The White Angel Murder

22

Stanton stopped at the evidence locker at the Central Division precinct. The evidence custodian was an older officer, one that had passed his prime and the prospect of giving a damn a long time ago. He had probably already served his twenty and retired, but come back to the force. Stanton had seen that plenty. Their spouses would pass and they would find themselves sitting at home, surfing the television and then warming up a meal in the microwave before going to bed. A lot of old-timers came back and looked for desk jobs or court duties or work as paper-shufflers. The positions no one on their way up wanted.

The custodian only casually glanced at Stanton’s credentials and got him the file he wanted. Inside was a CD and Stanton signed for it and slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

He drove back to the Boca Del Ray and parked farther down the street this time. There was a van and a large truck and he parallel parked between them. The two men from the other night were replaced by two different men; boys really. They couldn’t have been over twenty. It was early enough in the morning that the scouts weren’t out. They wouldn’t be up until around noon.

It was hot and his car began to cook him. He turned on the air conditioner but the air that spewed out was warm and dusty. He rolled down the windows instead and loosened his tie. The seats only reclined so much and he put his head back on the rest, and waited.

104.9 was playing a collection of Mozart’s The Magic Flute and he listened to the entire opera before they played pieces from Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. He watched the people entering and leaving the apartment complex. Many were young kids who should have been in school and he knew their parents were strung out somewhere, aching for their next hit. Occasionally he would see a hooker waiting on the street corner but they were run off quickly by the gangs. Though technically part of the Sureños, these lower-level gangs weren’t part of the hierarchy coming out of Los Angeles and operated independently. Unlike the Sureños proper, they had not realized drugs were a losing game. They were not expanding to other areas. They were old school and wanted their corners; and they would live and they would die on those corners.

It was nearly three hours later that Francisco Hernandez stepped out of the building. He was wearing khakis riding low and a thin white t-shirt. He hung out and smoked a cigarette with the two men on the patio and then went out to his car in the back. It was a decked-out Bronco with shining rims and fresh paint; a flame across the sides and gold trim around the bumpers.

Stanton pulled away from the curb and followed him. He was just far enough away that he could see him, but no closer. Francisco would see a tail.

The Bronco eventually stopped at a car wash and Francisco got out and threw the keys to one of the employees. He went inside and Stanton parked around the corner and walked to the entrance. He peeked through the glass double-doors and saw Francisco flipping through a magazine. He waited outside. When the car was done Francisco paid and came outside.

“I like the car,” Stanton said.

Francisco stopped and turned to him. He shook his head and glanced around. “You just ain’t gonna leave me alone, are you? I’m gonna have to-”

“I told you last night if you give me five minutes you’ll never have to see me again.”

“And I told you fuck you.”

“I can’t keep it a secret forever. I’m not going to stop, but at some point the esays are going to notice a cop following you and start asking questions. Or maybe they won’t ask questions?” He stepped closer to him. “Five minutes. That’s all I want. Besides, they’re still drying your car”

“Fine. Five minutes.”

“Come with me to my car. I have something I’d like you to hear.”

They walked around the corner and climbed into Stanton’s Honda. Francisco got into the backseat. He ducked low enough so that no one would see him and waited for Stanton to speak first.

Stanton put in the CD.

It was muffled at first, filled with static, but then voices began to come through. They were speaking quietly and then you could hear tape ripped off of flesh and there was a scream that made the speakers rattle. It was of a young girl and she was begging for her life. Male voices were laughing and swearing and yelling as the young girl begged and cried. The CD continued for over seven minutes and Stanton played the entire thing.

He looked back to Francisco and his face was ashen white. He hadn’t moved the entire time, curled up on the backseat with his head below the window line. Stanton stopped the CD.

“I had this case five years ago,” he said, facing forward. “Three ex-cons. They got out of prison and decided to celebrate. She was fifteen. They picked her up on her way home from school and recorded while they raped and tortured her in the back of a van. When they were done they threw her out onto the middle of the freeway in broad daylight. No one stopped. She died in the hospital from brain trauma and blood loss.” He turned to him, eyes locked. “Tami Jacobs went through the same thing. This type of killer, a sexual sadist, is the most dangerous type of person. They can’t achieve climax without inflicting pain. They have no remorse, no guilt, and they’re usually smart. They fantasize so much about what they’re going to do to their victims that they know ahead of time what evidence they are likely to leave behind. And they don’t stop. Ever. There have been cases of them being imprisoned and the guards finding insects they keep in their cells to torture. They’re Satan.

“I’m probably not going to catch him, Francisco. Not without your help. And he’ll keep killing. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll probably leave the city too and kill somewhere else. Our investigations will be disjointed. He’ll get away.”

It was subtle, but Stanton could see the crack. It began in Francisco’s forehead; just a slight crease. And then his eyes softened.

“What do you want to know?”