Stanton kept his excitement in check. With the chief, there were always other angles and ones usually not seen or considered.
“What else did Mike say?”
“He said he knew that I had kept in contact with you but that he wasn’t upset. He just wanted you to come in and talk with him. But I checked the state-wide just now; it’s for real. The case is dismissed.”
“Give me an hour and then I’ll call you back.”
“Okay. Hurry up.”
Stanton hung up the phone and immediately called Melissa. She answered on the second ring.
“What did you do?” he said by way of greeting.
“What’re you talking about?”
“Cases don’t get dropped like that. Did you see him?”
“Maybe.”
“Mel, I didn’t want you involved in this.”
“Well you know what, Jon? I am involved. Like it or not you’re the father of my kids and everything you do affects us.”
“I know. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. I really appreciate whatever it is you did.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for them.”
“Well, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Stanton hung up and looked out the window again, watching the sunlight reflect off a BMW driving by. Harlow would be prepared. He would have ammunition and an agenda. Stanton wasn’t sure if he just got kicked out of the frying pan and into the fire and was about to be kicked onto the floor.
*****
Stanton walked into the San Diego Police Headquarters and Administrative Offices. The place seemed odd; like a relative’s house he was no longer welcome in. The security personnel eyed him but said nothing. A few uniforms attempted to stare him down and one shoulder-checked him, but Stanton ignored them. He was far too relieved to hold any animosity, even to Harlow. After all, the man was corrupt and wicked, but he had just been looking out for himself and his family. Stanton, despite himself, forgave him.
He made his way to the Cold Case Unit and had to be let in. Harlow was at his desk, going through some paperwork, and he looked up but didn’t motion for Stanton to sit.
“Hey,” was all Harlow said.
“Hey.”
“Shut the door, please.”
Stanton shut the heavy door and sat down in one of the chairs. He crossed his legs and folded his hands and decided he would not be the first to speak.
“So,” the chief said, “heard any good gossip lately?”
Stanton smiled. “I heard the Chief of Police is an SOB.”
“Yeah, well, I guess he is.”
“Did you get George to lie or did he volunteer?”
“He wanted to do something. He blamed you for Francisco’s death. But it was my idea. I had the warrant drawn up and got the DA to get on board. Jon, I can’t even begin to say I’m sorry. I panicked. You said you were going to IAD and I thought about what would happen. Do you have any idea what they would do to me? I would go to prison for some of the shit we’ve pulled. The number of people I’ve put in there, the enemies I’ve made, I’d be dead in a week.”
“Did you kill him, Mike?”
“Who Francisco? Fuck no. How could you even ask me that? That just happened and fell into our lap. No we’re gonna catch the sons a bitches that did that. It was just an opportunity and I seized it. I’m sorry, Jon.”
“Let’s just move on.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I want you back in the unit, working the Tami Jacobs case. Don’t know if Jessica told you, but there’s been another homicide that matches the pattern.”
“She mentioned it.”
“Imperial County’s got it but they don’t know what to do with it. There’s still some saber rattling but they’ll eventually give it up to us.”
Stanton hesitated. “Are you going to IAD?”
“Jon, come on.”
“You’re lost, Mike. The line between us and them doesn’t apply to you. You don’t have the right to run this organization anymore. I know you’ve probably already greased a bunch of palms at IAD. But I know you haven’t at the Feds. They hate you’re guts and would arrest you as soon as you offered it. I’m asking you, please, resign. Don’t make me go to them.”
“You do what you gotta do. But I ain’t going anywhere.”
Stanton nodded and stood up. “Fine. I’ll come back, Mike. I need the resources here. But after this case is closed, I’m done for good.”
“Fine.”
Stanton walked out of the office and down the hall. He waited until he was on the elevator by himself to turn off the digital recorder that was in his pocket.
45
Noah Sherman lay quietly on a cot in his cell. There was never enough room and today he felt as if there weren’t even enough for him to think properly. The cell was nine foot by eight foot, shared by two inmates. There was a steel toilet, a steel sink, a bunk bed, a small mirror, and a stand with a television. Despite the surroundings, the cell was immaculately clean, Sherman insisting that his cellie clean whenever he couldn’t get the chance.
His cellie, Tucker Matheson, was a decent man by his estimation. An African-American that had been raised in Louisiana, he had a Southern drawl and deep-set eyes that always seemed to be bloodshot.
He had been charged with murder, pled to voluntary manslaughter, and was on the eighth year of a twelve year sentence. His wife had taken the kids and moved in with another man while they were still married. The other man lived for six hours with his new family before Tucker got into a fist-fight and ended up beating him to death.
Sherman guessed it was later in the evening but it was hard to tell. There was no clock and they had to guess the time by the television shows that were playing. He jumped off the top bunk, glancing once at Tucker who was asleep. Sherman remembered the first time they had met. It was in the yard and two of the Mexicans had decided to jump Sherman while he was working out. Payback for a fellow gang member he had put away for life when he was a young detective in the Gang Unit. Tucker intervened, slamming a forty-five pound weight into one of the gangsters’ face and shattering his jaw and cheek bones. A few of Tucker’s crew stood by, keeping anyone else from helping. The Mexicans were growing in number every year and soon they would overtake the prison. But for now, it was owned by the blacks.
He had never explained why he had helped Sherman other than the fact that they shared a cell. But Sherman had grown to like the man. He couldn’t read or write and had only a fifth grade education so Sherman took it upon himself to teach him. In six months time, he was reading children’s books and in a year was reading novels. His favorite novel was an old copy of Huckleberry Finn he had checked out from the prison library nearly a dozen times.
Sherman stripped down to his boxers and stood in front of the mirror. He had grown old in two years. His hair, once jet black, was now peppered gray. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes and the skin on his neck appeared looser. The numerous tattoos he had received while inside he wore like badges of honor. The most prominent were the ones he had on his knuckles spelling hell on both hands.
Though the prison noise had died down, it wasn’t quiet. It was never quiet, even in the dead of night. That was the first thing he learned about prison on his first day. The second thing was that it always smelled. The cleaning crew would come by twice a week and they routinely cycled the stale air, but it never helped. There was always the stench of sweat and piss and feces. The stench of hundreds of human beings crammed together so tightly the walls themselves absorbed their stink.
“Heard you was leaving?”
Sherman looked to Tucker but saw his eyes weren’t open. “Yeah.”
“You coming back?”
“Not planning on it.”
“Don’t seem right, you kill them girls and get to go free.”
“Whoever said the world was right?”
“Not me.”