The White Angel Murder

by Victor Methos

“I dunno, like five or ten minutes maybe.”

  “And I think you said you were in a hurry to get to a friend’s house.”

  “Yeah, we was way late and she was taking forever. So I went out there.”

  “Did you go to her car?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see nothin’ though.”

  “Well was there anything or anyone around her car? Or nearby; maybe farther down the parking lot?”

  “Nope. There wasn’t nothin’. I thought maybe she’d gone back inside.”

  “Where was her car parked?”

  “Near a light in the back’a Macy’s.”

  “Were there any cars around hers?”

  “Yeah, like some blue van and a—”

  “Where was the van?”

  “Um, like right next to her car.”

  Stanton took out his notepad and began to write. “What kind of van was it?”

  “Blue. Had like rust all over it. Looked like a piece.”

  “Did you see anyone in it or anyone that got into it later?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “No I wasn’t really lookin’ ya know?”

  “Were the windows tinted?”

  “Yeah, yeah I think so.”

  “Brian, this is really important, do you remember anything else about the van that could help me identify it if I saw it?”

  “Um, no. No I don’t think so.”

  “All right.” He asked for a card from Jessica and gave it to him. “If you think of anything else, you call this number and ask for Jon or Jessica, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  When they had left and were back on the road Stanton called Chin Ho. He answered on the second ring and sounded out of breath.

  “What’s up, Jon?”

  “You at the office?”

  “Yeah, yeah just took the stairs. What’s going on?”

  “I need you to log in to the State-wide and check on a car for me.”

  “Okay, one sec … all right, whose car?”

  “Our boy’s mother.”

  “Okay, you know her name?”

  “Debra Rattigan. She’d have a birthday in the sixties.”

  “All right, hang tight a sec … okay, three Debra Rattigan’s, one with a birthday of August eleven, sixty eight. Same address as our boy.”

  “That’s it. What kind of car?”

  “She has a Chevy Express cargo van.”

  “What color?”

  “Ah … blue.”

  62

  It was six o’clock when Stanton pulled to a stop in front of Hunter Royal’s house. He had been released on $50,000 bail and went straight home. Within hours, his mug shot and the probable cause statement for his case was online on six blogs and a local paper. He had a lot of competition that was excited to see him go.

  Stanton knew he wasn’t stupid and would not drift silently away. He was, in fact, extremely clever. One of the cleverest people Stanton had ever known. People underestimated him because of the industry he had chosen as a profession, but he could easily have been behind a surgeon’s scalpel or at a lectern lecturing about medieval philosophy.

  Stanton walked to the door and rang the doorbell. Royal answered in shorts and a t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved and had dark, patchy stubble covering his face.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Can I come in?”

  He opened the door and began walking back to the couch. Stanton walked inside and shut it behind him.

  The house was messy and there were plates covered in dried food on the counter. Though his maids hadn’t come in awhile, his cook looked to be a frequent visitor.

  “I didn’t think you would take it this hard,” Stanton said.

  “I’m going to be a registered sex offender, Jon. How am I supposed to take that?”

  “I thought you would use your notoriety. Make it a part of your persona.”

  “If I had robbed a bank, yeah. But people with my preferences aren’t treated that way. I may actually have to move out of this house once the neighbors find out what happened. They got kids.”

  Stanton sat down in the tan leather Ottoman. “Is that what you think it is? A preference?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Do you really want my opinion?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think you would. But anyway, I need your help.”

  “For what? I gave you all I got.”

  “Your lawyer told the ADA that you threw away all the letters.”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Search my fucking house then if you don’t believe me.”

  “You wouldn’t throw them away, Hunter. We both know that. Which means either you still have them, or you’re lying about them.”

  He turned his attention to the television that was turned low. “Fuck off. I gave you all I got. Now get outta my house or arrest me.”

  “Do you believe in evil, Hunter?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I do. I think there’s real evil in the world. People, for some reason, even people that don’t believe in God, still believe in a devil. Why do you think that is?”

  “Am I supposed to give a shit?”

  “They believe in him because what they see for most of their life is evil. Good is far rarer and most people only get glimpses of it. But evil is all around us. Everywhere. You’re evil, Hunter.”

  “Fuck you, Jon.”

  “You may not want to say it out loud but I know you think it. Especially when you’re alone. At night in those moments before you go to bed and the cocaine and the booze have worn off and the woman you slept with isn’t there; I know.”

  “What’d you want from me? I don’t have anything left.”

  “That’s not true. You have your soul, Hunter. Even someone as evil as you still has their soul and you can redeem it. Not all the way, but a little. Help me catch this guy. Give me everything you’ve got. Don’t bullshit me, we’re past that. Just give me what you got. It’ll stay between us. Besides, if you’re telling the truth, he tried to blame you. You don’t owe any loyalty to him. Your reporter’s integrity will stay intact.”

  He sat silently, staring at the television. Stanton thought he looked like someone that was just settling in to a long illness. His skin was pale and he had dark circles under his eyes.

  “He would email me,” he finally said. “I got the emails. He was following you. That’s how he got that note into Francisco’s apartment. He said he went in after the esays popped him and he dragged the body into the living room and tried to clean up cause he didn’t want anyone else to find the note. I don’t know how he knows who you are, but he does.”

  “Can I have the emails?”

  “Yeah.” He stood up and walked out of the room and then came back with a stack of pages. They were printed copies of emails dating back nearly two years ago. “He wanted to be featured in some stories but with his name taken out. I did one piece when Tami was killed but that was it. But he didn’t stop emailing me.”

  “I need you to email him.”

  “And say what?”

  “I’ll draft it,” he said as he rose.

  They walked to the bedroom. The floor was covered in empty beer bottles and the nightstand was an assortment of imported liquors. There was a half-eaten jar of peanuts next to the bed and many of them had spilled over the covers and pillows.

  Royal sat down at the desk in the corner and punched up his email account.

  “I thought they got a warrant to search your email?”

  “They did. But I got other accounts. Got one through an offshore IP address. The President couldn’t get to it if he wanted to,” he said proudly. He stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. “All yours.”

  Stanton sat in the chair and began to type:

  Police have something. Need to talk to you right away. Don’t call from your number. Call me from a payphone. I want one interview. Call me tonight as s
oon as possible. I’ll be home at seven.

  Stanton listed his own cell phone number and then sent the email.

  *****

  When Stanton had left, Royal lay on the bed and waited for the reply email. He received it within the hour. It asked what was wrong and what the police knew. He only replied that he couldn’t talk and that he needed to call him at seven. Then he shut his computer off and went out the back doors to the pool.

  It was a small act he had done. A drop of goodness in an ocean of misery and wickedness. His life had been short and evil. Stanton was right about that. He had committed acts that he had blocked out and not thought about for years. The pills he had taken this morning, lortab and oxycotton, numbed his mind and it flooded with images and sensations and sounds. Like a damn of putrid acts that broke and was drowning him.

  He sat in a lounge chair and threw an empty can into the pool to watch the ripples as they scattered and disappeared into the concrete perimeter. He had had sex with two women in that pool only recently. Both of them had been bent over near the shallow end, leaning against the stairs, and he fucked them from behind. When he was done, they all shot up in the living room and one of them went to the bathroom to piss. She didn’t come out for a long time, but Royal didn’t notice. He passed out with the other girl and didn’t wake up until the middle of the night.

  He went to the fridge and drank down half a beer before going into the bathroom. The girl was sitting on the toilet, a syringe dangling out of her arm and a shoelace tied around her bicep. Drool sopped from her mouth onto the floor and her nose was running. Her bowels had let loose and runny feces coated the toilet and floor and gave the room a warm, fetid smell.

  Royal checked her pulse and she was still alive. He went to the phone to call 911 but then hung up. There was heroin, cocaine, guns, and illegal pornography all over his house. He thought for a few minutes in the kitchen and then went and put on his clothes.

  He dragged the girl out and put her in his car. They drove to a secluded beach near Santa Monica and he waited until there were no headlights on the road to take her out. He carried her down to the beach and placed her on her back. Someone would find her.

  But no one did. His line at the Santa Monica PD called him the next day to feed him the story. A young twenty year old pre-law student found dead from a heroin overdose on the beach. The officer said that she had been hot too. Royal hung up the phone.

  Now, sitting in front of his pool, he wondered where that girl would be if she had never met him. Would she have gone on to law school? Had a family and a successful practice? Or would some other Hunter Royal have come into her life and given her the needle and drugs?

  Royal rose from his chair and walked to the edge of the pool and stripped down naked. He pissed into the pool from the side and then walked inside and to the den on the far end of his house. There was a revolver in a safe and he took it out.

  He put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  63

  Colby Lashowe sat in the surveillance vehicle and munched on pork rinds. It had been a hot day and his underarms had rings of sweat. Sweat had soaked through his undershirt and his chest and belly had dark splotches.

  It was evening but the sun hadn’t gone down yet. The sky appeared that odd gray before nightfall and he watched the stars beginning to shine above him. His partner, Chad Eldridge, was asleep in the backseat. Chad was at least fifteen years his senior and was close to retirement. Surveillance to him was boring, painful work. He would always tell Colby that it makes his ass and his mind flat.

  Colby pulled out a copy of the Times and flipped through until he found the crossword section. He neatly folded the paper into a rectangle and pressed it against the steering wheel. The first line asked for a five letter word that meant “hard to stir.”

  A car engine started and Colby’s head jerked up. The subject was in his van and pulling out of the driveway and into the road.

  “Shit! Wake up, Chad!”

  Colby started the car as his partner jumped up in the backseat. He waited until the van had passed before pulling away from the curb and following him.

  “He’s on the move.”

  “Shit. Did you call it in?”

  “No.”

  Chad dialed a number on his phone and then reported to someone that the subject was on the move and they were following him northbound. The van drove under the speed limit and obeyed all the traffic laws. Almost to the point that Colby thought he may have had some law enforcement experience. He signaled for three seconds before changing lanes and didn’t stop the signal halfway through. He came to a complete stop at every stop sign and waited behind a school bus that was letting kids off at a stop instead of going around.

  “Did you get a photo?” Chad asked.

  “No I missed him. The fucker popped out of nowhere.”

  The van got onto the 405 and Colby counted four cars before he hopped on and pursued him. He let another two cars in between them and then fell back about sixty feet. The van was going the speed limit, exactly the speed limit, in the far right lane.

  Chad thought about climbing into the passenger seat but didn’t think he could make it with his gut. So he buckled his seat belt and looked for the bottle of Pepsi he’d been drinking. He found it on the floor underneath the driver seat and bent down to pick it up when Colby hit the brakes.

  He slammed his head into the seat and said, “What the fuck?”

  “Sorry,” Colby said. “He’s gettin’ off.”

  They took the 28 exit and the van drove for another fifteen minutes before parking in a convenience store lot. Colby parked at a Mexican restaurant across the street as Chad got out the camera and began snapping photos.

  The subject was huge. Colby guessed somewhere around 6’2 and maybe three hundred to three hundred and twenty pounds. His face was clean shaven except for a mustache and he wore glasses. A large belly hung over his belt and he glanced around before walking to the payphone.

  *****

  Stanton received a call from an unknown number at exactly 7:02. He waited three rings, wondering if there was any way he could’ve possibly ever heard Hunter’s voice. Hunter was a writer and shunned television and radio. But the possibility was still there and Stanton wasn’t quite sure what he would do if he was caught.

  “Hello?”

  There was silence on the line except for the sound of passing traffic in the background.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  “What do the police have?”

  The voice made Stanton’s heart drop. Until now, he had been a shadow; a conglomeration of images and theories. Now he was a living, breathing person. And it hit Stanton that those images of Tami and Pamela that had burned themselves into him were caused by another human being.

  “I have a copy of what they have. But I want something in exchange.”

  “What?”

  “An interview. Exclusive, which means you can’t give anyone else interviews if you ever get caught. I’m gonna have you sign a contract and if you ever give another interview they won’t be able to use any—”

  “Fuck your interview. What do they have?”

  “That’s the deal. A copy of the police file in exchange for one interview. Recorded.”

  There was silence again and Stanton thought that perhaps he had pushed him too fast. He needed to feel in control and if he didn’t, he would run.

  “Look,” Stanton said, “I’m risking my ass by giving you anything. It’s not fair if I don’t get a lot in return.”

  “One interview. Tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Your house.”

  “No.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Stanton knew he had to stand his ground. Hunter would’ve never agreed to this. “Then I leave it. And you can go it on your own. I’ll find the next story of the week. See ya.”

  “Wait. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Somewhere public but not too pu
blic. Like a library or something.”

  “Mission Hills Library. It’s on Washington Street.”

  “It’ll take me half an hour to get there.”

  “That’s where I want to do it.”

  “Fine. How will I find you?” Stanton said.

  “I’ll find you.”

  *****

  Colby watched as the man hung up the phone and then went inside the convenience store. He looked around for what seemed like a long time and then purchased a fountain drink and a package of donuts and got back into the van and started driving.

  “Did you see the number he dialed?” Chad asked.

  “What am I a fucking hawk?”

  “You can see what numbers he dials from where his hand moves. It’s called police work kiddo.”

  Colby shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Chad.”

  They waited half a minute before getting on the road and starting to follow him again. The van drove slowly and it seemed like in a circle. It went down into a residential neighborhood, stopped near a liquor store, and then started again.

  As it was passing a busy intersection the van began to slow, and then out of nowhere it sped through the intersection on a red light as a motorcyclist had to swerve and lay down his bike to avoid hitting him.

  “Shit!”

  Colby tried to follow but without his red and blues none of the cars stopped and a Dodge truck hammered into his right side. The impact swung his car around sideways and a Saturn slammed on his brakes and narrowly avoided smashing into them head-on.

  Colby was dazed and realized he’d hit his head against the window, causing it to cut and bleed. He looked back to Chad who was holding his mouth, blood cascading down over his hand.

  “Hang on.”

  Colby called into dispatch and requested an ambulance. Then he called Tommy and told him they had lost the van.

  “He’s heading east on Sandy Boulevard. Get a unit down there now.”

  “How the fuck did you lose a van?” Tommy said.