determined. But they scarcely considered why he would’ve been killed in the bathroom and then placed somewhere else. Their best guess was that the killers wanted to avoid a mess in the living room and instead opted to kill him in the bathtub. But they clearly didn’t care about leaving evidence or a mess behind. There was something else.

What is it you want me to find in here?

Stanton lifted the cover off the tank of the toilet and then examined the pipes underneath, trying each one to see if they were loose. Below the sink were cabinets and he opened them. They were empty except for an old soap wrapper and a carton of baking soda. He pulled on the pipe leading to the faucet but it was tightly wound and didn’t budge.

Forensics had combed this bathroom, but he knew that once they discovered the blood, it was a routine check from there. A grid search followed by checking all the traps and drains. He had found that forensics units were never invested in a case and once a plausible theory of what occurred was developed, they went on autopilot.

He ran his hands up and down the sides of the mirror, over the door and its hinges, the shower curtain and the small window over the tub. But there was nothing there. The air conditioner clicked on as he leaned against the counter and wiped at the sweat that had formed on his brow. He glanced over to the vent. It was tucked behind the toilet and he watched a piece of lint flutter on it a moment before being blown away.

Stanton knelt down and reached behind the toilet. Even from the ground it was difficult to reach. He lay on his side and stuck one arm back there and pulled off the vent guard. Cool air came rushing out and he held his hand over it and felt the pressure against his skin. The right side was stronger than the left.

He reached into the weaker side of the vent and ran his fingers in a circle. They touched something and he froze.

It felt smooth and had a sharp edge. He squeezed lightly and felt the crinkle of paper. His fingers wrapped around it and he slowly brought it up and out of the vent. It was a scrap of white lined paper neatly folded into a small rectangle. He carefully opened it and his heart jumped into his throat:

wElCoME to ThE gAmE DeTEcTIvE StAntON

MoNtEgo AVEnue abErdeen driVe