The White Angel Murder

by Victor Methos

  30

  Stanton found he couldn’t sleep. He would toss to one side of the bed and then another and stare at the floor for what he thought were long periods of time. Then he would look at the clock and realize only a few minutes had passed. At two in the morning, he stopped trying and threw on shorts and sandals and walked down to the beach.

  There was something more primal about the ocean at night. The water appeared like dark tar, devoid of any color and swallowing everything in its path except for the glowing light of the moon. Most predators in the sea hunted at night and there were no ships or wind-sails or yachts. But there were occasionally surfers. The crazier ones that had little outside of their time on the ocean.

  Stanton remembered he had briefly been one of them as a youth. There was a shack on the beach about five miles from where he was sitting. The landlord was an old hippie who used to rent the space to surfers in exchange for free weed whenever he wanted. Sometimes there would be more than twenty people sleeping in a single room and only three or four blankets and cots between them. Many of the people were homeless, their only possessions their boards and a few trinkets they had gotten in their previous lives. When they had parents and schools and a plan laid out before them of where they were going.

  Stanton fit in with them. None of them were looking for friendship or to get to know anyone around them. They knew each others’ names and that was enough. They would share a meal when they could score some money, but that was the extent of their bond. Eventually, no matter how long they’d been there, everyone would drop away one by one and be replaced by a new face.

  Despite his parents’ pleas to come home, he stayed in that shack for over nine months after high school. He had met a girl there; pretty brunette with hazel eyes and a smile that made him think of the patients he saw when he visited his father’s hospital as a kid. It was empty and meaningless and full of genuine joy at nothing at all.

  He had been working part time pumping gas and would surf every morning and night. He went to the shack after a night of surfing and the girl was gone. He asked around about her, but no one could give him a definitive answer. Everyone just assumed that she had found something better. He had cash in his wallet he’d hidden near the oven and she knew where it was. When he checked, all the money was still there.

  It was warm tonight, almost hot. He lay back on the sand and stared at the moon and he thought about that girl. He wondered what it was she was doing now. If she ever thought about him or what their life might’ve been like if she would’ve stayed. If she thought about their clumsy attempts at lovemaking and it ever made her smile.

  With her face and soft caresses swirling in his thoughts, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

  *****

  The crash was what woke him. Wood splintered and a lock fell limp against concrete. It was in the distance but it was loud. It had broken the hold sleep had on him.

  Stanton sat up, disoriented, and remembered he had fallen asleep on the beach. He stretched and checked the cell phone in his pocket. It was 9:14 in the morning. He turned to look where the sound had come from and saw three police cruisers and a SWAT van outside of his apartment complex.

  He was about to head over there and find out what was going on when he noticed his balcony. An officer in full SWAT gear stepped onto it and signaled to a commander standing on the sidewalk below with a shake of his head. The commander ordered something into a small walkie-talkie attached to his collar and the SWAT team was pulled out and began taking off their helmets, standing around and talking and joking.

  Stanton fell to his stomach against the sand and watched. He had an ingrain instinct that his father had placed in him to respect and trust authority and it seemed counter to that for him to hide. But his gut had a cold, dead-weight feeling and he knew he shouldn’t be found just yet. He stayed low and ran along the beach until he was out of sight of his apartment. He worked his way through a maze of dilapidated buildings and went across the parking lot of a burger joint and didn’t stop until he was near the grocery store almost five blocks away.

  He dialed a number on his phone as he made his way into the store. The fluorescent lights made his head ache but there was hardly anyone there, a few cashiers standing by the automatic doors smoking.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica, it’s Jon Stanton.”

  “Jon! Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m in town. I just saw the SWAT guys tear my place apart. What’s going on?”

  “There’s a warrant out for you. I just got off the phone with George Young asking if I knew where you were.”

  “Warrant for what?”

  “For homicide. They’re saying you killed Francisco.”

  Stanton was silent long enough that Jessica asked if he was still there.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Do you know how to access the CCJS database?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you look up the probable cause statement for me?” There was a pause and Stanton said, “You don’t really think I did this, do you?”

  “Of course not. But I could be an accessory after the fact.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be the charge. It’d be assisting a fugitive from justice. But I understand. I should go.”

  “No, wait, hold on a second … okay, I have it up.”

  “Could you read it to me?”

  “On or about May the second, at approximately 1300 hours, an officer from the San Diego Police Department observed the suspect, Jonathan Nephi Stanton, at the Boca Del Ray apartments on 4521 South Winchester Boulevard. The suspect entered the apartment of the victim, Francisco Hector Hernandez. The officer heard shots fired and called for backup. Upon entering the apartment, the officer observed the suspect escape through a sliding glass door located in the front room. The victim was found in the front room with several gunshots wounds to the head and torso. Medical arrived at approximately 13:20 hours and pronounced the victim deceased.”

  “Who’s listed as the officer on the affidavit?”

  “Detective George B. Young.”

  “Okay.Okay, I need some time to think. Jessica, if I call you, are you going to help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you later today. I just need some time to process this.”

  “You can’t do this alone. Meet me somewhere so we can talk.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Where do you think?”

  “Barbeque Pit in La Jolla. You know it?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Let’s meet at lunch. It’ll be packed.”

  “Okay, and Jon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I … I don’t think you did this.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stanton hung up and walked down the aisles until he reached the deli. He bought a sandwich and a diet Coke and left the store, a security guard glancing him over before turning back to a magazine he was reading.

  31

  Jessica Turner hung up the phone. Chief Harlow and Assistant Chief Anderson sat across from her at her desk. A tech was at a laptop on the other side with a wire that ran from her cell phone to the laptop and then to a tracking device set up on the floor.

  “Anything?” Harlow asked.

  “Still working,” the tech said, “but he wasn’t on more than two minutes. I usually need at least three.”

  Harlow exhaled loudly as if impatient. He tapped his fingertips together awhile and then decided to look over the office to occupy his mind. The photos were a nice touch but there were too many of them. How many photos did people really need of their children?

  His eyes moved down to Jessica and he saw her biting the tip of her thumbnail, staring absently at the desktop.

  “Detective Turner, something the matter?”

  “No, sir. It’s just hard for me to believe … I just can’t picture him doing that.”

  “I know. I’ve known Jon Stanton a lot longer than you. He used to sleep in this shitty apart
ment I had when he and Melissa fought. We’d stay up talking and drinking scotch. Well, I would drink scotch. He would drink milk or some other bullshit drink. He’s a friend of mine, but nothing anyone does surprises me anymore.”

  “But why would he do it? He has no incentive. There’s no reason for him to—”

  “You’re thinking like a civilian, Detective. You’ve seen the monsters just like I have. The blackness that’s in people, it doesn’t need an explanation.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Somebody, a high ranking, decorated captain, saw him do it. With his own eyes. George was following him that night on a hunch and the hunch paid off. You can question it all you want later. For now, we need to find him. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hey!” the tech shouted, “I got something.”

  “I got something, sir ,” Anderson corrected him.

  The tech rolled his eyes. “I work for the city not the police. You’re not my bosses so have a donut and chill out.”

  “Enough,” Harlow said, “what’dya got?”

  “I can only narrow it down to a couple blocks but it looks like he called from less than a mile from his apartment. There’s some other complexes there, a tanning salon, a smoke shop, a grocery store and a warehouse.”

  “Rodney,” Harlow said, “get units out there right away. I want people searching every fucking inch of those two blocks.”

  “Got it,” Anderson said as he rose to leave.

  “Detective Turner, I need you to get Chin and head to that restaurant. I’ll get some plainclothes over there to help with the takedown. I think it’s going to go fine, but just in case make sure you have your firearm. And don’t take any chances. He makes a move, you shoot.”

  When everyone had cleared out of her office, Chin Ho walked by and whistled like he’d just seen a beautiful woman.

  “You believe all this?”

  “No,” Jessica said, “it doesn’t make any sense. And I know all the stuff about heart of darkness and all that, but he would need a reason. Why would he do it?”

  Chin shrugged. “Who the hell knows? People are crazy.”

  32

  Stanton knew his car was off limits so he took a cab down to the Barbeque Pit. The ride cost him seventeen dollars. Money was suddenly a great concern to him. He had a couple of credit cards and a few thousand dollars in his checking account with a couple hundred in cash. He was grateful he had the habit of always taking his wallet with him whenever he left the apartment; otherwise he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  He sat down on the curb near the restaurant and watched the entrance. It was busy at lunch and the crowd varied from businessmen in suits to stoner surfers in wet shorts and sandals. There were no patrol cars around but obviously there wouldn’t be. What he was looking for was much more subtle.

  Plainclothes officers attempted their best to fit in but if one had an eye for them, they could be spotted every time. It was their attempt to seem natural that was the give-away. They would read their phone or newspaper or magazine too intently. A long line would cause just a little too much impatience. Stanton watched for that now but didn’t see anything but a hungry crowd coming in and out of the dilapidated building.

  He stood up and brushed off the sand on his pants before making his way to the restaurant.

  It was dim inside but the scent of fresh cooking barbequed meat and frying potatoes made his stomach growl. He had only bought a sandwich from the store to seem like he had a purpose but he was too distraught at the time to eat and just threw it away.

  In the corner near the window with her back to the door sat Jessica. She was sipping strawberry lemonade and gazing at the ocean outside the windows. She was quite striking. Her face and body were lean and fit and she had a slight tan from her constant time in the outdoors. Stanton walked over and sat down across from her.

  “Hi,” he said, unsure exactly what to say.

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for coming here, Jessica. I’m sorry I got you involved in this but I don’t really have anyone else. Everyone I knew in the department’s transferred around.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Stanton could sense the hesitation in her and the minor grimace when she first saw him. She appeared normal to him, as if it were just another work day. But to her, he had crossed an invisible line that he could never uncross. He was a murderer now.

  “Look at me,” he said. She raised her eyes to his. “I swear to you, on the life of my children, I did not kill that man.”

  “Then why are they saying you did?”

  “The chief was having an affair with Tami Jacobs. That’s why that information wasn’t in the initial reports. She was supposed to be with him that night. I told him he had to turn himself in and if he didn’t I would go to IAD. Francisco being killed by the gang was probably just an opportunity for him that he exploited.”

  “Why don’t you go to IAD now? We could—”

  “I’m sure he’s already thought of that. Someone’s probably been promised a promotion or intimidated or just bribed. I knew the corruption ran deep, but I couldn’t guess how deep.” The waiter came over and he ordered ribs and ice water. “I saw inklings of it before I retired. Some drugs missing here and there, reports altered to establish probable cause when there wasn’t any … but this. I couldn’t imagine Mike would do this.”

  Jessica stared at him a long while. Looking at his face and the way his hands moved and his profile when he turned to stare at the ocean. Shit. He’s telling the truth.

  She had a pen in her purse and she pulled it out. There was a moment’s look of panic on Stanton’s face before he saw the pen and she moved slowly to the table to ensure he saw what it was. She took her napkin and wrote a single word on it: Run.

  Stanton glanced around the restaurant. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Chin Ho mumbled something into a mic connected to his collar.

  Stanton rose and sprinted for the entrance. A waitress attempted to pass in front of him and he slammed into her, a tray full of drinks and barbeque catapulted into the air before crashing onto the hardwood floors of the restaurant. Someone screamed.

  He pushed his way past a couple in the entrance and was outside. He looked left and right and didn’t see anyone. There was a convenience store across the street and he dashed for it when he felt an impact like a truck and saw a flash of white.

  When his vision stabilized he saw the blue of the sky and felt the bright sunlight on his face and knew he was on his back. A large officer in shorts and a tank-top was on top of him, trying to twist him around to slap a pair of handcuffs on him.

  Stanton curled his arm and grabbed the other man’s elbow. He thrust his hips up, pushing the man off him as he turned his body into the man’s elbow and spun him onto his back. He was now on top and he hugged him tightly and ran his hands along the lower back underneath the tank-top and found the butt of the handgun. He pulled it out and stuck the muzzle into his ribs.

  “Easy,” he said.

  The man held up his hands in surrender and Stanton sprinted away. A group of diners were exiting the restaurant and saw the gun and they ducked back inside. Stanton ran for the store. A young man pulled up in a Toyota and he tore the keys out of his hand and hopped inside.

  “Sorry.”

  Stanton slammed the door and locked it as the man started yelling and pounding on the windows. He pulled the car out, the tires screeching, and got onto Ocean View Drive and gunned it toward the intersection. He slammed on the brakes and turned right as another car veered away and hit the curb.

  It was a straight shot onto the highway and he hit seventy miles per hour through another intersection and blew a stop sign. There were no cars behind him but he heard sirens in the distance. They weren’t prepared for how quickly it had gone. They were wanting to get some sort of confession and the cruisers were probably parked around the block.

  The highway was packed and Stanton made his way over into the
express lane and then back to the right hand side of the road. He got off on an exit near a gas station and then pulled into a residential neighborhood and parked. He turned the car off and looked out the windows. There was only one person he could think to call.

  Mellissa answered on the second ring. She was at home now and the kids were in school. He told her he needed to talk and she agreed that he could come over. He started the car again and pulled away from the curb. A thought crossed his mind: he knew in his gut that the takedown was flawed. For whatever reason, whoever set it up wanted it to fail.

  33

  Deputy Attorney General Paul Harris sat across from Harlow at the crowded restaurant and ordered a sparkling water. The restaurant, named Marble after the owner’s grandmother, was airy and smelled pleasant from the cooking food in the open kitchen. A chest-high glass partition separated the chefs from the crowd and everyone watched as they worked; hurriedly preparing American-Thai fusion dishes loaded with spice and flavor. It had gotten four stars in the Trib, even though the year before the restaurant had been reviewed and declared mediocre. But at some point the owner had paid enough lip-service and complimentary food and drinks to the paper’s food critic that it was reviewed once more and given glowing praise.

  Harris was thin and bald and Harlow had always been amazed how shiny he got his head to become. There was an art in it and he wondered if he did it purposely.

  “The AG’s on board,” Harris said. “Judge Baylor too. Believe it or not, we just need the warden to sign off.”

  Harlow was not surprised. Each entity in the criminal justice system was an independent cell unaware and apathetic to what the others were doing. The local police, the state Department of Justice, the courts, the FBI, the federal Department of Justice, the appellate courts, and the Department of Corrections all had their own interests and their own goals. For them all to align, as they had with Harlow’s request, required an enormous amount of political favors, almost more than Harlow could muster. But as the son of a former senator, he still had a few strings to pull.