Darrell had been disruptive in school but not violent. It wasn’t until he was nineteen that he got his first criminal charge for driving while intoxicated. At twenty-three, he was arrested for sexually abusing his neighbor’s son. The boy was ten years old.
He was released from prison after six years, and within three months had committed another abuse in a shopping mall bathroom stall. He was put away this time for fourteen years before he voluntarily underwent chemical castration and was allowed to be paroled early.
He had been out for eleven years without incident when he’d became the prime suspect in Stanton’s investigation.
The doorbell rang and startled him out of his thoughts. He closed the file and walked out of the bedroom with it, placing it down on the kitchen counter before answering the door.
Danielle Porter stood there, leaning against the frame with one arm, her badge clipped to her belt. She held a six-pack of Diet Coke in her other hand.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Thought you could use some company after today.”
“I could. Thanks.”
She walked in and sat on the couch, picking up the Rubik’s cube on the coffee table and playing with it. “You couldn’t have stopped him if he really wanted to die. You should just be grateful that he didn’t want suicide by cop.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that nothing, Jon. We’ve been dating for six months and every little secret about you still needs to be dragged out like rotting teeth. What’s going on?”
“He did something strange before he jumped that hasn’t been sitting right with me.”
“What?”
“He told me he’s innocent.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I know, I know. It sounds crazy and I have no reason to back it up, but I think he might’ve been telling the truth.”
“Well, you got two options: you can choose not to believe him and close the case with a win and some slaps on the back. I heard Chief Rodriguez is thinking about giving you some sort of commendation for it.”
“What’s the other option?”
“You can believe him, which means you still got one sick son of a bitch out there killing children.”
5
Gary P. Coop sat at his desk inside the Emerald Plaza building in downtown San Diego. His office was near the top floor; white carpets with deep cherry wood paneling and furniture to match. The couches and chairs were imported leather and the secretaries and paralegals at his law firm were the most beautiful he could find. He had always believed you could train an employee to be good at their job, but someone either had beauty or didn’t.
He was reading through a document on his iPad when he set it down on the desk and leaned back, absently playing with his Rolex Yacht-Master. He caught a glimpse of its reflection in the window and smiled. Less than twenty years ago they hadn’t wanted to rent office space to him here because he was black. Now, his law firm owned two entire floors.
Coop pressed a button on his phone.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Jeremy, come in here will you please.”
A young man of twenty-eight stepped into the office. He was wearing a pin stripe Armani suit, not unlike the one Coop was wearing, and sat down across from him.
“What’s up?”
“Take a look at this.” He handed him his iPad. “It’s the case of that pedophile that jumped off the roof over at the American.”
He flipped through the document quietly a few moments. “Hm, interesting. What about it?”
“You don’t see anything there?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Guy jumped. Cop didn’t throw him off.”
“No, but he may as well have. He had a gun pointed at his head. Look at the profile on the detective. History of depression. He quit the force for a long time and came back because Michael Harlow asked him to.”
“Holy shit. That’s where I know his name from. He’s the cop that testified against Harlow.”
“Biggest police corruption scandal in the city’s history, Jeremy. I would’ve given my left nut to have defended Harlow. Thing was on the news damn near every night.”
“I know what you’re thinking boss, but I don’t think that’s going to work with this.”
“Why not?”
“The guy was a pedophile. What jury is gonna feel sorry enough for him to take taxpayer money and give it to us cause he jumped off a building?”
Coop smiled. “You’re still young and don’t realize what juries are, Jeremy. They’re emotional animals. They’ll reach a conclusion during opening statements based on how everyone looks and talks and then find any reason they can during the trial to justify that stance. We don’t have to win the whole trial, we just gotta win the first few hours.”
“If you say it’s a good case, it’s a good case. I’m on board.”
“Find out the next of kin on the pedophile and get me their number. And this is the first and last time we call him ‘the pedophile.’ Even just between us. His name’s Mr. Putnam. Send out an email to everyone saying that too.”
“You got it.”
As Jeremy left, Coop put his feet up on the desk and stared out the windows at the open blue sky. Jeremy was too inexperienced to realize what they had: a cop with mental illness and a victim that flew off a building with no other witnesses around to say what happened. Even if he was a pedophile, all Coop needed was a handful of jurors, maybe two or three, that hated cops. They would do his work for him and convince the rest that even pedophiles had rights that shouldn’t be violated.
Coop couldn’t help but smile; he had been waiting for a case like this for a long time.
6
Stanton walked into the San Diego County Police Northern Division precinct on Monday morning and headed to his office near the back of the building. The office was cramped and filled with too many files but quiet, away from the commotions that took place at the front of the building, the drunks and wife-beaters and gangsters that were hauled in and locked into the holding tank.
The entire back section had been devoted to the Sex Crimes Strike Force. The Strike Force had been the brainchild of the new chief of police: Antonio “Bulldog” Rodriguez. Bulldog had had a reputation for being aggressive on sex cases long before he made chief. He thought they were special, and unlike other cases police dealt with. As head of the sex crimes unit in the Central Division, he had started the briefings with a prayer, asking the Lord for strength to catch Satan’s demons loose on the earth. Stanton had briefly been under him before being transferred to Northern and he remembered Bulldog telling him once that the sex crimes detectives were God’s chosen people. Even more than homicide or missing persons, they were the ones that were responsible for punishing the monsters that preyed on the helpless.
When he was made chief after Harlow’s arrest, within 72 hours the San Diego County Police had a new sex crimes unit: the strike force.
It consisted of seventeen detectives, more than all the other strike forces in the department. He had hired a PR firm on the government dime to spin it to the public, as they’d needed to add several detectives to get it where he wanted. They had played up a recent case of a young girl’s rape and kidnapping as she walked home from school. She had been raped by two men on the sidewalk, at least half a dozen people driving by and not taking any action. Finally a family in a minivan called the police.
They had raised enough outrage that the county would have funded another seventeen detectives had he asked for it. But his demands were modest: transfer ten more sex crimes detectives from around the county to bring it up to seventeen and replace them with promotions from within and replace the promotions with new hires. He got his ten within two months.
Stanton sat down at his desk and looked at his calendar. He saw that he had a unit meeting in ten minutes. He turned to a filing cabinet behind his desk and pull
ed out three files. They were red file folders, indicating they involved children.
The first one was a nine year old girl named Yvette Reynolds. Then a ten year old named Sarah Henroid. The third and most recent case was another ten year old named Beth Szleky.
All three had disappeared and were never found.
Technically, these cases belonged to Missing Persons or Child Abuse. But the units consisted of a handful of detectives handling seventy to ninety cases per week. They were overwhelmed and underfunded. Rodriguez had spent all he could setting up his new strike force, and instead of cutting back he began assigning cases from MP to the strike force. Missing children that didn’t involve family kidnappings were all assumed to be sex crimes cases anyway.
The three girls lived within five miles of each other, though they went to different schools. If you were to pull out a map of the area, Darrell Putnam lived right in the center, in between Yvette and Beth and a mile and a half from Sarah.
“Jon,” Childs said, poking his head in, “meeting, nerdalinger, let’s go.”
He closed the files and stood up, following Childs out.
“What were you lookin’ at?” Childs said as they walked down the hallway.
“Putnam’s cases.”
“Still thinkin’ about that?”
Stanton knew from experience that Childs was thinking about it too. Downplaying it and treating it like no big deal was his coping mechanism and he wasn’t going to take that away from him.
“Yeah, it just isn’t sitting right.”
“Just cause he said so?”
“No, if that’s all it was I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I had doubts the entire time we were after him. Putnam never left his house. Surveillances’ reports show that he would stay locked up in there for weeks at a time, sometimes months. When would he have a chance to pick up three girls?”
“We weren’t on him twenty-four seven. Don’t underestimate these sick fucks.”
“It wasn’t just going out and getting them. He would’ve needed to stalk them and learn their routines, learn things about them. There was no way he’d have the time by sneaking out at midnight for a few hours.”
“Well, why didn’t you say anything before?”
That, Stanton knew, was the question. When they had been after Putnam and named him as their primary suspect, why didn’t he speak up? He engaged in the chase as much as anyone and didn’t remember a single time he went to his CO and said he was having doubts that Putnam was their guy.
They walked into the conference room and took seats. Sergeant Walters stood at the head of the table, his muscles bulging out of his shirt. He was the second biggest guy in the room next to Childs, and Stanton could tell he felt inadequate around him.
“All right ladies and gentlemen, let’s chat.” He opened a file and scanned it. “First off, there’s a new policy in place regarding OT. All requests for OT must now be approved by Assistant Chief Ho. I know, I know, but you guys submitted over a hundred combined hours of OT last month. That’s unacceptable. We need to stick with our budget or they’re gonna cut us back, so let’s all make sure the overtime’s in good order. Best way to do that is to run it by me or Detective Childs before sending in an approval sheet.
“Next we got Stanton and his flying chi-mo. Good job, Detective Stanton, for closing the Sandman cases.”
A few cheers went up in the room and Childs clapped. The Sandman was the nickname the unit had given to Putnam as all the girls had been kidnapped during the night in their bedrooms.
“Cleared it with the chief, Jon, there’s not going to be any administrative leave. IAD already looked at it and determined it doesn’t qualify as an officer-involved shooting since the fucker jumped off himself, so you’re good to go. Okay, next item of business . . .”
Childs leaned over to Stanton and whispered, “IAD already cleared you? Since when does that happen so fast?”
“Since never.”
“That’s what I’m saying. What you think’s going on?”
“I have no idea.”
7
Stanton stopped at police headquarters on his way home. The building made him uncomfortable and he sat in his car for a moment to orient himself. He glanced to the three red file folders on the passenger seat and then stepped out.
When he walked in he was struck by how little of it he remembered, even though he had worked out of the building for some time. He walked to the elevators and went to the fifth floor. A chill went down his back when he stepped off and turned down the hallway to the secured door that used to lead to the Cold Case Unit. He waited for a uniform to input the code for him and he walked in.
He thought the floor looked about the same. There were several plush offices with glass desks and a large conference room with a flat screen up at the front. On the farthest wall from him was a giant map of the world. In bold lettering across the top it said, WHERE IN THE WORLD IS ELI SHERMAN. Pushpins were put into places the former detective had been sighted. After his escape from a hospital following a feigned suicide attempt. The newest one was Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Stanton remembered the night he had discovered Sherman was responsible for the deaths of at least two women and possibly as many as twelve, and the pain as two slugs from Sherman’s gun entered his body and flung him over the stairwell in his home.
“Jon?”
He turned to see Assistant Chief Chin Ho standing behind him, a smile over his face. He thrust out his hand and they shook.
“How are ya, Chin?”
“Doing well. How are you holding up?”
“Doing okay.”
“Were you told that IAD cleared you?”
“Yeah, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” he said folding his arms, “what about it?”
“I’ve never heard of a clearance this quickly after the death of a suspect. They didn’t even interview me.”
“They had your statements. I talked to them personally and they said everything looked fine. Even sent forensics up to the roof and everything appeared like you said it did.”
Stanton noticed a slight body sway. It was only for a few seconds and then Ho realized he was doing it and stopped, but it was enough. He was hiding something.
“As long as everything’s on the up and up.”
“Jon,” he said slapping his shoulder, “Harlow’s locked up. That day and age is over with. You need to relax more. Look, I gotta dinner date but call me anytime. All right?”
“All right. Thanks, Chin.”
As Ho turned and left Stanton stood still in the office a long time. He turned to the board and stared at the pushpin in Sao Paulo before leaving.
Stanton came out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway entrance. The daylight was fading and the clock on his dash said 6:27 P.M. He pulled over to the side of the road and watched the cars pass him. There was an old building across the street that resembled a shack. A soda shop, run down and empty; a For Lease sign up in one of the broken windows.
When he was a kid, soda shops were just at the point where they were dying out, relics from some age that didn’t exist anymore except in memories. People had a tendency to elevate the past and degrade the present, and Stanton remembered his father talking about the wholesome nature of soda shops and how it was a blow to American culture to have them die out, even though he had rarely gone to them as a child.
Stanton looked to the files sitting next to him and picked up the one marked YR. He looked at the address; the home was only twenty minutes away. He flipped his car around and headed south.
8
The home was a good rambler with a yellowed lawn and a 1980s Cadillac out front. The car was gleaming in the fading sunlight from a recent wax and he could see a sticker on the back window for Mothers Against Drunk Driving.
He parked at the curb and walked to the front door, ringing the doorbell once and then waiting a long time before someone answered.
A woman in her fifties opened the door, wiping her hands with a dishcloth. “Detective Stanton?”
Stanton instantly saw the look of horror in her eyes. She had been hanging on for so long that Yvette was still alive somewhere that she had convinced herself that her death was an impossibility.
“I don’t have any news, Shawna,” he quickly said, “I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing . . . I’m getting along. Please, come in.”
The interior of the house was decorated with plants and a few pieces of religious art; the virgin up over the fireplace. Stanton saw that a candle was burning underneath the painting. He sat down on the sofa and Shawna Reynolds sat next to him.
“Would you like anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you. How is everything?”
“It’s quiet. Sometimes I turn on the television just to have some noise. Philip works all day so I’m by myself. My sister comes over a lot now. I have two nieces and . . .” She stopped and looked down to the couch.
“It’s okay, Shawna.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t think about anything else. It’s been almost fourteen months now and I can’t think of anything else. I just see her somewhere, Detective. Living on the streets, or locked up in some house. I see her in a ditch in my dreams and she’s crying out to me.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks and she reached for a tissue from a box that was on the coffee table. Stanton saw that the box was nearly empty.
“I’m sorry to bring all this up. I shouldn’t have come.”
“No,” she said, wiping at her eyes, “no, I’m so glad you did. It helps me to see you. To know someone’s still looking for my Yvette.” She leaned her head back and took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and whispered something to herself that Stanton couldn’t make out.
Walk in Darkness - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries) Page 2