by Luke Murphy
“Darren.”
“Chip, I’m just on my way out. Can this wait ’til tomorrow?”
“No, it can’t. I need another name checked.”
“Fine, who is it?”
“Adrienne Turner.”
“Who’s that?”
“Is her name there?”
“Hold on.”
Charlene could hear Darren flipping through pages while humming the theme to the Flintstones, and then he came back on the line.
“Ten-four, Chip, she’s here. I hadn’t gotten around to checking the ‘T’s’, figured the case was closed and all, so I don’t know much about Turner. Want me to look her up?”
Charlene blew out her breath, not realizing she’d been holding it in. “No, don’t worry about it.”
“What’s this about anyway?”
“Probably nothing, thanks.” She hung up before there were more questions.
Chapter 28
Charlene sat at her desk, reviewing the information she had on Jackson.
Jackson had a history of sexual and mental abuse. When her father had abused her mother and possibly Adrienne, it was Adrienne who’d stepped forward. He was now behind bars.
According to her partner, Jackson was divorced because she had cheated on her husband with a doctor, possibly Ken Anderson because her name was in his black book and even though he wasn’t a medical doctor, he had a PHD. But there was no date in the book to indicate when Jackson had crossed paths with Anderson. Was it before or after the Connors rape?
Jackson had been at the head of both rape investigations and, from what Charlene knew about Jackson, the woman took things personally. The cop also had a collection of weapons at home, more than likely with a nine millimeter in her arsenal—maybe even the weapon used to kill Nelson Porter.
Charlene also had reports from a number of sources confirming Jackson’s insatiable desire to protect rape victims and her avid quest for justice.
Charlene thought about her talk with Jackson, how the detective had so quickly pointed out Ashley Stanley’s mental state after the Philips rape—a convenient name-drop.
Finding Jackson’s name in Anderson’s black book told Charlene that Anderson had probably dated the detective and then dropped her unexpectedly, leaving a bad taste in her mouth, because she’d left her husband, a man who truly loved her. Then the rape happened, with Jackson working the case. The second time, with Sandra Philips, Jackson made sure it never happened again. It was all speculative though.
What else could Charlene do to prove it?
Also, the fact that Nelson Porter, a street-smart gang-banger, was lured late at night to the football field, probably by someone in an authoritative position, with a badge, gave Jackson more opportunity. Porter must have seen the cop’s car around the city, recognized Jackson from the streets and knew something was up when he saw her vehicle parked outside his house. Street gangs were always on the lookout for cops.
Being a detective with access to the police scanner and having friends on the force, Jackson would’ve been following the investigation and found out about Porter’s nine-one-one call and intercepted that dispatch.
Charlene knew she had something, but did she have enough to direct her investigation towards one of LAPD’s own?
The day-workers’ shift had ended, and Charlene knew that Henry would be gone. It helped that a rookie would be manning the night log book.
Charlene approached the front desk, where a prematurely balding twenty-something year-old was texting on an iPhone.
“What’s her name?” Charlene interrupted his finger-tapping.
He looked up. “What?”
“The girl you’re texting. What’s her name?”
The kid’s face reddened.
“Don’t worry,” she said and winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”
He smiled at her. She had him.
“I need you to look something up for me.” She gave him the dates and asked him to print out the names of everyone on duty from this precinct.
The kid didn’t ask questions, just quickly put down the iPhone and performed his duties.
Charlene checked if Jackson had been working the night of Anderson’s murder and she hadn’t. Then she checked the night that Nelson Porter had been killed, again to find that Jackson was off. This meant that both nights she didn’t have a partner looking over her shoulder.
“Thanks.”
Charlene headed back to her desk, thinking about what she could do next that wouldn’t raise any red flags.
She needed an ally, someone with the balls or authority to influence this hunch. She couldn’t go to the captain yet. She didn’t have enough to warrant an investigation into an LAPD detective.
She called Larry at home.
“I don’t think Sarah Crawford was our shooter.”
Larry choked on what he was drinking. “I have a hole in my arm that says different.”
“It’s a flesh wound, Larry.”
“Fuck you, Taylor. This is a legitimate injury. Who knows when I’ll return?”
Charlene rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I mean the Anderson shooter. I think I know who it was.”
“Whoa, whoa, Taylor,” the drama was about to begin and Charlene prepared herself. “First, you get me shot because you’re certain Ashley Stanley’s the killer. Now you tell me you could be wrong and want my help?” he said with heavy sarcasm.
Charlene sighed audibly, and then told Larry what she had on Jackson.
“Those are some heavy accusations.”
“I know. That’s why I need you.” Charlene might as well grease him up, but it wasn’t her style.
Larry’s hesitation told Charlene that he was thinking it over.
“Okay, first thing you need to do is find someone new to the department, someone who hasn’t been around long enough to know the shit storm this will cause and doesn’t have too many friends to backstab. Someone you can trust.”
“And who might that be?”
“Brady.”
“Darren?”
“He’s perfect. He doesn’t have any friends anyway and he’d love a chance to sniff your panties a little longer.”
“Do you think Darren would help me nail an LAPD detective? The LAPD is his whole world.”
“Tell him there’s a blow job in it for him.”
“Good idea.”
“Taylor, I was just kidding…”
Charlene hung up.
LAPD policy required detectives to always work in pairs. Even though this wasn’t official business, Charlene realized that having someone with her would help answer questions when they came up later…and they would.
Darren wasn’t at his desk when Charlene went to get him. She knew he still lived with his parents and looked up the number and address in the database. She called from the car.
~ * ~
Darren was waiting on the front step when Charlene pulled into the driveway of a rundown brick bungalow. With a toothy grin and in plain clothes, the young cop leapt into the passenger’s seat.
“Where we off to?” he asked.
“Surveillance”
“Finally, some real action.”
Charlene had already looked up Jackson’s address. After the divorce, Jackson had moved into an apartment near the end of East Third Street, past Indian Street, a major east-west thoroughfare.
Charlene parallel parked at the curb on the opposite side of the street, a hundred yards down from Jackson’s residence, near the intersection of South Lorena Street.
There were a couple of kids on the sidewalk, performing tricks on homemade skateboard-ramps. The teenagers never gave the cops a second glance, but Charlene realized they could create a problem.
Jackson’s car was parked across the street from the building.
After ten minutes, Darren said, “You gonna tell me what’s going on? Who are we watching?”
“A possible suspect.”
“What case?”
“Anderson.�
��
Darren’s eyebrows arched. “I thought that was closed?”
“I’ve reopened it.”
Darren smiled. “Does the boss know?”
Charlene let out her breath. Time for some trust, which wasn’t easy for her. She told him what she suspected and what she could confirm. Darren listened without interrupting.
When she was finished, he said, “Cool, dirty cop. Just like the movies.”
Charlene rolled her eyes and prayed Darren didn’t blow this.
“So what do you want to listen to?” Darren asked, fiddling with the stereo knob.
“I don’t care,” Charlene replied, not looking away from Jackson’s apartment building.
Charlene couldn’t see herself sitting in the car for long with Darren. She’d go stir crazy and want to choke him.
“We need to get Jackson out of the apartment.”
Darren shrugged and sat back. “Why don’t you call something in?”
“What do you mean?”
“We both know the type of person she is. Jackson is controlling. She needs to be involved.”
“Good thinking.”
Charlene spotted a payphone, which are rare, and placed a fake call reporting a possible rape. She felt bad doing it, but knew that Jackson would be hell-bent to respond.
She gave an address close enough to Jackson’s apartment to entice the detective and make Charlene’s phone booth location seem more reliable, but far enough away that Jackson would be gone long enough for Charlene to search the apartment.
Charlene got back into the car and waited.
“Think she bought it?” Darren asked.
Before Charlene had time to answer, Jackson sprinted from the building, slinging her jacket over her shoulder. The detective jumped into her car and sped off, fishtailing and almost colliding with an oncoming vehicle.
Charlene grabbed the car door handle. “Let’s go. We might not have long.”
She crossed the street with Darren close behind. She caught a break when a man was coming out of the building when they got there. She sidestepped to avoid him and then gently wedged her foot between the door and frame, keeping it from locking.
They stepped inside. There were no other people around. She approached a line of mailboxes and buzzers, reading the names on the mail slots. Jackson’s hadn’t been updated but Charlene already had the number.
“Okay, Darren, I’m going up to the apartment. Here is my phone with Jackson’s number already punched in. You wait outside. If she comes back, hit send and let it ring twice, then hang up. Got it?”
“Got it. Call, ring twice, hang up. I’m not an idiot.”
“The jury is still deliberating.”
“What if Jackson has caller ID and sees your number?”
“Shit, good point. I never thought of that.”
“I have them once in a while.”
She thought about it. “Do you have your phone?”
He nodded.
“Here’s my number and don’t get any ideas. Call it if you see her. I’ll keep it on vibrate not to raise alarms to her neighbors.”
She headed for the staircase.
A warrantless search was illegal, but Charlene knew that not a judge in California would grant her one on what she had.
She took the stairs to the third floor, avoiding elevators and cameras.
Charlene rapped lightly twice on the door to make sure no one was there. She wasn’t sure if Jackson had a roommate or a lover. When no one answered, she snapped on a pair of gloves and ran her hand around the door frame and lifted up the camouflage door mat looking for a hidden key. It was common knowledge that most cops were less cautious than the average public. No key.
She pulled out a tiny, steel device and worked the lock on Jackson’s door. It took less than a minute to gain access to the apartment. Like most cops, Jackson didn’t have much of a security system, a standard lock with no alarm.
Charlene let herself in and closed the door gently. She stood and listened, making sure again that Jackson didn’t have someone inside. She followed the front hall, checking the perimeter and taking an extra minute to scan the one bedroom apartment. Everything was in perfect order—unbelievably clean and well managed, almost unused. Even the bed sheets were drawn tight with military corners.
Charlene was heading back to the bedroom when a sound from the kitchen almost emptied her bladder. She followed the noise and found a police scanner plugged in on the counter. So that’s how Jackson was always one step ahead.
She started in the bedroom and hit pay dirt.
When the detective opened the bi-fold closet doors, she found a stash of weapons hanging neatly, individually placed and fastened to the wall. No shelves or drawers with clothes and shoes, only guns.
She quickly took inventory, moving from weapon to weapon, but didn’t see a nine mil. If Jackson had used it on Anderson, then it was conceivable that she’d discarded the evidence. But Charlene knew Jackson. The weapon was part of her arsenal and Jackson was just arrogant enough to think she’d never be caught or even suspected.
With the closet a dead end, Charlene searched rapidly but methodically, inspecting the rest of the bedroom. She turned the bed, checked the laundry hamper and went through drawers, careful to replace everything as she’d found it.
She checked behind the toilet and under the sink, moved to the tiny kitchen, checking the fridge and freezer and then into the den. She found an old wooden chest with rusted hinges at the end of the sofa. It had been covered by a ratty blanket. Charlene removed the blanket and opened it.
The chest contained stacks of photo albums but no gun.
With the rest of the apartment already checked and no sign of the murder weapon, Charlene lifted out the photo albums and gently set them on the coffee table. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any of them.
She was about to open them when the phone rang. She froze, staring at the portable on the coffee table, perspiration specking her forehead and upper lip. Had Darren forgotten? The phone reached three rings and when the answering machine picked up Charlene heard Adrienne’s partner, Bobby Johnson’s voice.
“Hey, Ade, just checking if you’ve heard from Homicide. Let me know.”
Charlene quickly leafed through the books. She found old black and white photographs of who must have been Jackson’s grandparents and mother when they were children. No pictures of her father or his family.
She saw a young Adrienne Jackson participating in events, playing with other kids and as Charlene thumbed through the first album, she watched Jackson grow from a small, innocent pigtailed girl, to a pimple faced teenager and then to the adult she was now.
Charlene’s attention was interrupted by footsteps in the hallway. She left the album open on the table and gingerly moved towards the front hall. She saw the shadows of two feet, through the crack under the door, stop just outside Jackson’s apartment.
Had Darren forgotten to call? There was always a chance that Jackson had someone else living there, who Darren didn’t know, and they were now returning.
An anxious moment passed. Charlene tried to stay as quiet as possible. The feet hesitated in front of the door and then continued down the hall. Charlene shook her head and returned to the chest.
She anxiously flipped through the second album. Charlene scrolled through newspaper clippings from Jackson’s father’s entire trial, from arrest, to first testimony, to final sentencing. There was a picture of a younger Jackson on the stand.
As Charlene read on, she found other clippings from rape trials, infamous names that Charlene recognized, men who had become celebrities because of Court TV, whose trials were covered by the national media.
Charlene studied the clippings, wondering if Jackson sat up at night, alone, reliving these nightmarish stories through the clipped articles. Did she live with her inner demons, and was it these articles that motivated her, kept her striving until every monster on the streets was erased?
Was Anders
on her first or were there others?
She found Anderson’s murder file and articles in another book, on the first page. Unless there was another book not there, this was her first victim and Jackson had bought a separate book, planning to fill the pages.
Charlene felt sick to her stomach. Jackson was a deeply disturbed individual who needed help. Charlene was outraged that a fellow officer, an unscrupulous LAPD detective, would try to take the law into her own hands.
But wait. I’m doing the same thing with my dad’s case. That was different, she told herself.
Charlene replaced the albums in the same order. She made sure that everything was in place and left the apartment, locking the door on the way out. She took the elevator down to the main floor and found Darren on the sidewalk, showing the teenagers a couple of tricks on the skateboard. They were high-fiving each other when Charlene exited the building. So much for staying inconspicuous and out of sight.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Chapter 29
Back at the department, they sat at Charlene’s desk.
“You mean that’s it?” Darren asked.
Charlene put up her finger. “Let me think.”
There was one other possibility, but it was a long shot. If the gun wasn’t there, then she’d have to tail Jackson and hope the detective led her to it. But that was like a Hail Mary.
The precinct was quiet. Except for a few stragglers writing out daily reports and conducting interviews, the building was empty.
Charlene jumped to her feet with Darren right behind. She approached the front desk where the same freckle-faced officer was still on his iPhone.
“I’ve forgotten the combination to my gym lock. What should I do?”
The young officer looked annoyed. “You’ll have to wait and get it tomorrow when HR opens up.”
“But I need in there now.”
“Then you’ll have to call someone to come in and open it.”
Charlene sighed. “You don’t have an electronic swipe key?”