The White Angel Murder

48

A trip had been arranged for Noah Sherman to go to the Salton Sea and walk around the scene of Pamela Dallas’ death. Stanton found it grotesque, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to be here as well and he couldn’t bring himself to come back alone. Now that she had a history and a mother and polka-dot sheets, he didn’t want to be here at all. But he would have preferred to be here with anyone on earth other than Noah Sherman.

The federal marshals walked behind them as Sherman and Stanton walked in. Stanton went to the stairs leading to the managerial office without waiting for him but he followed, the rattle of leg chains echoing in the room.

Though he had been given civilian clothes, they couldn’t cover up his double-locked handcuffs and the thick chains that ran from his ankles up to his wrists. An ankle monitor was locked around his right leg and had a red blinking light. If the light at any point went green, meaning Sherman was out of range, the built in GPS device sent coordinates to the SDPD SWAT team and the federal marshals. It wasn’t said, but they had orders to shoot first if that situation ever occurred.

“Must be insulting seeing me out like this.”

Stanton opened the door to the office. “Haven’t really thought about it.”

“Bullsh-” He stopped himself and thought a second before saying, “I don’t believe it.”

“Trying to stop swearing?”

“I know you hate it.”

Stanton turned to him. “Since when do you care what I hate?”

“Just trying to be courteous.”

Stanton turned back to the office. He glanced out the door and didn’t want to admit to himself that he was comforted to see the marshals right outside.

“What’s the matter, Johnny? Don’t want to be alone with me?”

Stanton turned and stood face-to-face with him. “You won’t be here long.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you don’t have anything to add to this case. Mike’s got twenty detectives that were better with evidence than you. He doesn’t need you walking around a crime scene.”

“Then why bring me?”

“He thinks that you know who the killer is. Once he realizes that you don’t know anything, you’ll be heading back.”

Sherman leaned in close, their faces nearly touching, and whispered, “Don’t bet on it.”

“Hey!” one of the marshals shouted, “get the fuck away from him.”

Sherman stepped back and leaned against a wall.

Stanton turned to the scene. There were muddy boot-prints on the carpet that weren’t there before. He guessed they would also find fingerprints and fibers that weren’t here. The local cops, probably guessing that this was bigger than their office and would be someone else’s problem, didn’t care about contaminating the scene.

“There’s another note,” Sherman said. “He wouldn’t give you just one.”

Stanton glanced at him and then turned his attention back to the room.

He ran his eyes over the entire space, taking in every corner and stain and chip of paint that had fallen to the carpet. He knelt down and ran his eyes over the floor in a circular pattern, beginning in the center of the room and working his way outward until he hit the walls. He sat at the desk and went through the drawers. The ceiling was exposed and he looked at each beam carefully. At the far end, nearest the closet, one of the water pipes was off center slightly.

He climbed up on the desk and pushed at the pipe. It came loose immediately and spilled putrid water down his shirt and onto the desk and floor. Stanton ignored it and pulled the pipe down and looked inside. There was a clear plastic bag taped to the side. He pulled it out and inside was a folded piece of paper.

“Well well,” Sherman said, “looks like you are a cop after all. Tell me something though; how many people were through here and missed that?”

Stanton shook his head. “Maybe the locals would have but our forensics are too good to miss it. It was put here after we’d already gone through.”

“What’s it say?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Tiss tiss, don’t make me go to the boss.”

Stanton hopped down and walked past him and onto the factory floor. He called Jessica and asked her to meet him back at the office. She suggested dropping the note off to latent prints and he agreed. He wasn’t expecting to find anything, but you never knew.

When he was alone in his car, he slapped on some latex gloves and took out the note:

Detective Stanton,

What do you think? She’s much better than the first, no? A tigress in the bed too. You wouldn’t believe how much loving this little bitch could give. I’ve kept a few pieces for myself, hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t think she would be needing them. Maybe I’ll send a few to her parents?

See you in a couple of weeks.

Sincerely,

Quaker

Stanton drove back to the office. He went to latent prints on the second floor and submitted the note after having a copy made. He didn’t find Jessica in her office or the conference room on the fifth floor so he tried the cafeteria downstairs and saw her sitting at a table by herself eating a salad and Diet Coke.

“Hey,” he said, throwing down the copy of the note in front of her, “read this.”

She read the note carefully and placed it back on the table. “Where’d you find it?”

“Stuffed in a pipe at the scene.”

“He’s trying to piss you off.”

“Maybe. Something’s off though. Most killers like this hold in their urges as much as possible until they can’t and they have to go out and hunt. That’s why some go for months or even years without killing. Then their urges take over and they have to kill more frequently. But they’re also sloppier cause they haven’t had months to fantasize and plan every detail. For how meticulous and careful he is, two weeks is too short a time frame. At two weeks apart, he’d be a crazed animal killing in broad daylight with witnesses. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Since when do any of these assholes make sense?”

“Good point.”

She took a bite of her salad. “How was it being there with Noah?”

“Awful. And it breaks my concentration.”

“I won’t be in the same room with him anymore. He told me I had nice tits in the conference room and the chief agreed that I wouldn’t have to work with him.”

“He won’t be with us long, I’m sure of it.”

She shrugged. “Hope so. So what do you make of the name?”

“I thought about that. Maybe he has some roots with the Quakers?”

“Could just be trying to throw us off. I once had a case where someone left a note talking about other victims and it turned out to be the vic’s husband that had just killed her for the life insurance.”

“I don’t think that’s it. He’s leading me to something but I don’t know what it is.”

“Can I be honest with you, Jon?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never seen a detective analyze every little thing like you do. These people are crazy and evil. There is nothing else there. Their actions are random and there’s nothing for us there. I think we just need to work the evidence and sooner or later he’ll screw up or some neighbor will turn him in and we’ll have him.”

“Do you like abstract art?”

“Abstract art?”

“Yeah, Jackson Pollock, Rothko, stuff like that?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“I think a five year old could splash paint on a canvas. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s exactly what I used to think when I was younger. I don’t believe that anymore and I love abstract art now. You know why? Because nothing is random. Nothing. Our unconscious is the bulk of our minds, it’s what motivates and controls us far more than what we see as our conscious mind. In fact, the more random you try and make an expression of yourself, the more the unconscious comes through. Guys like Pollock, their paintings may seem like throwing paint on a canvas but that paint represents something buried deep inside them that even they may not want to admit is there.

“It’s the same with the monsters. The more they try and throw us off, the more they reveal. They can’t help it. Everything we need to find him is right in front of us. We just have to make the right connections.”

Stanton’s cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Tommy saying that Pamela Dallas’ step-father had just dropped off a list addressed to him and Jessica.

“Come on,” he said, “we need to get upstairs.”