The White Angel Murder

55

The conference room was packed and the noise of ten different conversations numbed Stanton as he walked in. Every seat was taken and extra chairs had been brought in and placed around the room. A map was up on the screen connected to Tommy’s laptop. It was a Google Maps view of the house and neighborhood.

Stanton had received a fax from Imperial County: a copy of the autopsy report. It read like Tami Jacobs with one exception: semen had been found in the rectum. The sample had been rushed to the state lab and Stanton had been assured there was enough for a DNA comparison should he have a suspect.

Stanton saw the pattern immediately: he was growing arrogant. He had been so careful with Tami not to leave evidence behind other than fecal matter. No pubic hair had even been found; which means he probably shaved it before the attack. But with Pamela, it was different. He didn’t care if he left DNA behind. He was getting more careless, but also more dangerous.

Stanton sat down in the corner next to Chin Ho and read through the autopsy reports again. He leaned over to Ho and said, “Where’s Noah?”

“Shipped back to Pelican Bay. Didn’t need him anymore.”

“Okay everyone,” Harlow bellowed, “listen up. We got a white male, forty-one years old, Brady Louis Rattigan. Lives with his mother in this house. His mother is wheelchair bound and with high blood pressure. When we go in, we’re goin’ in hot but avoid any heroics. The last thing I need is this douchbag’s mom croaking from a heart attack.” There was quiet laughter. “I’d show you a photo but we don’t have one. No driver license, no ID card, no bank accounts. All he’s got is a social security card with a name and birthday. This guy’s living completely off the grid for obvious reasons.

“Now we’re having surveillance until we get something good and you all got your assignments. Four shifts in six hour increments. AC Anderson is gonna go over the details but I want to be kept in the loop on everything. Rodney.”

Anderson stood up and began going over the logistics of the operation. Harlow motioned for Stanton to join him outside and he followed him to his office.

“Shut the door,” Harlow said, sitting down at his desk.

“Where’s Hunter?”

“County lock-up. He’ll probably get bail today though, little shit. I kinda wish his alibi didn’t check. Anyway, why I asked you here, I need something done that’s delicate.”

“What is it?”

“The window we got right now isn’t for surveillance. Don’t get me wrong, the fucker can’t take a shit without one of my detectives being there to smell it, but that’s not why we got surveillance going. This one’s smart. I’m not expecting to find anything.”

“What do you have planned?”

“We checked out his mother too. She’s one sick old bag. Cancer, two strokes this year and dementia. I’m willing to bet she sleeps most of the day. I need someone to go in there.”

“You got a warrant already?”

“No, actually. We don’t. I can’t list what we’re looking for in the warrant with any particularity. Stuff showing he killed some girls, doesn’t hack it.”

“What authority do we have to be in there then?”

“None.”

There was an awkward silence and Stanton shifted in his chair. He thought about it a few moments and said, “No, we’re doing this clean. I want it to stick.”

“It will stick, no one’s going to know.”

“Someone always knows. I’m not doing it.”

“I wouldn’t normally ask you, but like I said, it’s delicate. I need someone that’s going to be careful and that’s you.”

He shook his head. “No way.”

“Well then, detective, your involvement in this case is over. We’ll talk about some new assignments on Monday.”

Stanton rose. “Mike, you can go self-fornicate.”

He gathered a few things from his office and left.