The White Angel Murder

65

Stanton took a few minutes and read through the first letter twice. There were five total: three from Noah, and two from “BLR” to Noah. The first letter was sent from Noah and introduced himself and told Rattigan how he knew him. Tami Jacobs’ boyfriend had told Noah about the manager of her building and how he had a key to her apartment and let him in. The responding officers took a statement from the manager and then never followed up.

But something never sat right with Sherman. The boyfriend had said the manager vomited in the bathroom and the manager had said the same. He said he had flushed the vomit away and washed out his mouth before leaving and calling the police. Sherman had checked under the toilet seat. Bits of vomit, no matter how hard one tried, always got underneath the toilet seat and there was none there. Sherman investigated the manager and had discovered that the managers were not allowed to have keys to the apartments in that building. He had pulled a criminal history and saw that there were several burglaries and minor sex offenses for Brady Louis Rattigan. Many rapists began as burglars that stumbled upon vulnerable women when they were burglarizing a home. They would develop a taste for it and continue down that path.

Brady had gotten the job from an uncle who owned the apartment complex.

You had him and you let him go. Damn you to hell, Noah.

As he was about to turn to the second letter he heard a sound. He held his breath and waited. It happened again. It was a scraping sound; a pen being dragged across concrete. He stood up and removed his firearm from the holster, placing the letters down on the bed. He kept his gun at chest height and moved toward the door. He leaned against the wall and peered out into the hallway. There was nothing but air shooting down on his forehead from a vent on the ceiling.

Stanton stepped into the hallway and made his way into the kitchen. He went past the table to the sliding glass door and thought that perhaps they had a dog. But no dog had been observed by surveillance.

There was the scraping sound again, coming from near the stairs, and Stanton turned to it. It was coming from behind a door. He leaned against the wall, the gun by his face, enjoying its weight against his hands, and waited.

The sound occurred again and he saw the doorknob twist slightly to the right and then to the left. He saw the bottom of the door. The gap between the floor and the wood was massive. This door was not part of the original home design, or it had been replaced with a wrong size door.

Fingers came through the bottom and the knob turned again and Stanton stood and pointed his firearm, his finger on the trigger. The fingers retracted and he heard thumping down a set of what sounded like wooden stairs.

He knelt down to the gap between the door and the floor. “This is the police. Who’s down there?”

“Oh my God,” he heard someone shout. “Help me, please help me.”

He heard the crying of a young girl and the sobs and pleading for help. His instinct was to kick the door down but he remained calm and put his firearm away and took out his pin and tension wrench.

The door was open in less than a minute. It was dark but Stanton could see the first few steps leading down into a basement. Near the middle of the stairs was a girl, her blond hair covering her face, her feet bound. Stanton jumped down the stairs.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she cried. “Please, we have to go. He’s going to come back. We have to go.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. We’re going to get out of here, okay?”

Stanton tried to loosen the plastic wraps around her ankles but they were too tightly bound. “Wait here.”

“No! Don’t leave me!”

“I’ll be right back. Hold on.”

He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the butcher’s knife off the cutting board. He ran back to the girl who screamed when she saw him.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I’m just going to cut these wraps, okay? Don’t move for just a second.”

He placed the blade in between the wraps from the bottom and sawed into them. The plastic was hard and he could feel that bits were flying off over his arms. He got through and took them off.

“Come on.”

He helped her up the stairs and turned for the front door. He was going to get his cell phone, when he remembered that he had no reason to be here. There was no warrant. Everything found in this house would be suppressed in court, including the statements made by the girl.

“Can you walk?” he said.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s go.” She pushed for the door.

“Hold on, I need you to do something for me. I need you to go to the neighbor’s house and call the police. When you do, you’re going to tell them that you found that knife in the basement and you cut yourself loose and got out. That the door wasn’t locked when you tried it and you got out on your own. I’m going to leave and you can’t mention me.”

“No, we have to go.” She was crying and beginning to get hysterical. “We have to go. We have to go, please.”

Stanton put his palms on her cheeks and brought her eyes to his. “Listen to me. They can’t know that I helped you. I’m going to leave and you’re going to tell them that you found that knife in the basement and you cut yourself loose. Please.”

“Okay.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“I … I found the knife and I cut myself loose.”

“Okay. Now I need you to be strong for me just a little bit longer, Zoe. Okay, just a little bit longer.”

She nodded and they walked to the door. Stanton opened it and watched as she walked to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. He was about to leave, and then ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the stack of letters, shoving them into his pocket before dashing out to his car. He waited until he saw Zoe speaking with the neighbors and one of them pull a cell phone out before driving away.

Stanton stopped near a small neighborhood park. Sweat was pouring out of him and his heart pounded in his chest.

He tried to relax but the tension coursed through his body and it tickled his stomach and bladder and he had the sensation that he needed to urinate. He got out and went to the public bathroom at the park. Nothing came so he went back to his car and flipped on an overhead light and read the second letter. The third and fourth letters were as uninteresting as the rest; they praised each other and talked about their conquests. It reminded Stanton of a schoolyard pissing contest.

Then he got to the last letter. It was dated two days ago:

Jon Stanton’s address: 2312 New Haven. If you want to be free you’re going to have to take care of it. Send a message to all of them.

Stanton thought Sherman had given him the wrong address and then recognition pounded in his head like a hammer against steel: it was Melissa’s address.