As he left he heard the DVD turn back on, a male voice adamantly denying having seen anything. He turned to look at her but she was already focused on the screen.
13
Stanton left the office at three in the morning and was back at nine. He began placing calls. Taylor Stewart was in Iraq on active duty. Frontline infantry in the army’s third infantry division. Stanton called the local recruiting office and got the numbers to Army Investigative Command and to the local JAG office. Both offices said they couldn’t help him unless he had an official subpoena or writ. He knew the army ignored writs and subpoenas from state judges. It would have to be a federal judge and he would need a good reason. So far, he had none; other than leaving a name off of a report.
Francisco Hernandez was different. Stanton was told by Human Resources that he was still with the police department but had been transferred to Vice a year ago. Stanton contacted the section chief at Vice and was told a meeting could be set up but it would take some time and would have to be outside of the city.
He put his feet up on the desk and noticed the scuff marks along the edges of his shoes. It reminded him that he still needed to buy a couple of suits and he suddenly felt awkward in his sports coat. Like someone that had been placed in a group only to contrast everyone else’s conformity.
There was something that had not escaped his thoughts: what if Noah was responsible for this girl as well?
Noah Sherman’s victims had been blonds and brunettes and young but the killing pattern didn’t match. Noah didn’t like blood, and Stanton knew this first hand. He once nearly fainted at the scene of a suicide where the victim had shot themselves with a 20 gauge shotgun. The two victims that they knew about were strangled and the bodies were covered up; a last vestige of shame and guilt that Noah felt.
Stanton had not thought about Noah Sherman in a long time and all the events and feelings that he had buried came rushing back into his head, like a damn had been broken and a flood enveloped everything in its path. He remembered Saturday morning racquetball at the gym. Noah was so competitive that Stanton had to let him win occasionally so it wouldn’t ruin his day. After their workouts they would shower and talk about women and kids and where they wanted their lives to take them.
Stanton also remembered the night Noah nearly killed him.
They had finished a long day working a drive-by shooting. Stanton had been in a fight with Melissa. Like most fights, it was over something so minor he couldn’t remember now what it was.
Noah’s home was a large two-story house in the suburbs that he had gotten a deal on because the elderly woman that owned it had no children to leave it to. She wanted a quick infusion of cash to spend traveling to the places she always wanted to see.
Stanton was going to spend the night to give Melissa a chance to cool off. They drank water and ate steaks and potatoes. Noah, always respectful about Stanton’s beliefs, never drank alcohol or swore in front of him. He even refused to drink coffee and Stanton always admired him for that small act of courtesy.
When they had finished their meal they watched a boxing match on television and then went to bed. Stanton was to sleep in the guest bedroom but there were no pillows on the bed. He went upstairs to Noah’s bedroom and found him in the shower and asked where the pillows were. Noah told him to check the hall closet.
Stanton pulled out two pillows and was about to shut the door when he noticed something tucked behind a neatly folded quilt. He pulled it out: they were red silk panties. Stanton grinned as he was about to tease his partner that a woman had forgotten her underwear when he noticed another pair behind them, and another pair behind that one. He pulled them all out. There were twelve total. They had been covering something and Stanton picked it up. It was a little tin box, black with a design of a flower on top. Inside were photographs, a necklace, and a ring. The photos were of women with pale, detached faces, crying into the camera. Police could only identify two of the victims. They were the ones Noah would later be prosecuted and sent to prison for, narrowly avoiding the death penalty through a plea bargain.
When Stanton turned around Noah was behind him. Wet and naked from the shower, his.40 caliber Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. He lifted the gun and shot twice without hesitation. The impact threw Stanton backward and over the railing onto the main floor. It had knocked the breath out of him and blood cascaded over his chest and onto the carpet. He tasted the warm thickness of it in his mouth and began to choke.
Noah rushed down the stairs.
Stanton, unable to breathe, saw his holster hanging from the chair in the kitchen with his suit coat; blood pouring down his legs as he sprinted for it. He felt the weight of steel in his hand and turned and fired three shots, missing twice and hitting his target once as Noah fired and missed.
He remembered the clink of the cartridges against the linoleum before the world went black, and he woke up in an intensive care unit, hooked to an IV and a ventilator.
Tami Jacobs was likely not a product of Noah’s pathology. But the possibility couldn’t be excluded. Stanton would have to see him to find out for sure.
14
Pelican Bay State Prison is what’s termed a “supermax” facility. This is to designate that it is a prison within a prison; units segregated and separated to such a degree as to be considered the highest level of security within the Department of Corrections. The designation is only given to those facilities housing prisoners considered a threat to national or international security. Those too dangerous to attempt rehabilitation.
The flight to Del Norte County had been brief and Stanton read an ebook on the history of the middle ages. The man next to him slept and began to snore. At one point his head collapsed backward, revealing four gold teeth and a thick white film on his tongue.
Stanton exited the plane and found a taxi out on the curb. The Del Norte County Airport was small but well kept and Stanton was impressed that no garbage littered the sidewalks outside as you saw with larger airports.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Pelican Bay prison.”
Stanton had been surprised how easy it was to secure funding for his flight here. He simply phoned Tommy and told him why he needed to go. Two hours later, a ticket was dropped onto his desk by a receptionist. Normally he would have to pay for it and then fight for months to get reimbursed by the department, if he ever got reimbursed at all.
“Why you headed out to the prison, man?”
“Just need to talk to somebody.”
The driver nodded as he turned right at an intersection without looking if anybody was coming from the opposite direction. “Had some homies up there myself. Back in the day. Some near twenty, maybe twenty-five years ago.”
“Oh, yeah? What were they in for?”
“Psst, all sorts a buuullshit, you know. Robbery, dealin’ drugs, attempted murder. You run wit them gangs and go out and rob somebody they add damn near ten years to your sentence.” The driver pulled out a lighter and held it in his hand. “So who you talkin’ to out here?” He pulled out a small pipe with his other hand from the ashtray and Stanton got a waft of the unmistakable smell of marijuana. “You mind?” the driver said.
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
The driver shrugged and put the pipe back. He took out a flask from his pocket.
“My old partner.”
“Partner? Like business partner or somethin’?”
“No, I’m a cop. He was my partner.”
The driver slowly lowered the flask and placed it on the passenger seat. He unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in his mouth. He didn’t speak the rest of the time they drove, mumbling the fare when his car stopped next to the prison.