Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  After downing the rest of her tea, she jumped up and pulled on her red leather jacket. She wanted to see the pot farm up close. The cops and technicians would be gone, and she needed a better idea of the operation’s size. Now that she knew about the out-of-state investors wanting to develop growing spaces, the business’ square footage and sales volume were important details. She stepped over to Brian’s cube, but the photographer wasn’t in. She called him, and he didn’t answer, so she left a message asking him to meet her at the crime scene if he could. Over the years, Brian had become a good friend, and she wondered where the hell he was. He was a little spacey at times, but rarely late for work. Maybe he had a photo shoot already scheduled.

  It rained buckets on the drive out, then abruptly stopped as she parked her car. Nice. Thank you, universe. Sophie climbed out, noting the two civilian cars were gone too. Probably towed to the crime lab. Her girlfriend, Jasmine, could be searching those vehicles at that very moment. Sophie trotted up the wood steps to the covered porch and looked in both windows. Detectives had emptied drawers and moved furniture in their search the day before. She tried the door. Locked.

  Sophie hurried around the corner of the house, her red pumps not doing well on the slick, muddy gravel path. Oh well. She carried a roll of paper towels in her Scion—always. When she neared the back of the house, the nursery building came into view. Long and plain with cheap metal siding and a nearly flat roof. A utilitarian building if there ever was one. She took out her notepad and jotted down a description, then took six photos with the big camera. The interior of the building was what mattered. She hurried to the door, where a piece of yellow crime-scene tape had been torn down. When she turned the knob, it gave, and the door opened. A lucky break.

  The ripe odor of wet dirt and decay made her blink as she stepped in. The sight shocked her. Rows and rows of brownish-black pot plants, all in some stage of dying. Had Jackson’s team destroyed the crop? That surprised her. Pot was legal now, and everything in this room was evidence. Sophie started snapping photos. First, the dead plants, then she looked for where the bodies had lain. She spotted side-by-side reddish-brown stains on the floor near the workbench. That must be it. She took photos from various angles and proximities. Brian would have taken perfect pictures, but several of these would end up on the website.

  The two victims had been close together, but the man had died, and the woman had walked out of the hospital before the day was over. They hadn’t been shot for the crop—or the killer would have taken it. The tops, where the buds were, could have been hacked off and bagged in about fifteen minutes. Had this crime been about control of the new marijuana market? Sophie turned away from the bloody floor and stepped over to a dead plant in a five-gallon black-plastic bucket. Law enforcement typically burned the pot crops they seized. These plants looked poisoned, as if someone had used a toxic weed killer on them.

  She looked around the room. Fifty or sixty dead plants. Whatever had been dumped on them had acted fast. She dug through her purse until she found a tiny plastic bag where she kept a small container of makeup. After removing the foundation, she pinched off a dead bud and slipped it into the bag. Could a lab detect what had killed the plants? Who would she take the sample to? Her ex-boyfriend was a professor at Lane Community College and knew people at all the local universities. She would call him for advice. They’d parted on decent terms, and thinking about him made her a little horny. Sex with men was better than sex with women, but relationships with people of her own gender were much more satisfying.

  Sophie took a few more photos, then stepped out of the crude nursery. She reached for her phone to make a call, and it rang in her hand. The photographer finally getting back to her. “Hey, Brian.”

  “Sorry I missed your call. I’m at the hospital. My son is really sick.” Her friend sounded closer to tears than she’d ever heard. And they had witnessed some devastating scenes together.

  “Oh no. I’m sorry. What’s wrong with him?”

  “They don’t know. But it’s really bad.” Brian let out a strange noise, then was quiet while he got himself together. “Sophie, I think it’s my fault.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  Jesus. How bad was it? “Okay.”

  “I bought some pot brownies for a get-together I had the other night. Just a few friends watching the play-offs. There was one brownie left over, and I put it in a kitchen cabinet. Shane got into it.” Brian started to cry. “I didn’t know pot could make kids this sick.”

  His emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Sophie was glad she wasn’t having this conversation in person. “How sick?”

  “It’s like he’s been poisoned. He keeps vomiting, and his blood pressure has dropped really low.”

  Poison. And pot. Again. Her reporter brain kicked in, and she started pulling ideas together. “I’m heading out there. It sounds like you need some support. What room are you guys in?”

  “Intensive care, three twenty-five.”

  “I’m on my way.” She hung up, mentally rescheduling her day.

  At the medical complex, Sophie drove into the parking garage, thinking about the shooting victim who’d left the hospital the night before. Kayla Benson. Maybe she could get more information about her while she was here. What if she landed an interview with the victim? A first-person account of the shooting would make great copy. For now, she would ask Brian about the pot brownie and where it had come from. The dead plants and the poisoned brownie were not likely connected, but she had to check out both incidents.

  She found Brian and Shane at the end of a long hall in the ICU. Her friend looked awful. Uncombed hair, red blotches on his face, and a stained T-shirt. She’d never seen him outside of work before. The worry in his eyes was evident, so she hugged him. “It’s going to be okay.” She didn’t know that, but people needed to hear it.

  Pivoting to the hospital bed, she braced herself. The boy was about six and had an IV line in each wrist. His pale skin and platinum-blond hair blended into the white sheets, as though he were slowly disappearing, leaving only the medical equipment behind. Would he ever open his eyes again? How heartbreaking for his father. Sophie turned back to Brian. “What do the doctors say?”

  “Not much yet. They’re running blood tests and trying to determine the toxin.” Brian slumped back into the visitors’ chair. “In between bouts of vomiting, he’s completely out of it, like he’s in a coma. He’s also not breathing well, but they’re afraid to put in a tube because of the vomiting.”

  She realized Brian had slept in the room. “Where’s your wife and daughters?”

  “In California, on a field trip with their Scout troop. But I called Trish, and they’re headed back.” Brian hung his head in shame. “She never leaves me alone with the kids for any length of time, because she thinks I can’t handle it. And she’s obviously right.”

  “Until you know for sure what’s going on, there’s no point in blaming yourself.”

  “That’s what the nurse says. She’s seen other kids who’ve eaten pot-laced candy, and they get sick, but not like this.”

  Had she been supportive enough to switch into reporter mode already? She went for it. “Did he eat the whole brownie?”

  “Yes.” Brian fought back tears. “The nurses asked me the same thing. I wish I had a piece of it for a lab test.” His eyes locked onto hers. “None of my friends got sick. I didn’t get sick. So if there was something in the brownie, it was just that one.”

  “They were individually wrapped?”

  He nodded.

  “It might be some kind of product tampering.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Brian winced. “But maybe I’m just trying to let myself off the hook.”

  “Where did you buy the brownies?”

  “At Herbal Solutions. But they’re made by Hightones, a local bakery.”

  She jotted down both names. Had the same psycho nutcase shot a pot gr
ower and poisoned his crop? “I’m going to ask the hospital staff some questions, okay?”

  He mustered a weak smile. “It’s what you do.”

  Sophie gave a little smile back. “I hope I can help figure this out.” She left the room, trying not to hurry too much.

  Out in the hall, she headed back to the main nurses’ station. A group of women in yellow scrubs, plus one female doctor in a white overcoat, stood in the L-shaped area, discussing two patients. Sophie got as close as she could, then stopped and pulled out her phone. She kept her head down, pretending to be texting with someone while she listened to their conversation.

  “He has the same symptoms as the older female patient,” said a young nurse, who looked fresh out of college.

  “Her name’s Denise Lammers,” a tall older nurse added.

  “Give the boy activated charcoal every hour and atropine if his vitals get too low,” the doctor responded. “That’s all we can do until we have lab results.”

  “But if it’s not a common poison, the lab won’t tell us anything.” The older nurse sounded upset.

  “Denise is getting worse,” the young nurse said. “Her blood pressure is low, and her heart rate is forty-two.”

  “Give her another dose of atropine.”

  “I think we should notify the police.” The older nurse crossed her arms.

  “That’s premature.” The doctor stepped back, prepared to leave. “They ingested different things.”

  “Maybe not.” The older nurse stepped toward the doctor and lowered her voice. “What if Denise lied to us because she didn’t want to admit she’d consumed a marijuana brownie?”

  Two cases of product tampering? A surge of energy shot through Sophie’s chest.

  “I’ll go ask her.” The doctor spun and walked down the hall.

  Sophie hurried after her. She knew the name Denise Lammers, but she hadn’t placed it yet. The doctor turned into a room near the ICU entry. Sophie stood outside the door, staring at the phone in her hand and listening hard. She couldn’t believe no one had approached her about what the hell she was doing. But her small size and pixie face made her seem harmless. And everyone on staff seemed preoccupied.

  Inside the room, the doctor spoke to the patient, but there was no response. At least that Sophie could hear. A moment later, the doctor came back out and glanced at her. “Are you here to see Denise?”

  “Yes, we’re coworkers. How is she?”

  “Still unconscious. But you can go in for a while. Sometimes talking to patients will bring them out of it.”

  “Thanks.” Sophie nodded and hurried into the room. As soon as she saw the woman in bed, she recognized her. Jackson’s boss. Sergeant Lammers had been the one to finally make Jackson sit down with her for an interview. It had taken him years to get over that forced encounter and be nice to her. What the hell? Had Lammers ingested a pot brownie—or another type of marijuana? Now that it was legal, all kinds of people were smoking and eating it. But a police sergeant? A full surge of adrenaline this time. What a story!

  “What are you doing in here?” A woman had come into the room. She was gray-haired, plump, and wearing baggy clothes.

  “Just checking on Denise.” Sophie offered her most charming smile. “She’s an acquaintance.”

  A scowl. “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie Speranza. And yours?”

  Wide-eyed alarm. “You can’t report this!”

  “Did you know a six-year-old boy was also poisoned? His name is Shane, and he’s down the hall. His father thinks he’s going to die.” Sophie had to get this woman to realize how important the truth was.

  “That’s terrible, but what does this have to do with me? Or Denise?”

  “Denise and Shane have the same symptoms. The doctor was just in here trying to question Denise about what she consumed.”

  Rapid blinking.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Susan.”

  “Susan, if Denise ate a pot brownie, you have to tell the doctors. What if some freak is tampering with those products? More people could get sick.”

  “Oh dear.” Susan turned and gazed at the woman in the hospital bed.

  Such love! They were partners.

  “I’m sorry, Denise.” After apologizing to her unconscious lover, Susan turned back to Sophie. “Yes. She has a medical marijuana card for pain, and she ate a brownie.” Susan clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Please don’t report that. Or at least don’t use her name. Denise could lose her job.”

  Sophie glanced at the sergeant. She looked like she could lose her life first. “I’ll protect her as much as I can.” Sophie didn’t know if she could keep that promise. The readers came first.

  Susan nodded. “You should tell Detective Evans about the sick boy. She’s investigating the pot stores to find the source of the poison.” The woman searched her purse as she talked. “I have her card in here somewhere.”

  “I have Evans’ number.” Would the detective trade information with her? Maybe not. “Will you answer a few more questions?”

  Susan stepped toward a recliner, where she’d left a book and a sweater. “I’d rather not. This is very stressful for me.”

  “I understand. Thanks for your time.” Sophie hurried out. She couldn’t wait to start writing the new copy. She would contact Detective Evans on the way. Maybe someone needed to recall all the brownies from pot stores until they figured this out. As Sophie was walking to her car, her editor called.

  “Hey, Karl.”

  “There’s a hostage standoff going on right now with a full SWAT response. On Larkspur. Get out there now.”

  Good grief! Another front-page story. Sophie’s pulse accelerated before she even started jogging through the parking garage. “I’m on my way. What else can you tell me?”

  “The man with the gun is a veteran named Conner Harron, and the police have evacuated the street. One of his neighbors called us.” Karl swore at someone in the background, then asked, “Do you know where the hell Brian is?”

  Oh shit. She wasn’t sure what her coworker had told their boss. “His kid is really sick.”

  “It would be nice for him to let me know.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a decent camera with me. I can take photos.”

  “Do that. But I’ll see if I can get another photographer out there.”

  He meant one of the sports photographers. They hated doing coverage that didn’t involve a game of some kind. “I’ll get some good shots. I did okay with the shooting scene, didn’t I?”

  “I want to do better than okay.”

  “Right. See you later.” Sophie climbed into her car. What a crazy week this was turning into. Her job was like that though. Some weeks, she had nothing, so she sat in court and covered criminal trials. And other times—like last summer, when they had five murders in one month—she couldn’t keep up with the back-to-back crimes and had to get help from an intern. But she wouldn’t ask yet. She could handle both stories, even if she had to work around the clock.

  CHAPTER 18

  Thursday, December 3, 12:12 p.m.

  Evans pulled into the complex on the corner of Second and Chambers and willed herself to be calm. Being at the training facility, which doubled as a 911 call center, always made her feel amped, but the SWAT callout had given her a jolt of adrenaline. The big armored truck—affectionately called Barney because of its deep-violet hue—sat in the side lot, ready to be boarded.

  She jogged toward the building, where officers were spilling out in full SWAT gear, many wearing camo. Several nodded as she rushed inside. At her locker, she quickly changed into her fatigues, unconcerned with finding a private place. As the only woman on the team, she didn’t ask for special privileges or treatment. A male officer walked by the end of the locker aisle without a glance at her. Evans pulled on boots and a Kevlar vest, shoved her dress clothes into a locker, and hurried into the supply room.

  “First callout?” An older sergea
nt grinned as he handed her an assault rifle, a radio, and a flash-bang grenade.

  “Yep. Where are we headed?”

  “Larkspur, off Norkenzie. The latest word is that the suspect is holed up inside his house.”

  Still wearing her Sig Sauer on her waist, Evans strapped the rifle across her back. She might have to shoot someone today—for the first time in her career. Not a pleasant thought. But most critical-incident situations were resolved peacefully. The negotiators were excellent at their jobs. Her role was on the hasty team, a frontline position that meant she would be one of the first to enter the house—if that was called for. It was an honor to be trusted with that responsibility. But it was more about the fact that she didn’t have enough training to qualify as a sniper. Her specialty—and every SWAT member had one—was agile entry. Being smaller and more flexible than her peers, she would be the one to crawl in through a dog door or ventilation system. She was also skilled at tossing a flash bomb through small openings and hitting her target. A spot on the team had to be earned, and she’d worked her ass off for it. That was part of what had gone wrong with her and Ben. He’d been busy with his son’s activities, and she’d spent all her free time training for the SWAT physical and specialty maneuvers.

  Evans strode outside and checked in with Sergeant Bruckner—a wall of muscle with a shaved head and a big voice—then joined the hasty team in the back of the rig. Two of the men talked animatedly about a sports game they’d watched recently, but the other nine were quiet. She sat next to Officer Callow, said a quick hello, then kept quiet too. She didn’t want to be labeled as a talkative woman.

  “We’re rolling out,” Bruckner called from the parking lot. He closed Barney’s back door, and it latched with a loud thud. The sound vibrated through her body with finality. No turning back. Not only was this the day she might shoot someone, it was also the day she might die on the job. She’d faced plenty of those as a patrol officer, but none had been expected. She’d never purposely put herself in harm’s way before—not counting the time she’d boarded a moving airplane piloted by a killer.