Walk in Darkness - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries)

by Victor Methos

  Stanton saw that one of the coaches was male and wearing the blue and gold colors of the home team. He walked over to him and stood quietly by as the coach finished explaining what he wanted done in the next few minutes to some of the players waiting to go in.

  He saw Stanton, and his face turned white.

  “I’m sorry about popping in like this, Doug.”

  “I saw the news. You should’ve called me first. I don’t think I should’ve heard it like that.”

  “I’m sorry. The past couple weeks have been a blur.”

  “I’m glad you got him and that he’s gone. Truth be told though I wanted to be there when they executed him. To look in his eyes and tell him I’ll see him in hell and that we’d finish it there. But I’m glad it ended the way it did too.”

  Stanton looked out over the field, watching the girls as they ran to one end of the field before a player from the visiting team stole the ball and tripped a young girl with the name TAPIAS emblazoned on her jersey. The girls began to argue and the referee had to step in and break it up.

  “I want to be sure it was him,” Stanton said. “The evidence pointing to him is circumstantial. I want to be sure, everyone wants to be sure. I haven’t closed the cases yet because I’m still looking into it.”

  “The news said his mother said he did it.”

  “His mother has dementia. I’m not sure she knew that we were talking about these recent cases. She could easily have thought we were talking about the cases he was already convicted for.”

  Doug Henroid took in a deep breath and watched the action on the field. He withdrew two of his players and sent in replacements.

  “For the first time I found some peace with this … at least as much as a father could. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I need your help. There’s three girls attributed to Putnam and I think there’s a connection there we’re missing.”

  “I told you last time; Sarah didn’t know those other two girls.”

  “Is there any chance she had a circle of friends you didn’t know about? A group or club she belonged to and you didn’t really check up on, anything like that?”

  “Not really.”

  “She got straight A’s in school. Did she belong to any study groups or anything?”

  “Not that I can recall. I know she got tutoring in math but that was always a tough subject for her.”

  Stanton scanned his memory about the case. It was something he had found since youth that came easily to him. He could picture in his mind as clearly as video where he would be sitting when he viewed something and replay it in his head, like hitting rewind and then play on a DVD. He had read about memory palaces in which the ancient Greeks and Romans used to memorize speeches and treatises by envisioning them in rooms in a palace. There was an entire system associated with the usage of memory palaces, but he had never required them.

  From what he remembered, there was never any mention of a tutor.

  “What was this tutor’s name?”

  “Um, I don’t know. You’ll have to call my wife. She was the one that handled all that stuff.”

  Stanton gave him one of his cards though he knew he had a few at home. “If you think of anything else we haven’t discuss, call me anytime, Doug.”

  “I will.”

  He turned to leave and was nearly hit by a soccer ball. One of the girls came and picked it up and whispered under her breath, “Watch where you’re going.”

  He went back to the car and dialed the number for Sarah’s mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Henroid?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Jon Stanton. How are you, Betty?”

  There was a slight pause. “I’m fine.”

  “I just spoke to Doug. He told me that Sarah was taking tutoring lessons in math. I was wondering if I could get the name and number of that tutor.”

  “What for?”

  “Just tying up some loose ends.”

  “Okay, well, hang on . . . okay, you ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Her name’s Tracey Aviary. She lives in La Jolla. I just texted you the number. Do you have it?”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye. Stanton dialed the precinct and gave his call-in code. He asked dispatch to run a check on Tracey Aviary in La Jolla. He pulled out and started heading back to his apartment when the phone rang and dispatch gave him an address in La Jolla near the beach, twenty minutes from here.

  He drove on the interstate, his windows down to let the wind run through his fingers and up his arm, tussling his hair. The interstate was packed though it wasn’t rush hour. The city seemed to be getting more crowded. He had seen the urban hell of central Los Angeles and knew there was an exodus occurring. The residents that had any means whatsoever were moving away in all directions, and many were coming here to settle. That left only people that didn’t have the means to move in the neighborhoods of central LA. A growing mass of the unhappy, desperate and poor. Throw money at a problem and you only work at the edges. There was only so much that funding could do. There had to be a better solution, something that struck at the core of the problem. But what it was, he couldn’t say. For now, he knew that, periodically, Los Angeles would shatter and then be put back together again until the next detonation.

  The street Tracey lived on was an upscale neighborhood filled with mansions, massive homes where the occupants scarcely used the space they had. Waste was a statement, as Stanton had always guessed it was.

  The address led him to a large white home with a manicured lawn and hedges. Three stories with a driveway that looped around a fountain and back out to the road. He came to a stop at the curb and got out.

  The neighborhood was quiet except for two children at the end of the block riding bicycles. The ocean was just far enough away to give the air a crisp, clean smell but not close enough to dampen it. He walked to the front door and knocked.

  A woman in a tennis outfit with long, bleached blond hair answered.

  “Yes?”

  Stanton flashed the tin. “Detective Jon Stanton with San Diego PD. Is Tracey Aviary home?”

  “It’s pronounced AV-AH-REE.”

  “I apologize. Is she home?”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “I just need to ask her a few questions about one of the students she was tutoring.”

  The woman got a look of surprise on her face and it turned to anger. “It’s about that little whore that went missing, isn’t it? Well you can’t talk to Tracey. I’m her mother and I’m not giving you permission to talk to her. You can just call our lawyer and talk to him.”

  She slammed the door in his face. Technically, she was right. Any child under the age of fourteen required parental consent to be interviewed and Tracey was thirteen years old. He went back to his car and asked dispatch for the nearest middle school. Then he cancelled that and asked them to find the nearest private school.

  The nearest one was the Huntington Academy, eight miles north of La Jolla.

  17

  As Stanton drove back on the interstate, he thought about the last time he’d visited the Huntington Academy. It had been a homicide case and he’d gone there to inform a twelve year old girl that her mother would not be coming home.

  The woman had been killed by an ex-boyfriend that had been stalking her. Stanton knew from experience that stalking cases, though treated initially as misdemeanors, were some of the most dangerous cases in the entire criminal justice system. The suspects were, as a rule, deeply disturbed, with violent fantasies that never had a correlation to any aspect of reality. They were always the most indignant as well, unable to understand why they were being treated this way when they had done nothing wrong.

  They were also the most likely to cross the line between fantasy and reality and harm the subjects they had been obsessing over.

  The Huntington Academy was situated on two acres of lus
h, green property, an oasis in the middle of the city. It was old brick with stained glass windows and massive wooden doors that had been intricately carved with scenes from the Bible. Originally founded as a monastery, it had been converted to a Catholic school over seventy years ago.

  Stanton walked inside. There was always something odd about being in a school later in the afternoon, when everyone had left. As a youth he had to be in school late in the afternoons for detention. It wasn’t that he misbehaved; he simply hadn’t paid attention in school or participated. The teachers were unsure how to deal with him and they assumed it was intentional disobedience. Looking back on it, he knew it stemmed from a deep depression that had followed him through his life. It affected him so intensely he lost track of where he was and what he was doing. His schoolteachers had never recognized it.

  He poked his head into the administration office and saw an older woman filing some documents. Framed photos of headmasters of the school were up on the walls and a large painting of the Pope was in the other room off to the right side.

  “Hi,” he said, as he pulled out his badge. “I need to see the school police officer.”

  “He may have already gone home. Let me check.”

  She pressed the button on a phone at the counter and it rang three times before a gruff male voice answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Steve, I have another police officer from the . . . ah, where are you from, Officer?”

  “Sex Crimes Division of San Diego PD.”

  She paused. “Did you get that?”

  “Yeah, be right down.”

  She hung up the phone and Stanton could see she was struggling, attempting to decide whether it was appropriate to ask what this was all regarding.

  “It’s just something routine,” Stanton said. “Tying up some loose ends. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, I was wondering,” she said, relieved. “Officer Gage should be down in just a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stanton waited out in the hallway. A trophy case was up in front of administration and he glanced over the photos of the kids in their uniforms. They ran from first grade through twelfth grade and had depictions of many non-traditional sports like water polo and cricket. But he knew from experience most of the kids were bored, seeking the attention their wealthy parents weren’t giving them at home. Many would become drug addicts, and pornography studios were filled with women who had graduated from exclusive private schools.

  “What can I help you with, Officer?”

  Stanton turned to see a giant of a police officer. He was easily six four or five and carried a massive belly that hung over his belt. A gray handlebar mustache adorned his face and Stanton could see the tips of tattoos poking down past the man’s sleeves.

  The officer stood close to him and Stanton knew instantly he was attempting to establish dominance. Right off the bat he was hiding something.

  “Detective,” Stanton said.

  The officer folded his arms. “What is it I can do for you?”

  Stanton saw the woman staring at them, attempting to listen in. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  “I guess. Come back to my office.”

  He followed the officer down the hall and they turned right and went up some stairs. The hallways on the second floor were filled with lockers and posters announcing dances and fundraisers. A couple of election signs were up for student body president and vice president.

  “I’m Jon, by the way.”

  “Henry.”

  They got to a small side room just off from one of the classrooms and next to the drinking fountain. The space was cramped and the desk and chairs barely fit. A photo of a SWAT team was up on the wall, the signatures of all the members going across the bottom. A certificate of excellence from the California Board of Education was posted behind the desk.

  Stanton shut the door though he wasn’t asked to do so.

  “So what brings you here, Detective?”

  “I need to speak to you about one of the students here. Tracey Aviary.”

  “What about her?”

  “You know her?”

  “There’s only two hundred kids in the whole school. I know everyone.”

  “She was a tutor for a young girl that went missing three months back; Sarah Henroid. She didn’t go to this school.”

  “Yeah, I remember. There was a staff meeting about it.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Just to talk about it. Tracey told a bunch a the kids and they was thinking to hold some discussions in the classrooms. Help the kids understand it a little better.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know, we never had the discussions. None a the kids seemed to care too much. People go missing all the time I guess.”

  “Henry, did Tracey ever say anything about Sarah?”

  “Say anything like what?”

  “Anything at all. This is the first I’ve learned about Sarah having a tutor and I’m just trying to get a handle on their relationship.”

  The officer sucked air in through his teeth and nodded. “I get what this is. You think maybe Tracey knows somethin’ about her disappearing. Well, Detective, anything they tell me is confidential. I can’t tell you about the conversations we’ve had.”

  He’s been here too long, Stanton thought. He’s forgotten that he’s a police officer and thinks he’s the school security guard now. Stanton had seen it with numerous school officers that found comfort in the predictability of their positions and requested to stay. There was no confidentiality between officer and student but the conviction with which he said it made Stanton think he actually believed it.

  There was a NASCAR cup on the officer’s desk and it had coffee stains around lip. A calendar was up on the wall behind it. Four nights this week were circled. Stanton thought that he was probably moonlighting at night as security guard or bouncer for extra cash.

  “Henry, I went to Tracey’s mom and she slammed the door in my face and told me to talk to her lawyer. That lawyer probably makes more in a month than I do all year. I’m just a worker bee, man, trying to close out this case so I can tell the parents I did everything I could. I understand you got a good setup here and you don’t want to piss anybody off. But if you can give me anything, I would certainly appreciate it.”

  From the expression on his face, Stanton could tell Henry Gage was debating something. When his face softened he knew he had reached a decision.

  “Her mom’s a real cunt. I busted Tracey for truancy once and her mom went to the headmaster and tried to get me fired.” He exhaled loudly and leaned back in his seat. “Tracey’s a fucked up girl. I caught her few months back sellin’ dope to the younger kids behind the school.”

  “Did you file a report?”

  “Hell yes I filed a report. Her big time lawyer got the charges dropped to an infraction with a fine. She was suspended for a week and that was it.”

  “By the time they’re selling, kids are usually heavy drug users.”

  “Ain’t no different with her. Used to be just pot I think but she’s moved on into the heavier stuff. She talks sometimes and don’t make no sense. I heard from some other people she buys her dope from some chivato on Lincoln Street uptown.”

  “Did she get Sarah involved in it?”

  He bit his upper lip. “What I’m gonna tell ya, you didn’t hear from me.”

  “Of course.”

  “They got parties, these kids. And they ain’t like the parties you and me had growin’ up. They got these sex parties. All the kids go and get drunk and high and fuck around. One kid I know here that opens up to me says a guy might have sex with five or ten different girls in one party.”

  “What’s that got to do with Sarah?”

  “She was at them parties with Tracey.”

  “She was ten.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you telling me ten year olds are having sex parties?”

  “I don’t know
about havin’ ‘em but they definitely goin’ to ‘em.”

  Stanton shook his head and looked down to his shoes as he remembered himself at ten. “When I was that age I used to play baseball until nine every night and my parents wanted me home at eight. That was about the most trouble I got into.”

  “I used to steal my older brother’s porno mags. But it’s a different world now, Detective. Kids ain’t kids no more.”

  “No, I guess not.” He saw that behind the officer’s desk a confederate flag about the size of a dinner plate was hung up. “Is there anything else you can tell me, Henry? Anything that might help me find out if Sarah got involved in some things that were over her head?”

  “Tracey’s your best bet. You might be able to convince her mom to let you talk to her.”

  “How?”

  “She was the one allowing the kids to have them parties at her house.”

  Stanton took out his notepad and made a few notes before standing to leave. “Thanks, Henry. We never spoke as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Stanton walked to the door and turned before leaving. “Out of curiosity, who was Tracey’s lawyer?”

  “Gary Coop.”

  18

  Calvin Riley parked his Volkswagen Beetle in front of the United Studios of Mixed Martial Arts on Sports Arena Boulevard. He waited a few minutes and let the song playing on the radio finish: Chris Isaac’s Wicked Game. When the song ended he grabbed his gym bag from the backseat and went inside.

  He walked past the cage and the weight-room and put his things in a locker he had reserved for a monthly fee. His shirt was tight and his pectoral muscles bulged underneath. He stopped at the full-length mirror in the locker-room and hit a few bodybuilding poses before heading out to the bag area.

  Several heavy and speed bags were set up around the space, blue mats down over the floor. He wrapped his hands tightly and then slipped on bag gloves before stretching and warming up with some shadow boxing. Then he went to work.