The White Angel Murder

16

Stanton went into the office on Friday morning and found Chief Harlow sitting at his desk, quietly staring out the window. He was dressed in a polo shirt and blue jeans with Italian leather shoes that gleamed from a recent shine. The photos of Jon Junior and Mathew were turned slightly off center and Stanton knew that Harlow had been looking at them. A copy of the Herald was spread on the desk.

Harlow saw him and pushed the paper across the desk and said, “Read this.” Stanton picked it up. On page five was a caption that read:

NEW COLD CASE UNIT FILLED WITH TROUBLED PASTS

Next to the caption was a photo of Stanton. It had been taken after he was released from the hospital when Noah had shot him. Reporters were hounding him as he was being pushed to an awaiting taxi in a wheelchair. His face was contorted with anger and bits of spittle were visible on the edges of his mouth. His eyes had fury in them. Anger was not an emotion he felt often and he hadn’t realized until now how awful it suited him. He sat down in the chair and began to read:

The San Diego Police Department has made an effort in recent years to begin solving the county’s enormous backlog of unsolved homicides. Chief Harlow’s latest attempt is the formation of the Cold Case Unit. In conjunction with the FBI, NCIS, LAPD and the San Diego County District Attorney’s Office, the unit is assigned cases older than one year that have no active leads. The theory is that with nothing else on their plates, the detectives can focus their absolute attention to a single unsolved homicide and the likelihood of an arrest should increase. A noble goal, but with one problem: some of the detectives assigned to the unit should not be writing parking tickets, much less solving homicides ….

Stanton read the article in its entirety as Harlow waited. There was mention of Chin Ho having legal trouble with the IRS. Nathan Sell had had an affair with a superior officer at the San Diego PD and was demoted and transferred three years ago as a result. Philip Russell was responsible for a botched home entry by the FBI where two unarmed civilians were shot and killed, one of them sixteen years old. He was sent to San Diego afterward, the article claimed, as punishment. Jessica Turner had taken a leave of absence from the LAPD due to “familial stress” and issues with domestic violence. The article listed Zoloft and Prozac as medications she was currently taking. But Stanton got the lion’s share of the article.

It discussed the time he had spent in 5 North, the county’s psychiatric unit, after the shooting with Noah. It discussed his inability to see Noah for what he was and it leading to more deaths. It talked about the fact that he had left the police force to teach and was brought in on a whim by the Chief because none of the established detectives wanted the job. It talked about the fact that he didn’t carry his gun with him.

The article was written by Hunter Royal.

“What do you think?” Harlow asked.

“I think it’s an op/ed, but it’s not in the opinion section. Hunter must know some of the higher-ups at the paper.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say, Mike? It’s all true. He didn’t make any of it up.”

“So the fuck what? I’m talking to the County Attorney about suing his ass. He can’t tell the world what medications my detectives are on. And how the fuck does he know you don’t carry your sidearm?”

Stanton shrugged and placed the paper down on the desk. Harlow stood up and began walking out of the office. His neck was splotchy red. Stanton had only seen his neck get that way after a good shouting match and he wondered who had been chewed out.

“If I were you, Jon, I’d start carrying your sidearm. Never know who reads this shit.”

Stanton crumpled the paper into a ball as Harlow left. He threw it in the trash bin by his desk. He took out Tami Jacobs’ file again and rummaged through everything. There was a day planner he had seen but didn’t look through in detail.

He found it near the bottom of the box; a pink planner with white ring binding. There were little hearts on the front and on the inside cover it said, “Property of Tami.”

The date of her death was empty. He flipped through the previous month and then the subsequent month. Then he started from the beginning and read the whole thing. There were birthdays of a few people and Stanton wrote their names down, though most of them were only first names. One particular entry that caught his attention was for Halloween of the year she was killed. It said, “Meet hottie at The Trapp.”

He Googled The Trapp and found that it was a bar in La Jolla. He wrote down the address and then flipped through the day planner one more time to see if there was anything he missed.

His phone rang.

“This is Jon.”

“Jon, this is Marcy, in Vice downstairs.”

Stanton remembered Marcy from her days as front desk receptionist. She was legendary for how protective she was of her beloved SDPD. It was rumored she once spent three hours talking a citizen out of making a complaint to IAD.

“What can I do for you, Marcy?”

“I have a message from Captain Young. He says he’s not going to be able to set up a meeting between you and Detective Hernandez at this time.”

“Well when can he do it?”

“That’s all the information I have, Detective. We’ll keep you posted.”

Stanton hung up and left his hand on the receiver. He tapped it three times and then got up and ran to the elevators.

The San Diego Police Department had nine divisions splitting the city into districts. La Jolla was in the Northern Division. Young, though captain over Vice Operations for the entire city, was from the Midwest Division and that was his baby. He wouldn’t care that much about one murder in Northern.

Vice Administration was on the third floor and Stanton walked through reception, holding up his badge to the secretary. She was a newbie and wasn’t sure if that was proper procedure or not but Stanton seemed so confident she let him pass without a word.

He got to Young’s office and saw Marcy sitting at a small desk out front. He ran to the office door and she began yelling as he opened it. No one was inside.

“What the hell are you doing!” she yelled. “You can’t barge in on a captain! I’m calling-”

“Where is he?”

“None of your business, Jon. Now you-”

Stanton noticed photos on her desk. They were of two teenage daughters. Her husband had his arms wrapped around their shoulders and they were in softball uniforms.

“Marcy,” he interrupted. He pulled out the photo of Tami he kept in the breast pocket of his shirt. He placed it in front of her and her eyes went to it. “She was twenty-three years old. He raped her for ten hours, and then tortured her to death. George has information that can help me catch him. Please, where is he?”

Marcy swallowed and he could see the slightest trace of tears welling up in her eyes. He left the photo out a little longer than necessary and then slowly put it back in his pocket.

“You can’t say-”

“It stays between us.”

“He’s having breakfast at Bencotto. It’s on Fir Street near the PCH.”

“Thank you.”

Stanton sped out of the parking lot and rolled down his windows. He didn’t even know why he was rushing. Young would be back in the administrative offices later today. Maybe, instinctually, he wanted to catch him off guard. Stop him somewhere he wasn’t used to having authority and at a time he didn’t want to have the conversation.

Stanton raced along the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic though it wasn’t necessary. A small part of him said that he missed this.

Bencotto was chic and urban, the lower level opting for glass instead of walls. The servers were all attractive and well groomed, the bar hosting a few people getting drunk before heading in to work.

Stanton stepped inside and scanned the restaurant. He saw Captain George Young sitting at a table with a blond. She was stunning, even from this far; her artificial breasts bulging from underneath a sleek summer dress. Stanton went and stood next to the table.

At first Young didn’t recognize him, and then his brow furrowed and he threw his napkin on the table and stood up.

“Outside,” he said.

They went out to the parking lot and Young looked around to make sure no one was near. His muscles rippled underneath his clothes and Stanton guessed he’d gained at least thirty pounds since the last time he saw him. He knew he had been taking steroids since he transferred to Vice almost fifteen years ago. There was something about the Vice cops that leant itself easily to dangerous behaviors. They were the most on edge, the line between them and the people they were after occasionally blurring to the point of being unrecognizable. But, under circumstances that would break most normal people, they kept themselves centered most of the time. It was the select few that willingly chose to take a different path that gave them that reputation.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why can’t I see Hernandez?”

“Are you shitting me? You came all the way out here for that?”

“He’s got information I need. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is he’s under with the Sureños and if they even fucking think he’s a cop-”

“We weren’t even going to meet in the city. This happens all the time. I know he meets with you for review. Just let me be there and ask a few questions at the next one.”

“No way. I’m not jeopardizing a year of work so you can play tv detective for some case you ain’t gonna solve anyway.”

“Let me talk to him on the phone then. I only need a few minutes.”

Young stepped closer to him, within inches of his face, using his superior size to try and intimidate him. “I said no. When he’s out and the investigation is over, come see me. Till then, stay the fuck away from my detectives.”