Chapter 9
STILWELL RETURNED THE items to the backpack and then carried it to his office and called Kaufman. The call went to voicemail and Stilwell left his number and said the inquiry was about Angela Metier.
“I found her backpack,” he added.
He hoped that dropping the name of the presumably still-missing woman and mentioning her backpack might spur a quick return call. While he waited, he called Tash over at the harbormaster’s office at the end of Green Pleasure Pier.
“How far back do you archive the harbor cameras?” he asked.
“I think it’s ninety days,” Tash said. “Three billing cycles. That way if anybody disputes their days here, we can just go to the video and show them.”
Stilwell knew from a prior investigation that there were several cameras offering a view of Avalon Harbor from many angles.
“Do you have any cameras that show the beach and the benches on Crescent?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, we do,” Tash said. “There’s a camera over the first kiosk on the pier. It’s really focused on the skiff dock but it gets a lot of Crescent.”
Stilwell looked down at his notes.
“Good,” he said. “I need to see that angle from February ninth. Can you set that up for me?”
“Sure,” Tash said. “When are you coming?”
“I can be there in ten minutes if you’ll have it ready.”
“Come on over. I’ll have it ready to watch. It’s pretty slow around here even for a Tuesday, and it will give me something to do.”
After disconnecting, Stilwell left the office and crossed the squad room to the restroom.
He didn’t have to use the facilities but wanted to show up on camera should Corum be keeping visual tabs on him.
Afterward, he announced loudly for the camera as well as Mercy that he would be making calls from his office and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was necessary.
Mercy acknowledged the request and he returned to his office, shutting and locking the door behind him.
He then went to his office window, cranked it open, and removed the screen.
He climbed through and dropped down behind the hedge that ran the length of the building.
Soon he was walking down Catalina Avenue to the pier.
Tash had a screen with the camera angle on Crescent up and ready for him when he arrived. He put the recording on high-speed playback for the first viewing. Mercy’s report noted that the Unbound backpack had been turned in at 2:15 p.m.
The camera angle Tash had set up for him was from a distance of fifty yards. With Tash looking over his shoulder, he pointed to the benches on the screen.
“This is the best angle you have on these benches?” he asked.
“Yes, sorry,” she said. “But as I said, it’s focused on the skiff dock, not really on the benches.”
The video review was tedious. Stilwell had to stop the playback every time he saw somebody sit on one of the four benches that lined the seawall in the plaza. The view from the benches was one of the best on the island, so Stilwell was stopping and starting the playback often.
It wasn’t until he had run the video back to 11:15 a.m. that he caught sight of the Unbound backpack. He slowed the playback to normal speed and watched as a male figure sat down on the last bench in the line and placed the distinctive black-and-white pack next to him.
Stilwell froze the video.
“Okay, can we blow this image up?” he asked.
“Let me sit there,” Tash said.
Stilwell got up and Tash took his place.
She expanded the image on the screen. The pixels spread and the image became blurry.
Still, he could see that the man on the bench was wearing a baseball cap with an indistinct logo on it, sunglasses, and a face mask.
It had been more than five years since the COVID pandemic, and although some people still used masks, they were rare enough for Stilwell to think that the man was trying to hide his identity.
“You want a hard copy of this?” Tash asked.
“Yes, please,” Stilwell said. “And then let the video run.”
After sending the still image to the printer, Tash started the playback again in real time.
The man sitting on the bench seemed to be taking in the beauty of the harbor.
But five minutes after he sat down, he calmly got up and walked away, leaving the backpack behind.
None of the other people in the plaza or sitting on the other benches seemed to notice that he had left it.
Stilwell watched as the man crossed Crescent and started walking up Catalina Avenue. Soon he was out of the camera frame.
“Stop it?” Tash asked.
“No, take it to about one thirty and then let’s watch,” Stilwell said. “It was turned in to the lost-and-found a little after two.”
Tash did as instructed, and at 1:42 on the playback, a woman eating an ice-cream cone sat down on the bench and noticed the backpack.
She swiveled her head, looking around for the owner.
She even stood up, turned to the plaza, and held the backpack up, appearing to call out to the other tourists. But no one claimed the pack.
“Let’s watch the drop-off again,” Stilwell said.
Tash reversed the video to the 11:10 mark and they watched as the masked man sat down on the bench and then got up and left the pack behind.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Tash asked.
“I don’t know,” Stilwell said. “But it’s almost like he knew he was on camera and wanted the backpack to be found and turned in.”
“Like he’s getting rid of evidence?”
“Like he wants us to find it.”
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“Yeah.”
Stilwell thought it was more than creepy. It seemed to be about engagement. The psychology was disconcerting. Four years after Angela Metier disappears, this man places her backpack in a spot that will surely lead to the reopening of the case. Why? Was he taunting law enforcement?
“Can you shoot me a link to this video?” Stilwell asked.
“Sure,” Tash said. “And I’ll go get the still we printed.”
She got up and went to the printer. When she came back, she asked Stilwell if they were cooking or going out for dinner.
“Uh, I was actually thinking about going overtown and visiting Ilsa,” Stilwell said. “You could come if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Tash said. “How is she?”
“Last I heard she was hanging in there. But she’s on a ventilator and sedated.”
“That doesn’t sound good. How much longer will she be on it?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to go over whether she knows I’m there or not. You sure about staying here?”
“Definitely. I’ll be fine.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“Sure.”
Tash religiously avoided going to the mainland. She believed that only bad things happened over there, and there was evidence to support that belief.
“Okay, I’m going to get back to it,” Stilwell said. “I’ll let you know if I go across.”
Tash walked him to the door and gave him a quick kiss, and he headed down the pier to Crescent. Along the way his phone rang. It was Lionel McKey, a reporter from the weekly Catalina Call. Stilwell answered his question before he could ask it.
“If this is about the airstrip shooting, I can’t talk about it, Lionel.”
“But you were there when it all went down.”
“Doesn’t mean I can talk about it. You need to speak to Captain Corum.”
“He never calls me back.”
“The life of a reporter.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
Stilwell didn’t respond.
“I hear you have somebody in the jail. Is that related to last night?”
Stilwell had to respect McKey—the reporter had the island wired. Stilwell would have liked to know who McKey’s sources were, beginning with whoever had given him Stilwell’s cell number. But to ask the question was to reveal that it bothered him, and Stilwell didn’t want to give the reporter that.
“No comment,” he said.
“Come on, Stil,” McKey said.
There was a definite whine in his voice, but Stilwell didn’t care.
“Call the captain,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”
He hung up as he approached the open window to his office. He slipped in, put the screen back in place, cranked the window closed, then stepped into the squad room to put in an appearance on camera. He went over to Mercy’s desk.
“Anybody looking for me?” he asked.
“Not lately,” Mercy said.
His phone buzzed and he dug it out of his pocket, expecting it to be McKey again. But he recognized the number as belonging to Bryce Kaufman of the Missing Persons Unit.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said.
He headed back to his office, answering along the way. “Sergeant Stilwell. How can I help you?”
“Kaufman, LAPD. You left me a message about Angela Metier.”
“Yeah, hold on a sec.”
Stilwell closed the door to his office and took a seat behind the desk.
“Yes, I wanted to see what was going on with that case,” he said.
“Tell you what, why don’t we start with what you’ve got going on,” Kaufman said. “You said you found her backpack? Where?”
“I’m on Catalina. It was in our lost-and-found. I started clearing things out today and came across a camping pack. There was a set of keys in one of the pockets and I traced a Medeco back to Metier. At least, the locksmith told me it was hers.”
“And you’ve had this sitting there in the lost-and-found for four years?”
“No, more like two months. It was turned in on February ninth. A woman found it on a bench overlooking the harbor.”
That brought silence from Kaufman.
“I know,” Stilwell said. “She’s been gone four years, why’s the backpack showing up now?”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“I have a grainy photo off a camera in the harbor that shows the guy who left it, but he’s not identifiable.”
“Send it to me anyway.”
“I will. But tell me what happened with the case and what I can do from out here.”
There was another long silence from Kaufman before he responded.
“Look, I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” he said. “You’re at the sheriff’s station in Avalon, right?”
“That’s right,” Stilwell said.
“Okay, let me call you back on the station’s landline.”
“You want the number?”
“No, I’ll find it. Give me a few.”
He disconnected. Stilwell thought it was a good move on Kaufman’s part. But it also made him wonder if Kaufman had previously been burned in some way on the case.
Five minutes went by before Stilwell saw one of the outside lines on his desk phone light up. He let Mercy answer it, then his direct line buzzed.
“Detective Kaufman from the LAPD calling you back,” she said.
“I’ll take it,” Stilwell said.
He picked up the line.
“Okay, where were we?” Kaufman said.
“I think you were about to tell me why you were taking the precaution of calling me back,” Stilwell said.
“Just wanted to make sure I was talking to the real thing.”
“Because?”
Another long beat of silence.
“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Kaufman said. “This isn’t the usual missing persons case. There’s a guy out there somewhere who calls me from time to time asking about her. Always on a burner, untraceable. And he says things that make me think he’s the one who took her.”
Stilwell looked at the blurry photo of the man on the bench that Tash had printed out for him.
“What things does he say?” Stilwell asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Kaufman said. “I’d have to get the file back from the Cold-Case Unit.”
“You guys have a dedicated missing persons cold-case team?”
“No, but this case had a little heat on it. It was one of those where we kind of thought she wouldn’t be coming back.
You know what I mean? It didn’t fit with her profile that she’d just split of her own volition.
And then about a year ago, the Cold-Case Unit asked for the file to see if it matched up with something they were looking at. ”
“And did it?”
“I never heard back. And you know how it is, I had other cases to work.”
“Right. Who had it in that unit?”
“They’re mostly volunteers over there. Everything goes through the OIC, Ballard. Renée Ballard. She asked for the file.”
“You have a number for her?”
Kaufman gave Stilwell a number. “Don’t expect them to have done much with it,” Kaufman said. “They’ve got like six thousand unsolveds over there. And those are with bodies that have been found.”
“Right,” Stilwell said. “Let me ask you a couple basics before I let you go. I heard there was a search over here for Angela four years ago. Before my time. What pointed you out here?”
“Her car. We found it in the Catalina Express lot. She was a camper and a hiker and had been going out there since she was in Girl Scouts. This backpack you’re talking about was missing, as was some other camping equipment, so we thought she’d gone out there.
But we never found anything to confirm that.
There was no credit card purchase for the Express either. Nothing but the car in the lot.”
“And no evidence in the car?”
“None. No blood evidence, no sign of a struggle.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“Uh, it was a… Mini. Yeah, a Mini Cooper.”
“You sure? It wasn’t a Ford?”
“No, it was a Mini. Why’d you think it was a Ford?”
“The keys I found in the backpack. There was a key with the Ford logo on it. An old-style key, not a fob.”
“That’s strange. I don’t remember anything about a Ford. You could ask Ballard.”
“I will.”