Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “I’m hungry. Let’s have a snack. And a game of Uno.” Benjie looked at him with such love—and expectation—he couldn’t deny him.

  Bedtime wouldn’t be critical until he started grade school in a few years. “Sure. What do you want to eat?”

  “A picnic, please.”

  Jackson laughed. The boy loved healthy food, and he’d had to start keeping more of it in the house. He put baby carrots, cherry tomatoes, olives, and slices of turkey on a plate and took it to the table. “You eat while I get the cards out.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  As Jackson stepped into the hall, Katie came out of her bedroom. “Hey. You worked late and forgot to call me.”

  He almost laughed. She’d run away from home the previous year, gone for weeks at a time without contacting him, and burned ten years off his life with worry. Now she expected him to check in. “Sorry. It’s been a crazy day.”

  “Someone was murdered?” Her brown eyes went soft with concern. She was still wearing her curly hair pulled back tight, but she’d cut down on the dark eye makeup and had started wearing colors again. Tonight she had on a pink T-shirt, and it warmed his heart to see it. A year and a half of all black had been hard to take.

  He nodded and held out his arms. “Can I have a hug?”

  “Gun?”

  “Give me a second.” He pulled off his holster, then secured the weapon in the safe he kept on the nightstand by his bed. It opened with the press of his thumbprint.

  Katie was no longer in the hall when he came back. Typical. He grabbed the Uno cards from the closet and headed to the kitchen. His kids were chatting at the table. Kids. He was still getting used to the plural version. As he sat down and took off his shoes, he asked Katie, “Are you going to join us for a game?”

  “One game. I have more homework.”

  “That’s all Benjie has time for too.”

  “I’m not tired!” As a demonstration, the boy opened his eyes wide.

  Katie and Jackson both laughed.

  “Can I deal?” Benjie picked up the cards.

  “Sure.” Once the boy had started talking again after his trauma, Jackson had come to realize he was exceptionally smart. At least for his age.

  They played a round that lasted too long, and Benjie squealed with joy every time he drew a wild card. He also got tired of holding his cards and laid them on the table for everyone to see. Katie eventually took advantage of that and won, probably just to end the game. She high-fived her little brother and said, “You’ll get me next time.” Just the way he had taught her when she was little and got upset when he beat her at checkers. When Katie stood and did a little victory dance, her right sleeve slid up.

  What was that on her shoulder?

  Jackson glanced at his son. “Go put on your PJs and brush your teeth.” He helped the boy down from the chair to get him moving, then turned to Katie. “Show me your upper arm.”

  “Don’t freak out. Please.” Her eyes begged for understanding.

  “Show me.”

  Katie pushed up her short sleeve. The tattoo was simple black ink with the word Renee. Her dead mother. Oh god. How could he be mad? The tattoo was ugly and forever, but at least it meant something to her. “I understand. I just hope you don’t regret it someday.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll take that hug now.”

  She stepped close, and he wrapped his arms around her. Love and guilt poured out in equal measure. He’d killed her mother accidentally, in the line of duty, and for a while it had driven his daughter away. A miscarriage had brought Katie back to him, providing her with some understanding of what it was like to be responsible for another person’s life—and death. But their relationship still felt tenuous.

  “Okay.” She squirmed to get free. “That’ll hold me for a while. Back to my homework.” He watched her walk away. At least she would finish high school. And not be a teenage mother. She’d also quit drinking. The tattoo was no big deal.

  As much as he wanted to change out of his work clothes, he decided to wait until he’d looked through the victim’s phone. If he found a critical lead, he would have to go out and pursue it. Jackson grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper, a habit he’d picked up from Kera, and settled into his recliner.

  He turned on Stalling’s phone, now that the password had been disabled, and accessed his call log. That was odd. Stalling’s last call had been to 911. What the hell? The dispatcher had said a witness made the call, but obviously he’d used the victim’s phone. But why? For the same reason he’d hung up without giving a name? To protect his identity? One more person to round up and question—if they could find him.

  The three previous calls had come in the day before. Two were from the same number, identified in the contact list as Matt Sheldon—the name on the Ganja Growers business card found at the scene. Interesting. Jackson would have to question the competitor first thing tomorrow. Assuming he could find him. If Sheldon was guilty, he might be on the move or hiding out. The third call had come late, just after ten at night. The number wasn’t listed in Stalling’s contacts. Jackson switched to his own laptop and googled the number, but wasn’t able to track it down. He would have to search the databases at work.

  Scrolling through the previous days on the phone’s log revealed little. Stalling had talked with two other marijuana retail stores and twice with his sister, Shanna McCoy. But she’d said they hadn’t seen each other in a while and implied they were out of contact. Why lie, or mislead him, about that? The sister was odd, for sure. What motive did she have for murder though? To gain full ownership of the house? To get a troubled brother out of her life once and for all? Those motives didn’t seem to add up to murder. Because he hadn’t found a computer in the house, he assumed Stalling had used his phone to store his emails, notes, and other personal information. But so far, Jackson hadn’t been able to locate any files. Maybe the victim hadn’t used email. Or taken notes on his phone. Some people were simply not plugged into the digital world. Jackson was doing his best to keep up, but so far he’d only mastered texting and online searches with his phone. Someday, the department would issue phones with applications that scanned fingerprints into the database and other great features. Whatever made his job easier.

  That reminded him to check Stalling’s text messages. There were none on the morning of his death, but the night before, Stalling had contacted someone listed only as Darby: Be here by seven tomorrow.

  Who was Darby? More important, had he shown up at the nursery and started shooting? Or had he simply discovered the victims and used Stalling’s phone to call it in? Jackson needed Darby’s last name. The sister might know, but she probably wouldn’t take his call. Jackson used his own phone to call Darby’s number, but no one answered, and he didn’t leave a message. Warning the suspect that the police wanted to talk could be counterproductive. Jackson called the desk officer at headquarters. “I’m working at home, and I need a favor. Do you have time to track down some information for me?”

  “It’s a little crazy in here tonight, but I’ll try. What do you need?”

  “Everything you can find about the person connected to this phone number. I have the name Darby. Could be first or last.” Jackson rattled off the digits, thanked her, and hung up.

  A knock on his door startled him. Jackson shoved aside his laptop and pushed up from his chair. Should he get his weapon? No. It was probably a friend of Katie’s. Young people didn’t realize that nine thirty was too late to make unexpected social calls. Jackson hurried to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Deputy Arlen.”

  This wouldn’t be good. He just hoped it was information about his current investigation. Jackson put his eye to the peephole. The man visible in the motion-sensor light was dressed in a sheriff’s uniform. Jackson opened the door. “What have you got?”

  The deputy held out a stack of papers. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re being sued.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Thursday, Dece
mber 3, 6:00 a.m.

  Jackson forced himself out of bed and stumbled across the room to shut off the alarm. Getting by on a few hours of sleep felt a lot worse than it used to. Every year since turning forty, his body had betrayed him in a new way. He took a lukewarm shower to wake himself up, then looked for prednisone in the medicine cabinet. The prescription bottle was empty. He hadn’t taken it in a year, because he’d been mostly pain-free, and his last CT scan had shown the fibrosis receding. But the ache had settled into his kidneys again, and he needed to schedule another scan. Was this growth going to kill him after all?

  He felt an unsettling sense of guilt for letting Benjie bond to him. The boy couldn’t afford to lose another parent. What the hell had he done? Jackson dressed and strapped on his weapon. He’d been in remission when Benjie had come into his life, and hadn’t thought about the retroperitoneal fibrosis coming back. But he’d beat it once, and maybe he’d get lucky again.

  After brewing a pot of dark coffee, he grabbed the paper from the doorstep and sat down at the dining room table. The subpoena from the night before lay there like a ticking bomb. The civil lawsuit, filed by Renee’s fiancé, accused Jackson of wrongful death and demanded two hundred thousand in compensation for Ivan Anderson’s loss. Holy crap.

  Anderson had not named the Eugene Police Department as a co-defendant, so Jackson couldn’t expect help from the city. Even if a judge ruled in his favor, the lawyer fees would eat up the equity from the sale of his house. He’d be starting his new life with Kera without any cushion, living paycheck to paycheck again. And if he lost the lawsuit, the state would garnish his checks to pay Anderson. As an investment banker, the prick probably didn’t even need the money.

  Was this about Renee’s life insurance? His ex-wife’s policy had been worth fifty thousand and had gone to Katie, with the stipulation that it go into a trust until she was twenty-one, unless his daughter went to college and used the money for tuition. Did Renee’s fiancé feel cheated? Was he trying to get his hands on Katie’s inheritance? Greedy bastard!

  Jackson made a quick call to the lawyer who’d handled his divorce and left him a message, then grabbed the newspaper, looking for something to take his mind off the lawsuit. The above-the-fold story featured a huge photo of the farmhouse where the two victims had been shot. Jackson glanced at the byline. Sophie Speranza. Of course. She’d been covering the crime beat for years, and he’d grudgingly developed some respect for her tenacity and courage in digging up the whole truth of a story. But she still pissed him off on occasion.

  He read the first sentence: A man was killed and a woman critically injured in a shooting early Wednesday morning at a marijuana growing operation on River Loop 2.

  How the hell did she know about the victims? Jackson called Jackie Matthews, the department’s spokesperson. She didn’t answer, so he left her a message, asking for a return call. He didn’t believe Jackie had given anyone in the media those details, but he had to ask. If not her, then who? He skimmed the rest of the article. It didn’t bother him that Sophie had gone to the crime scene, but the level of detail surprised him. The news article mentioned that Paulson, the old guy in custody, had threatened to bring a lawsuit against Stalling and that another neighbor claimed to have heard Paulson threaten to shoot Stalling. The same unidentified source also reported seeing a large dark-gray vehicle leaving the crime scene at 7:10 a.m.

  Why the hell was he reading this in the newspaper? He’d assigned Quince to follow up with questioning the neighbors, and he should have gone out there last night. How had Sophie managed to connect with the talkative witness? Jackson started to call her, but Benjie padded into the room, and the sound of his little feet softened Jackson’s heart.

  “Hey, pal. Did you have a good sleep?”

  “I dreamed I was in the closet again.” The boy’s lip trembled.

  Jackson pulled him into his lap and hugged him. “You’re safe here, and someday those dreams will stop.”

  Benjie squeezed him tightly for a minute, then suddenly struggled to get down. “I have to pee.” As the boy ran down the hall, Jackson smiled and started making scrambled eggs.

  Forty minutes later, he dropped off Benjie at Kera’s and drove Katie to the high school. She had her license now, but he hadn’t bought her a car yet. It was time. For legal reasons, he couldn’t let her drive his city-issued vehicle, and out of personal fear, he wouldn’t let her drive his painstakingly restored ’69 GTO. Even though his daughter had helped him build the three-wheeled motorcycle he also owned, she didn’t want to drive it. Too cold and too challenging. So she needed her own little car. That scared him more than anything he’d been through with her.

  When both kids were on their way, he headed downtown and used his earpiece to call the reporter.

  She picked up after a few rings. “Detective Jackson. Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  He reminded himself to be nice. “Good morning, Sophie. I need the name of the witness you talked to.”

  “Alexa Tattriona. She’s in the house right before the crime scene, same side of the road.”

  Jackson repeated the name in his head, wishing he could make a note of it. “Did she tell you anything that wasn’t in your news story this morning?”

  “I reported everything I had.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “No, I talked to her in person. I got lucky and caught her at home.” Sophie let out a little laugh. “Hey, this is different. It’s usually me asking you for information.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have anything for you yet.” He remembered another detail. “How do you know a man and a woman were shot and that the woman survived?”

  A long pause, with water running in the background. Jackson glanced at the time: 7:45. She was probably still at home.

  Finally, she said, “I have a source that listens to the sheriff’s department’s radio transmissions. He told me.”

  That was why his department had starting encrypting theirs. One deputy had been at the scene yesterday, but it still surprised him that he’d known and shared the information. This wasn’t the first time Sophie had gotten access to information that should have been confidential. Someone was leaking it to her. It sure as hell wasn’t Schak, but Evans sometimes talked to the reporter. He would pursue the issue more diligently this time.

  “Do you have Clark Paulson in custody?” the reporter asked.

  “We do. But he hasn’t been charged with anything but making a threat.”

  “What are the victims’ names?”

  He had to give her something, and the dead man’s family had been notified. “Josh Stalling died at the scene.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet.” Jackson turned onto Country Club Road, a minute from the department. “Will you text me the neighbor’s name?” Sophie would know the correct spelling.

  “Sure.”

  He heard her start a blender. “Bye.” He hung up.

  After passing the golf course, he turned left into the parking lot of the new department. It didn’t feel like home yet, but he was starting to really appreciate a lot of little things—most of all, the elbow room. He hurried inside and up the stairs, planning to spend only a few minutes. Now that he had the neighbor’s name and knew she’d seen a car leaving the crime scene, he wanted to drive out there and talk to her himself.

  When Jackson entered the Violent Crimes area, Schak stood up in his cubicle. “Did you see Speranza’s front-page story?”

  “Yeah. It was unnerving to get leads from the newspaper.”

  “Do we know the witness’ name?”

  Jackson entered his workspace and turned on his computer. “Alexa Tattriona. I’m heading out there in a few minutes. Will you find out what you can about her, in case she’s at work this morning?”

  “Will do.” Schak hesitated, still standing on the other side of the cube wall. “Any other updates?”

  “Stalling texted someone named
Darby the night before the shooting and asked him to come out there early the next day. So Darby could be the perp. Or maybe just the witness who called it in.” Jackson sat down and pulled up the citizen database on his monitor. “I’m looking for Darby right now.”

  Schak sat down and talked through the wall. “I’ll find Alexa. How do you spell the last name?”

  Jackson pulled out his phone and saw that Sophie had sent him the name. “I’ll text it to you.” Schak would read texts, but he refused to respond, claiming his thumbs were too big to work the tiny keyboard.

  “I don’t know why you thought that was easier,” his partner mumbled.

  Jackson ignored him and keyed Darby’s phone number into the search field. Moments later, he had a last name: Sigler. The man’s address came up too, in connection with a police report he’d filed two years earlier. His bike and cell phone had been stolen downtown but never recovered. Jackson remembered all the bike parts and likely stolen items in the attic at Stalling’s home. Did Darby Sigler know his acquaintance, or employer, had once been a thief?

  Jackson hit Print, picked up the data sheet, then walked back to Schak’s cube. “Hey, did you find Alexa Tattriona?”

  His partner turned. “She’s the owner of Media Marketing Consultants. It’s downtown.”

  He knew the building. “Thanks. What else have you got going today?”

  “I’m taking the financial subpoenas for the sister and her boyfriend to Judge Cranston this afternoon. He’s in court now.”

  “Good. This morning, I need you to find Darby Sigler.” Jackson handed him the printout over the wall. “When you find him, call me, and I can meet you.” He grabbed his satchel. “I’m heading out to chat with Tattriona and hoping to catch her at home this morning. I may stop at the crime scene too while I’m out there. I want to look at the nursery again.”

  “I have the key.” Schak pulled it out of his black briefcase. He’d replaced the case over the years, but he refused to carry anything with a shoulder strap.

  “Keep me posted.” Jackson pulled on his overcoat and headed out. The wind cut through the lightweight material, and he hurried to his car. Once inside, he downed the last of the coffee in his thermos. December had become the coldest month of the year. His thoughts turned to Sergeant Dan Thompson, who used to pass out warm jackets and blankets to homeless people every winter. He’d been murdered and wasn’t here to fulfill the tradition this year. Maybe he and Schak should take up the cause to honor the fallen officer.