Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice

by L. J. Sellers

  “Sure.”

  As they walked the empty halls elbow-to-elbow, Evans was reminded of indoor gym at her grade school during dark Alaska winters. She glanced at Jackson and picked up her pace. He matched her speed, stride for stride. They rounded a corner and Jackson cut ahead. Evans laughed and ran to pass him. Jackson matched her pace and mockingly elbowed his way in front of her. Soon, they were running and laughing and pushing each other. They reached the conference room door and both tried to step through at the same time. Their bodies mashed together and electric pleasure jolted through Evan’s pelvis. She pivoted toward Jackson, hoping he would kiss her. He reached a hand up to the bruise on her face, then leaned in.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and they jerked apart. A voice boomed, “What the hell is going on? You’re not allowed to have fun in this building.” John Bohnert, a vice detective, laughed at the startled looks on their faces. “Just giving you shit. Are you working the shooting?”

  “We are,” Jackson said. “We just took a break from staring at old paperwork.” He nodded at Evans. “Let’s get back to it.”

  Jackson grabbed the third box and dumped it on the table. They dug into the pile without speaking. Evans wanted to say something about their moment, but knew she shouldn’t. They worked in mostly silence, occasionally showing each other a document.

  After scanning personal letters, Christmas cards, and to-do lists, Evans picked up a handwritten letter that caught her attention. Sentences had been marked through and rewritten as though it were practice. The salutation was also crossed out. In essence, the letter said: I’ve known who you are for years but I’ve never wanted to contact you. I’m writing now because I need your help. My health has been poor and I’ve run up a lot of medical bills. I was also unable to work for a while. If you could loan me $20,000, I would be deeply grateful and keep your secret forever.

  “Holy shit,” Evans said. “Look at this. I think we have a very polite blackmail letter.”

  Chapter 24

  Thursday, September 9, 5:20 a.m.

  Jackson’s cell phone jolted him awake. He fumbled in the dark until he found the beeping nuisance on the nightstand and held it to his face. “Hello.”

  “This is Bobbie at the front desk. A state trooper just brought in Ray Durkin and he thought you’d like to know. He picked him up in a motel in La Grande.”

  “Put Durkin in an interrogation room. I’ll be there in twenty.” Jackson closed the phone and thought it might be closer to thirty minutes. He’d gone to sleep around two that morning. He staggered into the bathroom and took a quick shower, then splashed cold water on his face until his brain started to work.

  Jackson arrived at the department twenty-seven minutes later, carrying a cup of coffee he’d bought on the way. He’d been thinking about his flirtatious moment with Evans the night before. Nothing had happened and he had no reason to feel guilty. Yet he did. He also blamed the Provigil. Yet he knew that was bullshit. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. He loved Kera deeply and that hadn’t changed.

  Daylight was peeking over the horizon as he pulled in. He pounded up the steps from the parking garage and felt an old familiar pain in his gut. Damn. He’d forgotten to take his prednisone. He headed for the front desk where Bobbie McCann sat behind the plexiglass.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” The desk officer gave him a playful smile.

  “If you say so.” Jackson returned her smile and took the paperwork she held out.

  “He’s in the deluxe suite.”

  “Thanks.”

  He backtracked to the larger of the two interrogation rooms. By larger, he meant a foot or so. Ray Durkin was dressed the same as yesterday: khaki shorts, a blue t-shirt, and sandals. If not for the handcuffs, he would have looked like a tanned man on vacation. Jackson pressed the video to start recording and sat across from Durkin.

  “That coffee smells good,” the suspect said. “I’d sure like some after spending the night in the back of a cop car.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. Please state your name for the recorder.”

  “Raymond Durkin.”

  Jackson identified himself and the date, then said, “Let’s start with a DNA swab. Here’s the subpoena if you’d like to look it over.” Jackson pulled the paper from his file and slid it across the table. While Durkin pretended to read the court order, Jackson dug in his shoulder bag for the swab kit. He stood and stepped around the table. “Open wide.”

  Durkin hesitated, then gave a little shrug. He opened his mouth, revealing thousands of dollars worth of dental work. Jackson ran the swab along the inside of his cheek, then bagged and labeled the saliva sample. He left it sitting on the table as a visual reminder to Durkin.

  “I told you I was coming back for a DNA sample and you hit the road, so we both know you’re guilty of something.”

  Durkin started to interrupt, but Jackson kept talking. “If that saliva matches the hair follicle found at the homicides of Clark and Evelyn Jackson, you’ll likely get the death penalty. It’s in your best interest to tell me what happened and see if we can work a plea deal.”

  Durkin’s tan seemed to fade a little. “I had a family emergency. My sister called and asked me to come out to her place near Baker City. There’s where I was headed.”

  “What was the emergency?”

  “Her husband had left her and she needed help on the farm. Things needed repair and she didn’t have the money to pay someone.” Durkin stared straight at him.

  Jackson knew it was not the whole truth. “What’s your sister’s name and phone number?”

  “Sue Jacobs. I have her number in my cell phone, which the sheriff confiscated and put into a plastic bag.” Durkin nodded at his cuffed hands. “Will you uncuff me, please?”

  Jackson decided to go ahead and let Durkin relax. As he uncuffed him, he said, “I expect your sister to lie for you, so you’ll have to do better that that.”

  “Ask her about the dogs,” Durkin said. “I had them with me at the motel. The manager had to call her to come get them.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.” Jackson sat back down. “Let’s talk about the day of the murders.” He forced himself to express empathy with Durkin’s situation at the time. “The victims were killed with Clark Jackson’s gun, so I know you didn’t bring the murder weapon into the house. I’m thinking you didn’t mean to kill them. Tell me what happened.”

  After a long pause, Durkin said, “I wasn’t there the day of the murders, I swear.”

  Jackson heard what he didn’t say. “But you admit you were in the house at some point?” He suspected Durkin was afraid they’d match his DNA to the evidence at the scene.

  “I went there the day before. I was looking for Derrick and your mother invited me in to wait. Derrick was in the shower or something.” Durkin’s voice rose in pitch. “So yes, I was in the house. If my DNA matches, that’s why.”

  Durkin was a lying sack of shit. “Did you interact with Evelyn Jackson?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me exactly what happened. Did she take your coat or bring you a glass of water?” The blond hair had been found on his mother’s sweater, which would have required proximity. Jackson visualized Durkin grabbing his mother’s arm and pulling her close to threaten her. His heart hammered and he worried Durkin would hear it.

  “She said I could wait in the living room. I followed her and sat on the couch for a few minutes. Then Derrick and I went outside to talk. Then I left. That’s it.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “I’m not sure. It was over ten years ago.”

  “You seem to remember other details. Was it morning or afternoon?”

  “Afternoon.”

  Jackson had a little surge of optimism. Durkin was coming around. “What day of the week were you there?”

  “I don’t know. But your dad wasn’t home, so I think it was a weekday.”

  Now the suspect had stepped back from the truth. Jacks
on braced himself to be in the windowless closet for as long as it took. He sipped his coffee.

  “Could I have some coffee? Or even a glass of water?” Durkin’s voice had an edge of whining.

  Jackson started to tell him no, then remembered how Hector Vargas had been treated. He stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  After another hour with Durkin, Jackson had gotten nowhere. The suspect vehemently denied any part in the murders and showed no obvious signs of lying. Yet he was an ex-con who’d spent years in prison. Lying came natural to him. And like all good liars, he blended the truth with fabrication so seamlessly, it was nearly impossible to pick them apart.

  Jackson’s stomach growled, he was out of coffee, and the small room had long ago closed in on him. He couldn’t justify charging Durkin with a crime, so he had no choice but to let him go. Tempting as it was to leave him in the interrogation room and try again in a few hours, Jackson couldn’t do it. Vargas’ story had wormed its way into his brain, making him question his own tactics. He was not happy about it.

  “I’m going to release you, but I don’t want you to leave the county.” Jackson stood, relieved to stretch his legs. “I’ll have the DNA results in a couple of days and I’ll come looking for you. Meanwhile, you’ll stay on the watch list. If you get on the road again, a state trooper will be right behind you.”

  “I have to go get my dogs.” Durkin sounded near panic.

  Jackson rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Check in with me in person tomorrow morning. If I don’t see you, I’ll put out an arrest warrant.”

  He escorted Durkin out of the building, then went out in search of breakfast.

  * * *

  Evans woke before the alarm went off at six, brewed a tall cup of coffee, and called the jail. “This is Detective Evans. When is Gary Bekker scheduled for arraignment?”

  “Nine o’clock this morning.”

  “I’d like to attend and make a statement.”

  “I’ll put you on the list.”

  Relieved that she had a little time, Evans turned on her computer and scanned the news sites. She was itching to call Gina’s parents and ask about the strange letter, but it would not be welcome news and the Stahls were already distressed. She’d wait until eight, then call.

  Quickly bored with the news, Evans checked her email. Still nothing from Mason. To hell with him. Evans thought about the delicious moment she’d had with Jackson the night before. Would he have kissed her if not for the interruption? Then what? Would the kiss have led somewhere or simply made their relationship awkward? Her best guess was that it would have ruined their working partnership. Evans vowed to find a new boyfriend and let go of her feelings for Jackson. He kept telling her she needed to date someone in law enforcement. Ben Stricklyn popped into her mind. The IA detective was gorgeous and sexy and she was certain he’d felt the chemistry too. Should she call him?

  Evans jumped up and went to change into workout clothes. Thinking about sex this early in the morning was dangerous. She’d end up doing something stupid before noon. Instead, she would crank up the music and kickbox until she could focus on work.

  Evans pulled into the parking lot at the jail and stared up at the red-brick building with the bars across the windows. She dreaded going in. Her incarceration had been brief and long ago, but she still hated to be inside any lockup facility.

  She walked away from the Geezer, hating to leave it near the jail. Due to constant overcrowding, any moment the jail would release its daily flood of drug addicts, assholes, and thieves. They would all pass by her car. Some would recognize the Impala as a cop car and might consider it a challenge. She hoped the arraignment wouldn’t take long.

  The small courtroom inside the jail had room for only a few spectators. Most of the space was taken up with the judge’s desk, the court recorder, and a group of inmates who all waited for their five minutes of judicial process. A man in a business suit sat behind the cuffed men in forest-green scrubs. Evans thought he looked too sharp to be a court-appointed lawyer.

  She was happy to see Judge Cranston come into the courtroom and plop his skinny butt into the swivel chair. He was a no-nonsense guy and would not be swayed by Bekker’s twenty years on the force.

  Evans grew impatient waiting for the clerk to announce Bekker’s name. She’d called the Stahls before leaving the house and they hadn’t answered. Her plan was to drive straight over as soon as she left the arraignment. At 9:23, the clerk called “Gary Bekker” and he walked up to stand in front of the bench. The judge read the charges Jackson had listed: attempted homicide, assault, sexual coercion, rape, and obstruction of justice. Evans couldn’t see Bekker’s face, but he shifted his feet and looked at the floor.

  “You already have a pending charge of assaulting a police officer.” Cranston peered over his glasses. “I can see no reason to grant bail.”

  The man in the suit sprang to his feet. “Your honor, Sergeant Gary Bekker has served this community for twenty-three years as an officer of the law. He has no criminal record. He was released on bail yesterday and they’ve arrested him again on trumped-up charges. Someone in the department has a personal vendetta against him. It would be a travesty to keep this man in jail until he can clear himself at trial.”

  This was what Evans had feared. She stood and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Your Honor, Gary Bekker is a violent and unpredictable sociopath. He attacked me without provocation. He assaulted a suspect in his custody. I’ve heard the personal testimony of the women he coerced and raped. If you release him, he’ll have an opportunity to intimidate his victims even further, until they’re too terrified to testify against him. I strongly recommend he stay in custody.”

  “And who are you?”

  Disappointed that the judge didn’t remember her and embarrassed that she hadn’t identified herself, Evans stated her name and rank.

  “Sergeant Gary Bekker assaulted you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. He struck me in the head with his baton and smashed my head into my car.” Evans touched her bruised face. “He also said he’d kill me if I didn’t stop investigating his criminal activities.”

  Judge Cranston cast a disparaging look at Bekker, closed his folder with a decisive snap, and started to speak.

  Bekker’s lawyer cut him off. “Your Honor, my client has already posted bail and you know what it’s like in lockup for law enforcement officers. His life could be in danger. He’s innocent of these charges. He was only defending himself against Detective Evans, who has a vendetta against him. That’s why she’s here.” The sleazebag had the nerve to glance back at her. “In addition, Sergeant Bekker has a handicapped child to care for. I strongly recommend that he be released on his current bond, but under house arrest with an ankle monitor.”

  The judge took a moment to rethink his decision. “That sounds reasonable. House arrest with a monitored release is granted and a preliminary hearing is set for October 25.”

  Evans bit her tongue and bolted from the room.

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, September 9, 6:00 a.m.

  Sophie woke to warm breath on her neck and the sound of a rushing river outside her window. She took a moment to enjoy the sensual beauty of both before crawling out of bed. Jasmine Parker, a lean and luscious crime scene technician, slept soundly next to her. Sophie was surprised and pleased Jasmine had called late yesterday and suggested they get together. They’d dated for a while earlier that spring, then drifted apart when Jasmine got overwhelmed at work. Over the summer, Sophie had briefly dated a young college professor named Mark, but soon remembered why she’d given up on men. They could be great sexual partners, but emotionally they always held back. Jasmine, on the other hand, was both brilliant and giving. Sophie loved the way her mind constantly analyzed everything. She was also an uninhibited lover. No one who knew Jasmine casually would ever guess that about her. Her co-workers also had no idea she was gay.

  Sophie headed for the shower, hoping the nois
e would wake Jasmine. They both had to be at work by eight, and Jasmine might want to stop at home first.

  While driving on Beltline to work, Sophie turned on the radio to listen to the news. The announcer mentioned a shooting in west Eugene and Sophie cranked up the volume. She heard the newsman say, “Gina Stahl had been in a coma for two years. Last Sunday, she came out of her coma and claimed someone had attacked and drugged her. Yesterday, as she arrived home to start her life over, she was gunned down by a masked man.”

  Sophie’s heart missed a beat and her hands shook on the wheel. Gina was dead? How? Gary Bekker had been arrested. What the hell had happened? Sophie longed for a place to pull off the road, but she was on the freeway and had to keep driving.

  She took the Coburg Road exit and gratefully came to a stop at the light. Gina was dead. Her mind didn’t want to accept it. She had spent almost two hours with Gina yesterday. They’d talked about everything, including Gina’s clothing design business and the story Sophie would write to help her get it up and running again. Gina had said Detective Evans would be there to escort her home. Why hadn’t the cop protected her?

  Someone honked and Sophie jerked her attention back to driving. She eased through the intersection and wondered: Did Bekker learn Gina was out of her coma from reading her story? Was it her fault Gina was dead?

  Feeling rattled, Sophie drove the last mile to work on autopilot. She needed to call Detective Evans and find out what had happened. This was still her story and she had to write a follow-up, even if it was difficult for her.

  Sophie called Evans from the Willamette News parking lot and left her a message. She hurried into the building, feeling strangely guilty, an emotion she rarely experienced. She decided to distract herself with Jackson’s research project. She’d planned to stay late the day before and search the microfiche for news items, then Jasmine had called and asked to meet for drinks. Sophie had decided the task could wait for the morning. She and Jasmine had been so absorbed with each other that Sophie missed the late night news, which had probably reported Gina’s murder.