Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  Jackson’s hand was on his Sig Sauer as he rang the doorbell. Drug dealers were unpredictable. A forty-something, pot-bellied man in a wheelchair opened the door. For a moment, Jackson thought they had the wrong house. “Are you Zor?”

  “It’s what my friends call me. Are you a cop?”

  “Detective Jackson, Eugene Police Department. This is Detective McCray. We’re looking for Shane Compton.”

  Zor hesitated. Jackson watched him calculate the possibilities. Give up a friend/client or get arrested for possession with intent to distribute? Zor chose the former. “Shane’s here, but he’s sick. Obviously, I can’t do much to help you with him.”

  “We’ll handle it.” Jackson started to step forward but Zor didn’t move.

  “You’re not coming in without a warrant.”

  Jackson felt a flash of heat and fought for control. If the man had not been in a wheelchair, he would have pushed his way in. “We don’t need permission. We know Shane is here and we have a subpoena for his DNA. Get out of our way or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

  After another pause Zor rolled back. He was protecting his stash but Jackson didn’t care about it. A vice detective would visit Zor soon enough. Jackson strode into the small living room, glanced around to see no one else was present, then headed for the open door in the short hallway.

  Shane was on his knees in the bathroom vomiting.

  Lara Evans hurried out of Judge Cranston’s courtroom with a freshly signed subpoena to collect every pair of Roy Engall’s shoes she could find on his property and in his vehicles. Cranston had barely read the paperwork. As soon as she mentioned the mass killing, his face had changed and he’d been ready to sign anything.

  On the five-minute drive to the Engalls, Evans called Doug, the artist she’d been dating for a few months. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “I’m heading out to teach my last class for the term. Are you working?”

  “That’s why I called. I can’t make our dinner date. I’m working the mass homicide case and it’s pretty intense.” The traffic on the bridge came to a near stop and she braked hard.

  “What mass homicide?”

  Evans’ teeth clamped together. How could he not know? “Three members of a family were killed and the fourth member is critically injured. It happened Sunday night and was all over the news yesterday.”

  “You know I don’t watch the news.”

  “You really should check the headlines every once in a while.”

  Doug laughed. “That’s why I see you. Do you want to reschedule our dinner or just come over here and slide in bed with me when you have a chance?”

  Evans visualized the scenario and got a little jolt. “As tempting as it sounds, I probably won’t see you for a few days.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She clicked her cell phone closed and eased into the right lane. If it weren’t for the occasional great sex, she would break up with Doug. They had nothing in common. She had worked as a paramedic before becoming a police officer, and in her free time she volunteered at WomenSpace, a center for abused females. Evans lived for the adrenaline rush and sought out high-energy situations. Doug’s idea of excitement was discovering a new favorite color to paint with.

  What had Jackson said when she and Doug first started dating? You won’t be happy until you end up with a cop. He was right. But the cop she wanted to end up with was in love with a tall gorgeous woman named Kera. Jackson had been in the middle of a divorce when Evans was first transferred to the Violent Crimes unit, and she’d fallen hard for him, even knowing it was a bad idea.

  His voice had grabbed her first. Deep, smooth, and sexy. He’d been patient with her, explaining his process and how he approached cases. Of course his looks had pulled her deeper in. She loved his near-black eyes, his chiseled features, even the scar through his eyebrow. In the long run, it was Jackson’s integrity and dedication that made her fall in love.

  He’d never shown any romantic feelings for her and she’d fought her own attraction, but she couldn’t help how she felt. She kept dating other men, hoping to shift her affection to someone else, but they never measured up. Never even came close. Maybe she should start dating police officers. Unfortunately, the good ones all seemed to be married.

  Evans pulled up in front of the house on Aspen Street and felt a pang of jealousy for their nice home near the river. She remembered the Engalls were in a lot of trouble and money hadn’t bought them long-term happiness. If there was such a thing. She spotted a patrol unit across the street and nodded at the officer who seemed to be in a daze even though his eyes were open.

  She jogged across the street, feeling the weight of her weapon. The officer rolled down his window. It was Anderson, who’d discovered the bodies yesterday. Another thing she loved about Jackson; he always tried to keep first responders involved in the case, giving them a chance to earn some experience and attention. “Hey, Anderson. Anything to report?”

  “Engall hasn’t left his house since we started watching it. He came out this morning to yell at the dog pooping on his lawn, but that’s the only time I’ve seen him.”

  “I’m here to search for shoes. Hopefully, we’ll arrest this shithead in the next day or two.”

  “Go get him.”

  Evans trotted across the street, stopping briefly in the driveway to look in the back of the white work van. Ladders, drop cloths, sprayers, and five-gallon paint cans filled the entire space. No visible shoes. She would come back later and check it thoroughly, but first she would search the house and take the shoes off Engall’s feet.

  He opened the door, wearing a blue bathrobe and reeking of booze. Evans instinctively looked at her watch: 2:17 p.m. If he’d been a functional alcoholic before, he had rapidly devolved into a dysfunctional mess. She introduced herself and held up her paperwork. “I have a subpoena to search your property and vehicles for all your shoes and to collect those shoes as evidence. You’re welcome to read it.”

  Engall grabbed the stack of paper and made a show of skimming through it. His eyes watered and his body swayed. Evans braced for his fall with no intention of catching him. She’d learned at family gatherings when drunks got wobbly it was best to get the hell out of the way. They rarely got hurt but someone else always did. She glanced at Engall’s feet and saw he was wearing slippers.

  “Let’s start in your bedroom.”

  Engall led her down the hall to a large, bright master suite opening into a private patio with a hot tub. Another pang of jealously as she envisioned the duplex she rented in west Eugene with its small windows and standard-height ceiling. With the market down, she had hoped to become a first-time homebuyer soon. Lammers had crushed her hope with her announcement about layoffs. Being the new kid in the department, Evans knew she was the logical choice. What would she do next? Move where she could work in her field?

  A huge closet filled nearly all of one wall and held mostly women’s clothes and shoes. A single pair of men’s dress shoes nested in a corner. They were not the shoes he’d worn and wouldn’t match the crisscross prints, but she pulled on gloves and bagged them anyway. She turned to Engall, who stood in the middle of the room watching her. “Where are your work shoes?”

  “You find ‘em, you’re the cop.”

  She located them in a bedroom across the hall, along with Engall’s paint-stained coveralls and sweatshirts. She bagged and tagged two pairs of running-style sneakers, a pair of brown sandals that looked as if he never wore them and a pair of brown leather boots. Evans made a note of her inventory and carried the bags to the Impala, then went back into the house to conduct a thorough search of every closet.

  In the end, she found one other pair of men’s slip-on loafers on the floor in the family room with the giant TV. Engall had gotten bored with following her around and was watching a recorded David Letterman show. As she bagged the loafers, Evans asked, “Is your van unlocked?”

  “Is it in your warrant?”

  “Ye
p. Unlock it for me please.”

  A search of the van didn’t turn up any shoes, but under the seat she found a blackmail note, presumably from Jared Walker. The note was still in the envelope, which didn’t have a stamp or a postal seal. Jared must have delivered it in person. The communication was on plain white paper and had been produced with a computer and printer.

  “Hey, that’s not in your search warrant,” Engall shouted, his words slurring. He stood next to the garage door, positioned so cars passing by couldn’t see him.

  “Read the fine print,” she hollered back.

  Evans scanned the text of the blackmail note. Jared had listed Roy Engall’s infractions with bullet points, using bold to highlight the major ones such as failure to carry job-site accident insurance. Evans didn’t know if it was against the law but Jared must have thought so. At the end Jared demanded five-thousand dollars and closed the note with Your former employee. He hadn’t used his name anywhere, which was kind of smart, Evans thought. Except he’d underestimated Engall’s reaction.

  She looked up to see that he’d gone into the house. Evans slipped the note back into its envelope and dug out another pre-marked plastic evidence bag. She only had one left. The taskforce had gathered more pieces of evidence in this investigation than she had in all her solo cases combined. The crime lab had to be overwhelmed.

  She climbed out of the van and spotted a tall green trash container on the cement walkway next to the garage. Feeling queasy that she’d almost missed it, Evans hurried over. She flipped the hinged lid back and was hit with an overwhelming blast of paint-remover smell. The giant bin was stuffed with empty cans, paint-smeared plastic, paper bags full of kitchen scraps, and a load of other junk. The bastard didn’t recycle a damn thing.

  Evans pushed the container over and upended it, spilling its contents on the walkway. If she had to search this mess, she was going to make it easy.

  “What the hell?” Engall shuffled up, clutching a fresh mixed drink, bathrobe flapping. “You could have used a tarp!”

  Evans ignored him and began to pick through the crap. The gloves protected her hands, but her cuffs were soon smeared with yellow paint. Damn. It was her favorite jacket. She wished she’d taken it off. She’d also wished she’d grabbed a cloth facemask from her shoulder bag before starting.

  A few minutes later, stuffed inside a brown paper bag with mostly kitchen scraps, she found a knotted white plastic bag. Evans used the jagged edge of a tin can lid to rip open the plastic. Inside was a pair of white, paint-stained tennis shoes. The dumb fucker had been too drunk or too lazy to find a public trash can to dispose of his guilt.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Engall shouted, drunk on his ass and near tears.

  Evans ignored him and stuffed the shoes, still inside the white plastic, into her last evidence bag. She would have the note and the shoes to report at the taskforce meeting tomorrow morning. Jackson would be pleased.

  On the ride downtown, Shane seemed to be in the half-sleep, half-euphoria of a junkie who’d shot up more than he could handle. Jackson’s plan was to leave him in the soft interrogation room, under supervision, while he grabbed some dinner. He hoped Shane would get clear headed in an hour and be able to answer questions.

  Jackson had called Kera and she’d agreed to meet him at Sweet Basil for a quick Thai dinner. Jackson walked the six blocks to stretch his legs and revive himself. His three hours of sleep were wearing off and his body felt heavy. His brain felt congested too, as if all the information in this case was so jammed together it wouldn’t bounce or crystallize.

  The restaurant, tucked into a block of downtown buildings, was half empty. Good for him but not for the business. Jackson sat near the windows in front, looking out at Pearl Street, enjoying the tangy scent of basil coming from the kitchen. After a minute, Kera pulled into the parking lot across the road. He ordered a pot of jasmine green tea and a side of spring rolls.

  Kera breezed in, wearing a purple blazer and smiling brightly. Several customers looked up and smiled back. People always noticed Kera and she always made them smile. Well, almost always. She was also tenacious as a bulldog about getting what she wanted, especially if it meant helping young women, veterans, or homeless people.

  “Hey, Jackson.” She kissed him on the mouth, then sat across from him. “Thanks for meeting me. I know you don’t have much time.”

  “I’m trying to be more balanced, even when I’m on a case.”

  She laughed softly. “Define balanced.”

  “Never mind. I’m here.”

  The waiter brought the tea and they ordered without looking at the menu.

  “Is Katie at the house?”

  “She and Danette are making homemade pizza with pesto and artichoke hearts.”

  “Glad I missed it.”

  “It’s my recipe.” Kera touched the back of his hand. “Remember the first time we ate together?”

  “Jung’s Mongolian Grill. We ran into each other while I was working Jessie Davenport’s case.”

  “You were pissed at me because I wouldn’t tell you whether she was a client at the clinic.”

  “I still thought you were hot.”

  “I liked your face but your intensity scared me a little.” Kera smiled and shrugged. “You saved my life, and I decided you were okay.”

  Jackson squeezed her hand. “You saved me.”

  The waiter came up to the table, so they pulled back to let him set down the spring rolls. They ate in silence for a moment, then Kera said, “How’s the case going?”

  “It’s a little frustrating. I have two suspects but nothing solid on either.”

  “I can’t imagine who they are. Who would commit such a heinous act?” Kera sipped her tea and held back from asking more questions. Jackson appreciated the sacrifice. She was intellectually curious about everything and would have loved to discuss his cases. Renee, on the other hand, had never wanted to know about his work.

  “Are you coming over after you wrap up tonight?”

  “Probably not. It will be easier to just sleep on the couch at the department for a few hours.”

  “You’ll go back to your house to shower and change?”

  “It’s closer to the department.”

  Another long silence. The waiter brought their orders, Spicy Beef Mussamun for Kera and Sweet and Sour Chicken for him. After a moment Kera said, “Are you still thinking of moving in with me permanently?”

  “I am. I’m just not sure Katie is ready.”

  “She’s been there for five weeks and seems to like it fine.”

  Jackson felt himself closing up. He wasn’t ready to talk about this. Or about Katie wanting to spend the summer with her mother. Or the idea he could lose his job on Friday. “When I’m on a homicide, my job goes into overdrive. It only happens three or four times a year, but it’s intense and I can’t really think straight about anything else.”

  “I understand.”

  He couldn’t talk about his case either. They ate mostly in silence except for Kera’s chat about baby Micah. For the first time, Jackson wondered how much his job, his silence, had contributed to his ex-wife’s drinking problem.

  Later at the department, Jackson escorted his still-somewhat-groggy suspect from the big room with the soft brown couch to the cramped interrogation space with the scarred table, gray walls, and harsh lighting. The walls had once been pale pink as an emasculating effect on suspects, but it had bothered some detectives enough that they repainted. Jackson didn’t care about the color; it was the eight-foot space that made him jumpy after a half an hour.

  He considered uncuffing Shane, then changed his mind. The young man was built like his father, with broad shoulders and big bones. If Shane had never been a drug user, he’d probably weigh more than Jackson. Instead he looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Still, he was their prime suspect in a triple homicide, and it was enough to make Jackson uneasy.

  “We’re recording this interview. Please state your name.�
��

  “Shane Compton.”

  “Shane, are you coherent enough to talk to me?” Jackson said for the camera.

  “Yes. I told you, I’m sick, not high.” He looked around as if he just realized where he was. “Why am I here? They usually just take me to jail.”

  “You’re here to answer questions about Sunday, May 30th. Where were you that night?”

  “May? How am I supposed to remember?” His speech was slow and soft, like someone sleepwalking.

  “It was two days ago.”

  “Oh. Sunday.” His forehead creased for a moment, then he broke into a shy smile. With his blond hair, big green eyes, and prominent cheekbones, Jackson realized Shane was probably what his daughter would call a hottie. “I was with a friend,” Shane said. “We drove to Corvallis and didn’t get back until midnight.”

  “Why Corvallis? You couldn’t find any heroin here in Eugene?”

  “We went to see a friend about a job.”

  “I need names.”

  “Aaron Priest is the guy who drove. I don’t know the guy we went to see. He’s Aaron’s friend.

  “This is important, Shane. Three people were killed Sunday night and we think you did it.”

  His smile was gone in a blink and his head fell forward. “Don’t say that. I love my cousins. I love Aunt Carla. She’s like a second mom to me.”

  “Sometimes people get mad at their family. It happens to all of us.” Jackson used his soft, empathetic voice. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

  Shane began to weep. Tears rolled down his face and his body shook, but he made no sound. “Everything is so fucked up.”

  Chapter 12

  A month earlier, May 3

  The clinic opened at five but Shane had never made it in that early, even when he’d been working. This morning he’d shown up around eight and people were waiting on the big porch outside. Shane squeezed past into the lobby and signed in. He wished he could go outside and smoke while he waited, but they had rules about not smoking on the property, not leaving the property after you signed in, and how long you could loiter after you dosed. Recovery Health had rules about everything!