“For the moment. I need you at the scene to make sure everything is covered.”
“I’m up on Fox Hollow, so it’ll take a while, but I’m on my way.”
Jackson kept driving. A flood of emotions raced through him. He was stunned that Gina had been killed and felt guilty the department hadn’t protected her better. His adrenaline kicked in and he was eager to get to the crime scene and start working it. Yet he resented being pulled off his parents’ case just as he was about to break it wide open.
Jackson made the turn on Murdock Road. He was only ten minutes from Durkin’s house. He might as well grab him and drop him off on his way. Anyone in the department could collect the cheek swab. If Evans was at the crime scene, then things were in well in motion. Her capacity for detail impressed him. Once she had more experience, she’d be the best in the unit.
He made the final turn and pushed his car too fast down the gravel road. At the end, the parking lot was empty. No dark blue sedan, no white work truck, no sounds of construction. Damn.
Remembering the dogs, Jackson stepped carefully from the car, weapon in hand. The beasts did not come running. He strode up to the cabin and knocked, knowing it was a waste of time. The door was locked, so he looked in a window and saw no sign that anyone was home. No jacket over a chair. No coffee cup or beer bottle on the table. Durkin had fled and taken his dogs.
Jackson swore out loud. He’d spooked the ex-con by coming up here and asking questions. He mentally kicked himself for not getting the subpoena first. He should have tried. Yet he didn’t believe the judge would have signed it without the support of the matching blue sedan, which he didn’t have until he came up here. Now he had a subpoena and no suspect to swab. Crap.
Was Durkin lying low or had he fled the state? The ex-con was running a business and building a house, so his sudden disappearance made him look guilty as hell. Jackson hurried back to his cruiser and called in a description and an attempt-to-locate. He asked the desk officer to notify the state police as well. Unless Durkin had already caught a flight out of the state, he would soon be picked up and brought in.
The more he thought about Durkin, the madder he felt. Jackson tried to remember the name he’d seen on the truck earlier. It was group of initials. KRS or KLS. He would start with the construction company and see what he could find out. But first, he had a new crime scene to process.
Jackson arrived at the Stahls’ house just as the medical examiner drove up in his long white station wagon. Rich Gunderson climbed out, dressed in all black, despite the warm season. In the driveway near their car, Mr. and Mrs. Stahl stood on either side of the wheeled gurney, each holding one of their deceased daughter’s hands. Jackson swallowed a lump in his throat and joined Gunderson on the sidewalk.
“We’ve never had one quite like this, with a detective witnessing the shooting,” Jackson said.
“No shit.” Gunderson shook his ponytailed head. “There’s not much for me to do here, but I’ll go through the motions and let the paramedics take her downtown.” The morgue was in the basement of the hospital and was commonly referred to as Surgery 10.
“When will you do the autopsy?”
“I’ll check with the pathologist. Probably tomorrow afternoon.” Gunderson started toward the gurney.
Jackson moved in quickly and took photos of Gina and her position next to the minivan. Evans had probably taken pictures and Gunderson would too. They often ended up with hundreds of crime scene shots.
Gina’s parents didn’t let go of her hands until the ME asked them to step back. Jackson looked around for Evans, thinking she might be talking to neighbors, but he didn’t see her. A female patrol officer came out of a house across the cul-de-sac and headed his way.
“Where’s Detective Evans?”
“She’s examining the vehicle. The shooter abandoned it a few blocks from here.”
“Did any of the neighbors see anything worth reporting?”
“Not that I know. Another officer is canvassing over there, so he may have something.”
“Do we have a description of the shooter?”
“Not much. He or she was wearing a ski mask. A woman who saw him drive by said she thought it was a man because he seemed tall.”
“Thanks.”
Jackson walked over to the Stahls, both red-eyed and shaky. To lose a child, at any age, had to be the most devastating pain. Jackson wondered if parents ever stopped feeling responsible.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, knowing the words changed nothing. “We didn’t realize Gina was still in danger.”
“Detective Evans told us Gary Bekker was in jail.”
“I think he still is.”
“Then who did this?” Mrs. Stahl burst into sobs.
“I don’t know, but we’ll find him.”
For the first time, Jackson wasn’t sure what to do next at a crime scene. Several people had witnessed the murder, so there was little to speculate about. Uniformed officers were questioning the neighbors, and the vehicle had been located. He looked at George Stahl. “Can you describe the shooter?”
The old man’s face tightened in pain. “I didn’t even know he was there until I heard the shots. All I can say is that he looked about your size.”
“What makes you think it was a man?”
“His size. The use of a gun.”
“Where was the shooter’s vehicle?”
“Right at the end of the driveway.”
Jackson searched the area for casings or anything else the shooter may have left behind, but came up empty-handed. He heard the clatter of wheels on cement and looked up to see the paramedics rolling Gina toward the ambulance. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for her as she passed.
The ME came down the driveway. “She took two shots to the chest. One penetrated her heart. I’d say the slugs were likely from a .38, but I won’t know for sure until I dig them out.”
“Call me as soon as you know.” Jackson didn’t see any point in attending Gina’s autopsy, something he usually did for every victim.
Evans barreled down the street as Gunderson drove away. She jumped from her car and dashed over, her blue eyes dancing with excitement. “Jackson, I’m glad you’re here. I can’t believe I witnessed a drive-by shooting and failed to apprehend the perp.”
“Tell me how it went down.”
“I followed the Stahls and parked behind them in the driveway. Gina was already out of the car and standing when I opened my door to get out.” Evans gestured at the locations with her hands. “I heard the shooter’s vehicle in the street behind me. I spun around but I didn’t have a clear view because of my own car. He fired two shots from right here as I ran toward the street. I returned fire but he was already driving away. I saw that Gina had been hit, so I called dispatch, then went to assist the victim.”
“You did everything right.”
“I should have gotten out of the car faster. I was looking for my notebook so I sat for a few extra seconds.”
Jackson related to her sense of responsibility. “It’s not your fault. You had no idea this was going to happen. We both thought we had her assailant locked up in jail.”
“I’ve never felt so useless as at that moment.” Evans winced. “Bekker was released on bail today at 4:50 p.m. The shooting happened at 5:17.”
Jackson thought the timing was too close. “Bekker couldn’t have done it.”
“Why do you say that?” Evans snapped.
“He would have had to get from the jail to the Explorer, wherever it was, then drive here. I just don’t see how he could do that in twenty-seven minutes.” They stood at the end of the driveway, facing each other.
“Who else would shoot Gina in broad daylight? I don’t have another suspect!” Evans’ distress was palpable.
“We have to find one.” Jackson reached out to touch her arm.
She pulled back. “I still think Bekker did this. Maybe he stole the SUV as soon as he left jail, then drove straight
here.”
“Where did he get the gun? How did he know to come here? How did he know when Gina would be released?”
“Maybe he has an accomplice.”
Jackson wanted more information. “We need to talk to the registered owner of the Explorer before we jump to any conclusions.”
“You’re right. If the car was stolen from near the jail, then Bekker is still our man and I’m going to pick him up.”
“If it wasn’t near the jail, then we need to start over.”
“Shit.”
“Never get too invested in a single suspect, even if he’s a predator like Bekker.”
“I still want to pick him up. We’ve got all kinds of things to charge him with.”
“No.” Jackson locked eyes with Evans. “Go talk to the vehicle’s owner, then call me with an update. Together, we’ll decide what to do next.”
“I have to drop off the ski mask and the bullet casing at the crime lab first.”
“You found a casing? Let me see it.”
Evans showed him the evidence bag.
“Smith & Wesson makes copper jackets and Gunderson said the slugs were likely .38s.” Jackson held on to the plastic bag. “I’ll take the evidence to the lab for you. I have to talk to Parker anyway. ”
“Thanks. I’ll call you in a bit.”
Jackson watched Evans walk away. He understood her rage against Bekker and it worried him. Getting emotional about a case could be dangerous. He hoped she had the good sense not to confront Bekker alone.
Jackson spent another hour at the crime scene, talking to the Stahls and gathering feedback from the officers who had questioned everyone who lived on the street. The Stahls finally went into their house to grieve. Jackson was grateful he hadn’t had to start from scratch by asking painful questions such as, Who had a grudge against your child? Evans had already covered all that during the last few days.
On the drive to the crime lab, he put in his earpiece and called Kera. “Hey, hon. We had a shooting late this afternoon so I’m not going to make it over tonight.”
“Oh no. Was anyone killed?”
“Gina Stahl, the woman who came out of the coma.”
“That is so tragic. Her parents must be crushed.”
“Evans is taking it pretty hard too.” The highway merged into 6th Avenue so Jackson cut his speed. “We have a few leads on the shooter, so we hope to make an arrest soon.”
Kera was quiet for a moment. “I’ll miss seeing you. Do you want Katie to stay here for a few days?”
“Maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”
“You promised me a weekend at the coast this summer and we’ve only got two weeks left before summer is over.” She said it with a laugh in her voice, but he sensed she was worried.
“I’ll make good on it.” Jackson lowered his voice. “You won’t have to pack anything. We’ll spend the whole weekend naked in the hotel room.”
“I’ll make a reservation.”
“Can you do me a huge favor and pick up Katie for dinner?”
“Sure. We’ll go out to Chinese food without you.”
“That’s mean.” Jackson remembered the prospective buyer for his house and started to tell her, then changed his mind. He didn’t want to get her hopes up until he had an offer. “I love you, anyway.”
“I love you too. Call me when you can.”
Jackson arrived at the crime lab just as a tow truck backed the Ford Explorer into the large bay. He watched as Joe and another assistant unloaded the vehicle, thinking the killer must have been confident that he didn’t leave any part of himself behind. Only an incredibly bold or desperate person would shoot someone in broad daylight with a police detective standing nearby. The perp probably hadn’t counted on a cop being there but had followed through, anyway. Or maybe he hadn’t seen Evans because she was just climbing from her unmarked car.
Jackson logged the evidence into the computer system, then climbed the stairs, hoping Parker was still in the building. He caught her in her office as she pulled on her coat.
“I’m not staying late, Jackson. I have a date.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He set the evidence on her desk. “I wanted you to know we had two critical pieces from the shooting today. The killer dropped this ski mask and we’re hoping to get DNA. We’ll have a sample for comparison soon. Meanwhile, run it against CODIS.” Jackson wondered if they would be able to get a subpoena for Bekker’s DNA. A judge would be as skeptical as he was about the plausibility of the jailed cop’s involvement. “I’d like to make this shell casing a priority too.”
“Talk to Joe about it.” Parker didn’t touch the evidence bags. “Would you put those in a downstairs locker, please?” She grabbed her purse and waited for him to make a move.
Jackson sensed she was tired and annoyed with him. “I’m sorry. I’ll follow protocol. Have a good evening.” He smiled, picked up the evidence, and walked out.
Downstairs, he went into the little room where he had used the computer and shoved the bags into a locker, which would not open again until it had been released from the other side. The back end of the lockers opened into a room in the crime lab, where a technician would retrieve the evidence and reset the lock. The system, which was new with the building, had been designed to allow officers to drop off evidence night and day and to keep money and drugs from disappearing.
As Jackson left the building, he thought about the hundred-dollar bill that had vanished from his parents’ case file. It wasn’t the disappearance that bothered him; it was the presence of the money under his mother’s body. What was it doing there? Had his mother tried to pay Durkin off with cash? If so, why had he shot her? Maybe his father had gone for his gun and the exchange went sour.
Jackson drove to the department and logged into his computer. While he waited for Evans to call about the Explorer’s owner, he decided to spend a few minutes on his own investigation. He opened the online yellow pages and found KSL Construction. As late as it was, he expected to get an answering machine and he did. He told the business a return call was urgent. On a whim, he called Lucky Numbers, the strip bar where Derrick had met Durkin, and asked to speak to the manager.
The voice of an older man came on the phone. “This is the manager. Who are you and what do you want?”
“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I’m looking for Ray Durkin. Have you seen him?”
“Not in six years. Why?”
“I need some peace of mind and I think Durkin is the key.”
Chapter 22
Wednesday, September 8, 7:32 p.m.
Evans drove away from the crime scene, then stopped on the corner to use the car’s GPS to find the address. Clark Street started near the base of Skinner’s Butte and ran in segments parallel to West 1st Avenue. She thought the 324 address had to be near Lawrence or Lincoln. Counting squares on the map, she figured the Explorer’s owner lived nine blocks from the jail, about half a mile. A healthy person could walk the distance in ten minutes or run it in five. She pulled out into the street and headed downtown, reminding herself to keep an open mind. On the way, she called dispatch and asked for Joel Greer’s phone number.
The sun was nearly at the horizon when Evans entered the old neighborhood nestled between the railroad tracks and the river. Without access to the water, the properties had lost value over the years, and many had been beaten down by renters. Evans turned right on 1st Avenue, and the scent of cooked oats drifted in her open window. She drove past a factory and turned left on Washington, then right on Clark.
She parked in front of the small yellow house and took a moment to prepare herself. It was possible Greer was the killer, but Jackson didn’t believe it or he wouldn’t have sent her here alone. She pushed her jacket back and put her hand on her weapon anyway.
As she strode up the cracked sidewalk, she wondered if Lammers would make her take a leave of absence after today’s shooting. Evans hoped not. No lights were on in the house and she started to think she was
wasting her time. After a few knocks and no response, she called Greer on her cell phone. In a stern voice, she left a message. “This is Detective Evans. Your vehicle was used in a homicide and there is a warrant for your arrest. To clear yourself, call me immediately when you get this message, no matter what time.” She recited her number and hung up.
Evans considered walking over to the jail to see how long it would take, but she didn’t want to leave her car parked in the neighborhood. What she really wanted was to arrest Bekker. Lammers had said they could if he made bail. She hit speed dial #1 and waited for Jackson to pick up.
“What’s the update?” He sounded tired.
“Greer, the SUV’s owner, lives at 324 Clark, which is near Washington and the base of Skinner’s Butte. It’s about nine blocks from the jail, or a brisk ten-minute walk. Greer’s not home so I haven’t heard his story yet.”
“Let’s meet at the department. We’ll order some food and brainstorm.”
“Let’s pick up Bekker first. Even if he’s not the actual shooter, I still think he’s involved. Either way, the bastard shouldn’t be walking around free.”
“I think it’s premature, Evans.”
“I’m doing it with or without you. He lives at 1577 Glenn Ellen Drive.” She clicked off before Jackson could argue.
A surge of energy pumped through her torso as Evans parked across from Bekker’s house. Lights were on and a red Ford truck sat in the driveway. The bastard was in there, ripe for the plucking. It killed her to wait, but she knew Jackson was coming, so she stayed in the car and tried to keep calm.
She’d seen Bekker’s address the first time she looked him up in the database, but hadn’t realized how close he lived to her. It made her glad she had heavy-duty locks on her house. She’d come to believe every neighborhood had at least one dangerous resident. People who didn’t understand that or take precautions were idiots. It made law enforcement’s job even harder.
Jackson pulled in behind a few minutes later, and Evans shoved open her car door, adrenaline pumping. The sun had set and she couldn’t see her partner’s expression until he moved in next to her.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 18