The White Angel Murder

53

Maverick Hunter Royal sat in an interrogation room for the second time in his life. Though the first one was years ago in a different state, they both looked the same.

It was gray and empty of any semblance of normality. There was a desk and two chairs, a pad of paper with no pens or pencils. A camera was mounted in the corner and covered with a tinted hard plastic shell. A two-way mirror sat in front of him and he stared at his reflection.

The paramedics had done a good job cleaning and bandaging his face. His teeth had stopped bleeding. He knew protocol said they were supposed to take him to an ER whenever there was “substantial bodily injury,” but that phrase meant different things in different jurisdictions.

Life had a sick sense of humor, he thought. Yesterday at this same time he was getting a blow job in his hot tub from a model he had met at a Hollywood party. There were no A-listers there but there were some actors that had passed their prime and were now in sitcoms or made for tv movies. He had done cocaine in the basement with at least ten other people and drank Bacardi and Cokes.

Now he was beaten and bruised and sitting in a room staring into a mirror; wondering where his youth had gone. He was forty-two years old and was still a boy; clinging to everything he had dreamed about when he was a kid.

Stanton walked in, shutting the door softly before sitting down across from him. “How’s your teeth?”

“Only one fell out but a couple of ‘em are loose.”

“I’m sorry about that, Hunter.”

“You want to know the fucked up thing? I think you actually are.”

Stanton gave him a courtesy grin. “The homeless man at the Salton Sea, Darrell, identified you.”

“I figured. He was so high when I spoke to him I didn’t think he would remember me.”

“How many more are there?”

“How many more what?”

“Victims, Hunter. How many more girls am I gonna find?”

“Whoa, wait a second. You think I killed those girls?”

“What should I think?”

“Johnny, you know me. I’m not into that S amp; M stuff. I like my sex nice and sweet. I could never do that. Tami Jacobs-check my calendar and with my secretary-I wasn’t even in the fucking country when that happened. All I did was tell Darrell to give you that message and paid him a hundred bucks.”

“The note I got was signed Quaker. You went to the University of Pennsylvania. I think that’s the mascot isn’t it?”

His eyes went wide. “That motherfucker. He’s trying to set me up.”

“Who, Hunter? And why did you pay Darrell a hundred bucks to tell me that?”

He looked away, toward the camera and then back to the table. “I want a deal.”

“A deal for what? If all you did was pay someone to tell me something you won’t get an accomplice or conspiracy charge. Maybe obstruction of justice at worst. I won’t go forward on assaulting a police officer or fleeing. A good lawyer’ll take care of it in a month.”

“I take it you have an arrest warrant for me?”

“Yeah.”

“And a warrant at my house?”

“Yeah.”

“I want a deal on what’s going to be found in-”

The door opened and Harlow walked in. He placed a CD carrying case on the table and stared at Royal.

“What’s that?” Stanton asked.

“Tell him, Hunter.” Royal kept his eyes low, staring at the table. “Should I tell him? Okay. Well, Jon, these are homemade DVD’s. Short films starring a new up and coming actor: Maverick Hunter Royal. Tell him who your actresses are, Hunter. No? Cat got your tongue? Okay, I’ll tell him: the actresses are young girls. We’re talking-what Hunter-seven and eight year olds?”

“That’s all overseas, man. Never here. You got no jurisdiction.”

“Oh, but get this my friend, some of the DVD’s are labeled. Mostly Singapore but a few in Pakistan of all places. Rape of a child is punishable by death in Pakistan. Did you know that, Hunter?”

“It was never rape. They were prostitutes at brothels. You can find them anywhere over there.”

“It’s rape because a child can’t consent under the law.” Harlow put his hands on the table and leaned in closely. “You’re a child rapist you piece of shit. And you can’t bribe your way out of this.”

“I want a deal.”

“A deal means you got something I want. What the fuck do you have that I want?”

He looked to Stanton. “The fucker that killed those girls. I have his address.”

*****

Stanton and Harlow sat in the cafeteria. It was afterhours so Harlow had front entrance staff open it up for them. They made grilled cheese sandwiches in the microwave and got two bottles of water before heading out to the metal tables and placing their food down. It was dark and they turned on half the lights and sat across from each other.

They ate in silence and were done in less than ten minutes. They finished their waters and then Harlow checked his watch.

“They should be done by now,” he said.

The two headed back upstairs to the third floor. Technically, as administrative offices, the interrogation room was not used in investigations and was just a training room for rookie detectives. But Harlow wanted this one close by.

They sat on a sofa by the receptionist’s desk with two uniforms guarding the door to a conference room down the hall. After twenty minutes, the door opened and a fat man in a gray pinstripe suit stepped out. He walked to them, sweating glistening on his forehead and neck, and sat on a chair next to the sofa.

“Jesus Marty, what’dya sleep in your suits?”

“Just always on call,” he said. He turned to Stanton. “How are ya, Jon?”

“I’m good. How have you been?”

“Good good. Crime’s a growth industry so there’s always good business for lawyers.”

“All right, Marty,” Harlow said, “what’s the deal?”

“My client says he knows the actual, physical address of the man you’re looking for.”

“How’d he get it?”

“The man contacted him. Said he was a fan of his work or something. He sent my client-ah, this is all off the record and excluded from court as plea bargain negotiations by the way.”

“There’s no one from the DA’s Office here, but all right. It’s all off the record,” Harlow said.

“He sent my client a letter about the victim at the Salton Sea. Said he would give him more information if he passed along a message to a homeless man that had set up camp there.”

“Why didn’t Hunter just come to us?” Stanton asked.

“That I can’t say. My guess is he just wanted to follow a good story. Maybe he was a little scared too that if he didn’t do what the letter said the man would never contact him again.”

“This smells like bullshit, Marty,” Harlow said.

“Hey, I’m just the messenger. Take it or leave it.”

“How’d he get the address?”

“He traced the letter back to its source. It was sent from a forwarding address in Las Vegas but, again, off the record, if you can hand out some cash at the post office you can find out anything privileged.”

“What city is the address in?”

“Can’t say that without a deal, Mike.”

“Marty, damn it, just tell me the city. I’m not asking for the whole thing.”

“No, we want the DA here and a deal in writing.”

“What kind of deal?”

“No extradition, of course. And a charge of one class A misdemeanor for unlawful sexual contact with a minor. One of the girls on the discs is American and my client has no doubt you’ll discover it as you go through them. Just that one charge, no jail.”

“Marty, he rapes little girls.”

“The guy you’re looking for kills them. Take your pick.”

Harlow turned to Stanton. “What’dya think?”

“The A won’t put him on the sex offender registry.”

“I know. Is it worth it?”

Stanton ran his tongue along his upper lip and realized he was dehydrated, his lips dry and cracking. “No. Hunter’s not the more dangerous but he’ll have a lot more victims.”

Marty shrugged. “Up to you guys. Otherwise we’ll just take our chances.”

“Hold on,” Harlow said, “A third degree felony, no jail or prison, but he has to register. Tell him that’s the best we can do. I know the DA and he won’t go less than that no matter how many killers Hunter knows about.”

Marty thought about it a moment and said, “That’s doable. Get the DA down here and I’ll convince my client to take it.”