The White Angel Murder

by Victor Methos

  “The window we got right now isn’t for surveillance. Don’t get me wrong, the fucker can’t take a shit without one of my detectives being there to smell it, but that’s not why we got surveillance going. This one’s smart. I’m not expecting to find anything.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  “We checked out his mother too. She’s one sick old bag. Cancer, two strokes this year and dementia. I’m willing to bet she sleeps most of the day. I need someone to go in there.”

  “You got a warrant already?”

  “No, actually. We don’t. I can’t list what we’re looking for in the warrant with any particularity. Stuff showing he killed some girls, doesn’t hack it.”

  “What authority do we have to be in there then?”

  “None.”

  There was an awkward silence and Stanton shifted in his chair. He thought about it a few moments and said, “No, we’re doing this clean. I want it to stick.”

  “It will stick, no one’s going to know.”

  “Someone always knows. I’m not doing it.”

  “I wouldn’t normally ask you, but like I said, it’s delicate. I need someone that’s going to be careful and that’s you.”

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Well then, detective, your involvement in this case is over. We’ll talk about some new assignments on Monday.”

  Stanton rose. “Mike, you can go self-fornicate.”

  He gathered a few things from his office and left.

  56

  Zoe Kelly finished her shift at the Gap in the mall and was counting out the register when Brian Newman walked by. He pointed to his watch and she mouthed the words “I know” and then continued to count.

  It had been a long day. One customer was enraged that a blouse wouldn’t fit that she claimed was in her size and went to the manager. The manager was sympathetic but basically told the lady she was too fat for that blouse. That hadn’t gone over very well.

  But that was finished now. She just needed to count out the stupid registers and she was done until Monday evening.

  When the registers were counted out she walked around the displays in the windows and made sure everything was okay. A kid had spilled some frozen yogurt over the pants of one of the mannequins and she tried to scrub it out with a wet cloth, but it didn’t look good. Now it was a dark stain instead of white splotches.

  She unlocked the glass double-doors and yelled to Brian. He walked over and came inside the store and she locked the doors again.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “I’m almost done. Some little asshole put frozen yogurt on our mannequin and I need to change his pants.”

  “Just let the morning shift do it.”

  “I can’t, they’ll get mad and tell Cindy.”

  “Well hurry up then. We’re supposed to be at Jason’s at nine.”

  “I’m trying, Brian. God why are you being such a dick?”

  “I’m not. But we told them we’d be there and they’re gonna wait for us before going.”

  “I’m so sick of clubs anyway. Why don’t we just go on a date?”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno, like dinner and movie.”

  “Fuck that,” he said, checking his watch again, “just hurry up. I wanna get drunk.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  He laughed. He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her neck.

  “Let go of me!” she said.

  “Make me,” he said, running his tongue up her neck.

  “Brian, God. Cut it out.”

  “Let’s go in the back room.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, it’ll be quick.”

  “No, they have cameras. Now go wait outside. I’ll be done in a second.”

  He groaned and waited for her to unlock the doors before going out into the mall and sitting on a bench. He started texting Jason to let him know they would be late.

  Zoe finished putting the new pants on the mannequin and then did a quick walkthrough of the rest of the store before turning off the lights and flipping on the alarm. The mall was almost empty now but a few of the shops still had people inside them. She went next door to Forever 21 and saw Candice folding some shirts.

  “Aren’t you done yet?”

  “No.” She threw a glare over to a couple that was still browsing. “These guys won’t leave. I’ve told ‘em we’re closing.”

  “Just tell them to get out.”

  “I did that once and got in trouble. I have to wait until they leave but I can’t even count out the register cause they might buy something.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I know. But what can you do I guess. Hey, I saw Brian. What are you guys doing?”

  “We’re supposed to go to Jason’s house and then to Desert Ice.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, we’re there like every week. I’m getting bored.”

  “Well, my brother said any time you get sicka Brian to give him a call.”

  “Yeah I dunno, maybe. I need some time to think, ya know? Anyway, I guess I better go.”

  “See ya. Don’t get too drunk.”

  “I won’t.”

  She found Brian and sat next to him on the bench. She thought about Candice’s brother. He was Latino and buff and had a good job as a club promoter. Brian lived at his mom’s house and mostly played video games when they were together. She was so sick of Call of Duty she would get a queasy feeling in her stomach whenever it came on.

  Then, he put his arm around her and she remembered why she had started dating him. She rested her head on his shoulder a second and he kissed her.

  “I have to get my stuff out of my car,” she said.

  “I’m parked by the food court. Come over there when you’re done.”

  He kissed her again and she got up and made her way through the mall. She stopped for a couple of minutes and said hi to her friend at GNC and then went out into the parking lot.

  It was warm and the moon was out. The lamps in the parking lot lit up all the stalls a warm glow of orange and she saw her Prius and took out her cell phone as she walked to it.

  There was one text from her mom, asking her when she’d be home, and one from her friend Angie asking her if she wanted to come over because her parents were out of town. She replied that she might later and if it was okay that Brian came too.

  There was a van parked next to her Prius on the driver’s side and it was parked so close she could barely fit in between them. She made her way down to the driver’s door and put her key in the lock when the door to the van opened.

  Before she could turn around, there was a flash of white, and the warmth of pavement against her face.

  57

  Detective Marcos Garcia sat with his feet up on his desk. The Missing Persons Unit was split into two sections and he had recently been promoted to what was considered the less stressful section: adults. The juvenile section, he believed, was the most painful unit of the police department next to Sex Crimes. There were an average of forty-three missing persons reports filed in the County every week. With both units combined, they had only six detectives working them.

  Many people, especially the families of the missing, were shocked to learn that so few resources were dedicated to this unit. But they didn’t understand, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain to them, that eight out of ten missing persons were never found and had no workable leads. In reality, only seven real, feasible cases per week came in. The rest had no leads, no evidence, and no hope.

  His phone buzzed and the receptionist told him someone was here to see him. He told them to make an appointment but the receptionist said it was a mother who needed to file a report on her daughter.

  “Send her back,” he said.

  He took his feet off the desk and straightened his tie. Though most detectives at this point in their careers were phoning it in, he believed in his work and thought that the way he treated the f
amilies mattered. People could sense when someone was really going to work for them or not.

  An older brunette came to the door, but not too old. Garcia guessed she was in her early fifties. She’d had some plastic surgery, her breasts definitely, but also her face. Her eyes were swollen and red and she wore no make-up. She sat down across from him without being asked to do so and pulled out a photograph and gave it to him.

  “This is my daughter Zoe. She went missing last night.”

  “Did you speak with her last night, Ms …?”

  “Mrs. Mrs. Diane Kelly. Yes, I spoke to her. She was at work at the Gap and we were texting back and forth. She was supposed to go to some dance club with her boyfriend. She went out to the car to get some clothes and make-up and she never came back. He called me.”

  Garcia began typing into an ipad. “What’s her boyfriend’s name?”

  “Brian Newman.” She took out a sheet of paper. It was covered in names and phone numbers and addresses. “These are her friends and his number’s on there too.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “You sure she’s missing, Mrs. Kelly? A lot of times nineteen year olds stay out too late and—”

  “I’m positive. That’s not her. We talk. She tells me everything and she always lets me know where she is. This isn’t like her at all. And her car is still at the mall; it’s Fashion Valley mall. I went and saw it. Her keys were on the ground next to it. Something’s happened.”

  “What kind of car does she have?”

  “A green Prius. It’s parked right out in front of Macy’s.”

  “Mrs. Kelly, Diane. Ah, may I call you Diane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Diane, I’m going to ask you some questions now and they’re going to make you uncomfortable. But I promise you they are necessary. And if Zoe is missing, they are going to help us find her, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Does Zoe have a drug problem that you know of?”

  “No, she doesn’t use drugs. She drinks sometimes, I know that. She comes home smelling like alcohol. But we talk about it and if she’s been drinking she doesn’t drive. We have a deal that if she’s been drinking and needs to drive home she has to call me and I have to not get angry or punish her. She’s very good about that.”

  “Okay. Now, is Zoe promiscuous?”

  “What kind of question is that? No, she’s not promiscuous she’s nineteen. I don’t think she even really knows what sex is.”

  “Okay, again, I’m not trying to be invasive or hurtful. I just need to rule out a few things. Now where was the last place anyone saw her?”

  “Inside the mall. Brian was the last to see her.”

  “Well, I’m going to give Brian a call and speak to him. Then I’ll draft a report and we’ll wait forty-eight hours and if she doesn’t turn up, we’ll file the report and then put out a—”

  “Forty-eight hours? She’s missing. We can’t wait that long.”

  “I understand your frustration, Diane. But that’s the law. We have to wait—”

  “That’s bullshit! My daughter is missing. Find her.”

  “We will, but, I can’t file a report for forty-eight hours.”

  She began crying and Garcia pushed a box of tissues toward her. She took two of them and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Please, just find her.”

  *****

  Garcia drove down to Fashion Valley mall. He was not required to take any action on a missing persons case for forty-eight hours. A lot of cases were people that had fled and wanted a break, or, more likely, people with mental illnesses that had gotten lost and would eventually wander back. The forty-eight hour waiting period, though painful for the families, was necessary so that the detectives could spend their time working the real cases.

  But something about Zoe Kelly’s case didn’t sit right with him. He had spoken to Brian and didn’t get a good feeling. He was too flippant about it, too calm. He asked too many questions and they all involved him: What do I have to do if she doesn’t turn up? What will I have to fill out if she’s missing?—questions that revolved around him and showed little concern for her. Though he wasn’t a suspect, Garcia decided to keep his mind open and go take a look at the car while it was still in the mall parking lot.

  His air conditioner didn’t work well and it was spewing warm, dusty air in his face. He turned it off and rolled down all his windows as he got onto the Interstate. It was a scorching day and the sunglasses that had been sitting on the passenger seat were too hot to put on. He had to squint as sunlight reflected off the windows and metal emblems of the cars in front of him.

  He got off the exit and drove down a palm tree lined road to the mall. He had to circle around to find the Macy’s and he slowly went up and down the rows of cars. On the third one over, parked next to a motorcycle and a truck, was a green Prius with the license plate number he had pulled from the DMV.

  He parked behind it and got out. The car was new and the interior looked clean and polished. Hanging from the rearview was a picture of Zoe and some of her friends hugging on the beach. On the passenger seat was a small CD carrying case and on the backseat were a pair of sunglasses and white flip-flops next to a make-up bag and some items of clothing.

  Garcia made his way around the car and checked the doors and the trunk. He should’ve asked her mother for a copy of the key or for her to meet him down here.

  He checked underneath the car and didn’t see anything. As he was about to stand, he saw a small discoloration on the pavement. He bent down and looked at it a minute longer before going back to his car and retrieving a q-tip from a little container he kept in the glove-box. He went back to the stain and dabbed at it with the q-tip. Though it was dry from the heat, he could see the particles of black that were entwined in the cotton. It could be blood. It could also be tomato or prune juice.

  He went back to his car and looked at the photo again. He had been debating whether to send an email and it was still unclear to him whether he should. He opened the car’s built in laptop and reread the email Assistant Chief Anderson had sent to the Missing Persons Unit:

  Report any and all missing young women ages twenty to twenty-nine with blond hair directly to the Homicide Unit.

  Garcia typed up the email, and sent it.

  58

  Stanton saw Tami Jacobs. She was lying on her bed, tears streaming down her face as she begged for her life. Blood was everywhere. It wasn’t the red, ketchupy look like in the movies. Blood, fresh blood from a body, was black. The walls and bed and floor were coated in black and they were closing in on him. But he couldn’t think because she was screaming.

  And he saw Pamela Dallas. She was crying and choking but couldn’t really speak. Finally, through the tears, there was just one word that came out: help.

  Stanton jumped awake in his bed with a gasp. Cold sweat stuck to him and his sheets were soaked. He took off his shirt and undergarment boxers and got into the shower. He let the water run over his head and cover his ears so that he heard nothing but the rushing droplets hitting his flesh. The bathroom became filled with steam and it helped him breathe and made him sweat.

  He stayed in the shower until the water went cold and then got out and changed. He knew there would be no sleeping again and instead he decided to go for a walk in the moonlight. He slipped on shorts and sandals and headed outside. After he had already locked the door, he unlocked it and went back inside and took his firearm and holster and tucked it into his shorts.

  It was hot tonight and the heat came off the pavement and mingled with the salty ocean air. It smelled like New Orleans.

  Stanton had been there almost a year. A vacation after completion of his doctorate turned into an indefinite stay. There was something to the city that was not found elsewhere in the states. It was magical and deadly and depraved in equal doses.

  He had met a girl there one night after a bout of heavy drinking in a rundown bar off the French Quarter.
He’d taken her into the bathroom and they had had sex. But it wasn’t joyful or pleasurable for either of them. It was a test, to see how much they could degrade each other. At the time, Stanton was not active in his church and had no desire to be. In a city full of cemeteries and ghosts, church didn’t sound appealing.

  The apartment he had been staying in was known for the excellent marijuana sold by Stanton’s roommate on the fifth floor and for a murder that had occurred there the year prior. Stanton’s roommate, whose official position was as a drug dealer, had rented the room to him on one condition: never, ever, no matter what, call the cops.

  The year Stanton lived with him he attempted to pay taxes until Stanton explained to him that a drug dealer didn’t have to pay taxes. Though incredibly slow, he was, in his own way, charming and polite. He had never once raised his voice to anyone Stanton had seen. But their relationship didn’t last long. After a long night of drinking, his roommate fell asleep on the couch and let his friend and girlfriend sleep in his bed. In the middle of the night, the girlfriend crawled into the living room and they had sex. In the morning she cried rape and he, shocked, explained that it was consensual. The jury disagreed with him, and he was locked away for six to life.

  After that Stanton went and lived in a ten dollar a week hostel rented primarily to European and Southern American tourists. There was one bathroom for the entire hostel and it was always occupied. At night, there was nothing but the patter of cockroaches and the wail of sirens outside. But on the upside it had a constant influx of new, young women looking to meet American men and as long as he watched how much he ate and drank, he could live comfortably on a hundred dollars a month.

  Though he was miserable, there was an enjoyment in it. No, enjoyment wasn’t the word he thought of when he looked back to those times. Comfort maybe. A soothing calmness found in the sadness. Predictability.

  He wasn’t sure why he had left New Orleans. He had fallen into a relaxed pattern of degradation. But something told him he had to leave, to get out, and to never return.