“It doesn’t matter now.” Derrick pushed up more slowly. “I heard you got divorced too.”
“Renee’s drinking became such a problem I had to kick her out. Worst day of my life.” His wife and daughter had cried and called him names as he packed Renee’s belongings. He wondered if Derrick’s wife had left him for the same reason.
Without commenting, his brother started down the hall. Jackson followed him to the small bedroom that had once been his. The room had been painted pink and turned into a sewing space long before his parents’ death, so Jackson was past being sentimental about it. Now it held a large set of weights and a pile of dusty boxes, all sealed with tape and labeled in his own handwriting. He dreaded this process, which would be both tedious and disturbing. He turned to Derrick. “Would you like to help?”
“Maybe in a minute. I have some things to do first.”
Jackson wondered why Derrick seemed to have Tuesday off. “Where are you working these days?”
“I’ve been unemployed for a year.” Derrick held out his hands in a gesture that said, Look around here, idiot. “Eugene has no middle-management jobs, or anything else, but I only recently quit looking.” Derrick abruptly walked out, leaving Jackson to face the memories alone.
Eventually, he would examine everything in the boxes, but he wanted to start with personal letters and the contents from his mother’s desk. She had been a hoarder who could never throw out anything she thought might be important. Derrick obviously had inherited that gene. Jackson found a box labeled Letters and used his utility knife to cut open the tape. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he pulled out bundled stacks of letters. Some dated back to his mother’s years in college. Others were from his various aunts. Many were Christmas cards only. Jackson remembered sitting in this house with Derrick, boxing up everything and hoping to cauterize the wound of their death. He had suggested they throw away the old letters and his brother had refused.
Starting with the most recent stack, he untied the blue ribbon holding the letters together and pulled the top one out of its envelope. It was from his Aunt Irene. Jackson skimmed it, thinking that reading incoming mail might be less revealing than reading his mother’s outgoing mail. Unless the killer had written to her. His parents had purchased a computer about three months before they died but neither had set up an email account. They claimed they bought the PC for shopping online and checking the news and weather in Missouri, his father’s home state.
After a half hour of skimming through family updates, Jackson stood to stretch his legs. Not only did it feel wrong to read personal information intended for his mother, it also seemed like a waste of time. He opened the bedroom window and sat back down with a box marked Financial. He decided to switch back and forth to keep from getting burnt out.
He’d seen some of the bank statements a week or so after the funeral. He and Derrick had consulted his parents’ lawyer and accessed their finances. They’d had less cash in the bank than Jackson expected. At the time, he’d felt guilty because they’d paid for two years of community college for him and later loaned him money to put Renee into a treatment program. They’d acted like they had plenty. Was that a façade or had they spent large sums on something else? Had someone been blackmailing them? Even more unthinkable, did one of them have a gambling problem? Either way, Jackson didn’t see why any of those circumstances would lead to murder. None of it made sense.
After an hour of reading through bank statements, IRA paperwork, and cancelled checks, Jackson had discovered nothing of significance. None of the cash withdrawals seemed large enough to be significant. He learned that his father wrote checks to the Mission and that his mother had given money regularly to Planned Parenthood. He would have to tell Kera that. She was a nurse at the local Planned Parenthood clinic and knew how important those donations were.
Jackson’s stomach grumbled, making him think it was time to get some lunch. Yet he felt like he had missed something. What would he be doing if this were a current case? Then it hit him. He would have subpoenaed the victims’ phone records in addition to their financial statements. Knowing his parents, they had kept all of their monthly bills for at least seven years. Jackson dug around until he found a box labeled Bills. He almost laughed out loud. He had tried to convince Derrick to throw all this away, and any normal person would have.
He cut open the box, found a bundled stack of phone bills dating back to January, 1993, then realized that landline phone statements back then didn’t include a detailed listing of every call going in and out, just the long distance calls. Crap. He wondered if Quest would still have the records and if the company would release them without a court order. It was worth a call. Jackson grabbed the box of personal letters and carried it out to the hall, planning to go through the rest that evening.
Derrick sat at a computer in the bedroom across the hall. A bottle of dark ale was open on the desk next to him. Jackson called out to his backside, “I’m taking some letters with me so I can look at them at home.”
Derrick spun around. “Why can’t you look at them here?”
“Because it’s a long and tedious task and I don’t want to spend my work hours doing it. I’ll bring the letters back, unless they become evidence in the case.”
“I know I have to let go of that stuff eventually, but it’s all I have of them.”
Except their house, Jackson thought. “What do you have going on today?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I thought we might go out to lunch.”
“Now we’re going to be pals? Like the last ten years never happened?”
“We have to start somewhere.”
“Maybe some other time.” Derrick took a long pull of beer.
“I called you a couple times over the years, but you didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.”
“What happened, Derrick? How did you get like this?”
His brother let out a bitter laugh. “You mean drinking at home on a Tuesday morning?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Let’s see.” Derrick mockingly held a finger to his mouth as if pondering the question. “My parents were murdered. My brother stopped talking to me. My wife left me, and my employer laid me off after seventeen years of loyal service. I’ve applied for a hundred and sixty-two jobs in the last year and in response, I received three phone calls, two no-thank-you emails, and one interview.”
“A hundred and sixty-two?” Jackson was stunned…and skeptical.
“I’ll show you the damn Excel file.” Derrick was working up some hostility.
“I believe you. I just didn’t know the job situation here was that bad.”
“I don’t want your pity. Why don’t you get out of here?” His brother pivoted back to his computer. “I’ve got porn to watch.”
At a loss for an intelligent or snappy comeback, Jackson walked away.
Out in the yard, he heard voices in the house next door that belonged to the Brickmyers. Jackson cut across the lawns and knocked on the door. He’d stopped by late yesterday afternoon, but no one had been home.
A woman yanked open the door, her face transmitting exasperation. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I need to ask you some questions about a crime that happened next door eleven years ago.”
Confusion replaced her exasperation but only for a moment. “Can it wait? I’m trying to get three kids ready for school. They have a late start today, but they still need to be on time.”
In the background, a child yelled, “I’m telling.”
Jackson had a flash of guilt about interrupting her busy schedule, but he suspected there would never be a better time. “Sorry, but this can’t wait. I’m investigating a homicide.”
Her face softened. “I remember it. Come in.” She stepped back and let him pass through. “We’ll talk while I make lunches.”
As Jacks
on followed her to the kitchen, a boy of around ten scampered up to his mother, asking where his backpack was. She told him to check the laundry room. Jackson sat at the table, still covered with half-empty cereal bowls, and took out his notepad. “What’s your name and how long have you lived here?”
“Angie Brickmyer. We bought the house in February of 2000. That was before we had kids.” She gave him rueful smile.
“Your neighbors were murdered on September 23, 2000. Where were you that day?”
“I was home sleeping. I’m a CNA and I worked a lot of graveyard back then.” She frowned suddenly. “They caught the guy and he went to prison. Why are you asking this now?”
“New evidence has been discovered and the case is open again.”
“Did the guy have an accomplice?”
The idea hadn’t occurred to him. “What makes you ask?”
She shrugged. “The killer confessed, so what else could it be?”
“Did you hear anything unusual that afternoon?”
“No. I woke up when I heard the sirens coming down the street.” Angie spread peanut butter on row of bread slices as she talked. “That was before the kids. I was a heavy sleeper.”
“Did you see a car parked outside your house that day?
“Not that I remember.”
“Did you know Clark and Evelyn Jackson?”
“Not really. We’d only been in the neighborhood a couple of months. I’d met them both and they seemed real nice, but we didn’t socialize.”
“Had you noticed any change in their behavior? Any new visitors at the house?”
“No. Sorry.” She looked up at him with a hint of sadness. “We were shocked to learn our neighbors had been shot dead in their living room. But then they caught the guy right away and it wasn’t some random home invasion, so we decided to stay.
“Did the police question you?”
“Briefly, but I didn’t know anything then either.”
“Did you call the police and report seeing someone leave the victims’ house?”
“No. Like I said, I was sleeping that afternoon.”
A different young boy ran into the kitchen, crying. Jackson thanked Mrs. Brickmyer and left. The source of the anonymous tip mystified him. None of the neighbors had made the call. Jackson started to think the man in the blue sedan had reported seeing Hector Vargas leave the house. But why? Unless he was the killer and hoped to frame the handyman for the crime.
Chapter 11
Tuesday, September 7, 2:35 p.m.
Evans jogged down the stairs, pulling on her jacket, then blinked in the bright sun. She was discouraged to learn Gina Stahl had attempted suicide in the months before the alleged attack. Now she had to seriously consider that Gina may have tried to kill herself, ended up in a coma instead, and was now seeking revenge on her ex-husband by blaming him.
Gina’s neighbors had reluctantly relayed the story of the first attempt. Gina had called them in a sleepy voice to say she had taken too much medicine. They’d come running over and rushed Gina, still conscious, to the emergency room. They told the admitting nurse it was an accident but afterward, they had their doubts. When Gloria found Gina the night she went into the coma, she assumed it was a suicide attempt and reported it that way to the emergency call-taker. Now Gloria believed Gina’s accusations about her ex, but Evans was trying to stay open-minded. Anyone who took an overdose of tranquilizers had some kind of problem. What had Dragoo said about Gina? Crazy as a bag of weasels. It didn’t make Bekker any less revolting but he might not be a killer.
As Evans moved up the sidewalk toward the Geezer, the apartment manager came running out of her unit. “Detective.”
Evans saw that she had a small paper sack in her hand.
The manager shoved it at her. “I remembered after you left that I had some of Gina’s mail. The new tenant collected it for a while and turned it into the office. Will you please give it to Gina?”
“I will. Thanks.”
In the car, Evans riffled through the envelopes. A utility bill, two letters from Chase Bank, a bill from Oregon Medical Group, and a plain white envelope with no return address. It struck her as odd and she itched to open it. Gina had given her permission to go through the mail at her parents’ house, so she figured it extended to this mail too. She tore open the plain envelope. The letter was from a local credit union, requesting payment on a $4000 loan, with the threat of turning the debt over to a collection agency. Evans started the car, cranked on the air conditioning, then promptly opened all the mail. She discovered Gina had been overdrawn at the bank and behind on her bills. She owed Oregon Medical Group $2246 for doctor visits and lab fees.
Evans started to rethink her assumptions. Had Gina’s financial troubles somehow led to an attempt on her life? Was Gary Bekker a convenient, but still evil, scapegoat? It was time for another chat with the victim.
On the drive to Rosehill Care Center, Evans left Jackson a message, asking him to call back. She often worked homicides in which Jackson was the lead, and she missed having him and the other detectives to brainstorm with. As much as she’d learned from him already, she felt in need of guidance. She still had two law enforcement men to question: the retired officer who had given Bekker his alibi and the detective who had seen Bekker at a prostitute’s house. She had to keep chipping at the blue wall of silence.
She pulled off the freeway onto Q Street in Springfield and witnessed a homeless man urinating in the parking lot of an insurance office. She understood the sentiment, but thank God his lawlessness was not her problem. She’d had her fill of drunks and assholes as a patrol officer.
Once inside the care center, she learned Gina was in a session in the heated physical therapy pool. Evans went to Gina’s room to wait. She read through her notes and ate a few more bites of her Luna bar. When her phone rang, she wanted it to be Jackson but she didn’t recognize the number.
A male voice said, “This is Pete Casaway, returning your call. How are you, Evans?”
“I’m good. Thanks for getting back to me.” She hesitated. “I need to talk about an old case. Will you meet me somewhere?”
“What’s it about?”
“Sergeant Gary Bekker.”
“What has the prick done now?”
His hostility gave her spirits a lift, so she plunged right in. “You provided Bekker with an alibi for the night his wife went into a coma. I’d like to hear about that evening.” Evans dug in her bag for her recorder as she talked.
“You’re asking me if I lied?” Casaway scoffed. “Even if I did, why would I admit it now?”
“Gina woke from her coma and says Bekker tried to kill her. I’m investigating and I need to know the truth.” Evans held the recorder up to her cell phone, doubtful that it would be effective.
“You’ll never pin it on him, and I have no intention of setting myself up for an obstruction of justice charge.” Someone started talking in the background and Casaway said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait.” Evans frantically searched for the right thing to say. “You won’t be charged, I promise. You’re not in the brotherhood anymore, so you don’t have to worry about retaliation. I’m putting my career on the line here.”
“Why?
“Bekker is a criminal and needs to be stopped, but I won’t even be allowed to question him unless his alibi falls through.”
After a long silence, she heard a door close, as if Casaway had stepped outside. “This is officially off the record, okay? I’m only telling you because I came to despise Bekker and the way he treated people.”
Evans wanted to know about the people Bekker had mistreated, but first she had to hear Casaway recant the alibi. “Okay, it’s off the record.”
“I saw Bekker that night at the Sixth Street Bar and Grill. That was true, but I saw him around seven o’clock and not again after that. He came to me a few days after his wife was hospitalized and asked me to make a statement and fudge the time a little. Gina’s parents had gone to
IA and accused Bekker of trying to kill her. At the time, the claim seemed outrageous and I wanted to help put it to rest.”
“But it doesn’t seem outrageous to you now?”
“I have less respect for him now. That doesn’t mean he’s a killer, but you deserve a chance to interrogate him.”
“Anything specific you’d like to share with me?”
He ignored the question. “You’ll never build a case against him after two years, but you may get him fired and that would be good.”
“Tell me about the people you said he mistreated.”
“I don’t have time. I’ve got a security shift to work. Good luck.” Casaway clicked off.
Evans shut off her recorder and hoped she had something to play for Lammers. She quickly made notes of the conversation. While she was writing, Jackson called back. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a case that’s getting ugly and I could use your guidance. Can we meet today?”
“I’m on hold with Quest, trying to track down old phone records. What about five or so?”
“Should we have dinner? I’ll be working late.”
“I’ll check with Katie. If she has other plans, we’ll go somewhere to eat and talk.”
“Sounds good. Keep me posted.”
The thought of having dinner with Jackson in a restaurant gave her a surge of pleasure. It might just be a business meeting, but still, it would be their first meal alone together.
Evans was feeling upbeat when Gina rolled into the room in a wheelchair with her physical therapist pushing. Gina smiled when she saw her. “Hey, Detective. I got into the pool and moved my arms and legs. I can’t tell you how wonderful that felt.”
“That’s great. It sounds like your recovery is going well.” Evans felt like an asshole for what she was about to ask.
“She’s making stunning progress,” the physical therapist said. “She’ll be using a walker in a few days.” The therapist flipped the side of the wheelchair down, helped Gina into bed, and left.
“I talked to your old neighbors, the Hutchins,” Evans said gently. “They told me about Gary Bekker stalking you. They also said you tried to kill yourself before.”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 9