The White Angel Murder

39

There was perhaps no more eerie place on earth for Jon Stanton than the Salton Sea.

In the nineteenth century the only reason Californians had to be near the Salton Sea were salt mining operations that occurred there. But the area proved too harsh an environment and went into decline.

There was an effort in the 1950’s to rejuvenate the area and celebrities from that era could be seen in old photographs hanging out in boats, sipping wine or beer with groups of friends. But the rejuvenation never stuck and the real estate boom that was expected as a result never materialized. Fish were introduced into the lake but the heavier than expected rains and the overwhelming salinity of the water wiped out the introduced species quickly. The rejuvenation resulted only in shores full of dead fish and half-finished homes staring out over the water like corpses.

Corpses were what Stanton remembered about the area from his childhood. Small fish lined along the shore in piles, their eyes dried out. Once he found an entire beach of sea shells and began happily collecting them, enjoying the crunch underneath his feet, only to have his father tell him they were not sea shells but the bones of dead fish and animals.

The Salton Sea was now nearly abandoned and all the nearby towns were known more for their massive production of methamphetamine than any tourism.

Stanton took Route 86 down and regretted not trading in his car. Every police cruiser on the road was a potential threat and his heart would race until the cruiser turned away or sped past him. Before long he came to the intersection of Montego and Aberdeen. It was near the shore and there was nothing nearby that he could see until he looked farther down the road to the south and saw an abandoned warehouse building. He pulled down the road and made his way to the front of the building and parked.

All the windows were broken out or painted over in black. The wood and paint were falling off in large chunks and the dirt surrounding the building was littered with trash. Stanton stepped out of his car and the powerful odor of sea salt filled his nostrils. He noticed piles of dog feces covering the surrounding ground and knew packs of feral dogs roamed this area, scavenging garbage cans and the carcasses of dead fish and game that died near the lake.

Stanton walked to the building and stood in front of a door marked, “EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE.” He looked around and saw that he was completely alone. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here? But he knew he couldn’t leave. He had nowhere else to go.

He tried the doorknob and it turned and opened the door. He walked inside.

It was a large space with no wall divisions and old machinery had been left to rust and fall apart on the factory floor. Stanton could see a few nests, what the homeless called the makeshift sleeping places they made with whatever soft material they could find. In this case it was newspapers and blankets. Blankets were valuable and he knew no one would leave them willingly. They would be back for it, or they were still here.

He turned toward the front of the warehouse and walked into an open doorway to the office spaces. The first office was small, almost the size of a bathroom, and he looked around before stepping out and going to the next office. There was a filing cabinet and he opened it and checked the drawers but there was nothing in them but rat feces. He came next to what he thought would have been a breakroom as there was an empty water jug and an old rusted fridge thrown on the floor. The carpet had been torn out, revealing wood underneath with large patches of glue that his shoes would stick to.

There was a calendar with a shoeprint on it lying next to the fridge and he kicked it open with his foot, revealing a woman in a string bikini and no top. He then opened the fridge. It was empty except for mold and a box of Arm amp; Hammer.

The other offices were the same. In one he found an abandoned pair of shoes that had been worn away to the point that the bottom halves were falling off. In another was a rusted kitchen knife with the handle missing. But it was all innocuous. There was nothing here.

He went out to the factory floor and wandered among the large machines. Once they had been powered and producing goods that traveled halfway around the world. They had been taken care of; cleaned and polished and maintained. Now they were on the brink of falling to dust.

There was a small stairwell near the back leading to a platform overlooking the floor. Behind it was another office. Stanton climbed the stairs and stood on the platform looking over the factory floor. He imagined the workers that must’ve been here, the laughter, the sadness, the hours upon hours of mindless labor that must’ve dulled their souls. He turned to the office door behind him. It was labeled “SUPERVISOR” and it was thick with a smooth steel knob that hadn’t decayed like the rest of the factory.

Stanton tried the door and it was locked. He tried kicking it open but the lock was too strong and the door too thick. Next to the door were a few windows. He broke one with his elbow and then cleared out the jagged edges carefully. He lifted himself up on the sill and began climbing in. There were still a few pieces of glass he hadn’t gotten to and they scraped and cut his knees and hands. A tiny stream of blood flowed from his palm and he instinctively sucked on it and then wrapped it tightly in his shirt. He stood frozen, applying pressure to his hand, listening to the sounds of a dead building.

There was another nest in the office with two old blankets. They had webs and rat droppings over them. He knew now that the nests were too old and too dirty to be in use. Even the homeless had abandoned this place long ago.

There was a large desk pushed against the wall and behind it was another door; a closet. He walked to it and tried the knob; it was open. The door creaked and dust kicked up as it scraped along the floor.

Though it was dark inside, he could make out the outline perfectly. Soft curves leading to a disheveled top. It had been pushed far back into the closet, behind a dark trench-coat and next to a box full of paperclips and documents and notepads. But the outline was unmistakable.

It was a body.