Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  Typically, three or four detectives would be assigned to each task force, but because the victim was one of their own, Jackson might end up with seven or eight people working the case—if it dragged on. He hoped not. They needed to find a fingerprint match or an eyewitness this morning and arrest someone before nightfall. Officer abuse of the homeless could get ugly if they failed.

  While the medical examiner probed Thompson’s hip with a thermometer, Jackson scanned the area across the street. All industrial. No houses with potential witnesses who might have seen or heard something that would help pinpoint the time the officer was killed.

  Gunderson mumbled something about temperatures, then said, “He likely died between five and eight last night.”

  Thompson had come here after work to hand out blankets in the dark. Grief squeezed Jackson’s heart. Why did the good ones die so young? His own parents had been murdered too, when his daughter was just a baby. He tried to shake it off. “I’ll do a quick search of his vehicle, then I’ll be down the street if you find anything I need to know.”

  “You already said that.” Gunderson gestured for him to move along.

  Jackson headed toward the red truck, a late-model Tundra. Still wearing gloves, he reached for the handle on the driver’s side. Unlocked. Thompson hadn’t planned on being gone from his vehicle for long—or maybe he jumped out in a hurry. The interior was spotless. No blood, no fast food wrappers or receipts to indicate where he’d been. Searching under the seat, Jackson found a flask that felt empty. He opened it and sniffed. Whiskey? Had Thompson had a drinking problem?

  He found a flashlight under the seat too and used it to probe further. Jumper cables, an ice scraper, and an oil rag. Standard vehicle stuff. The glove box held the usual paperwork, but no weapon. Some officers took their weapons home when they clocked out, and others left them in their lockers at the department. He didn’t know Thompson’s pattern. Maybe Schak did. But why hadn’t Thompson locked his truck? Because he didn’t plan to walk away from it? Or had he finished off the bourbon in the flask and been stupid drunk?

  Jackson ran his hand along the crease in the back of the bench seat and bumped into something solid. He pulled out a mini digital recorder, a little surprised by the find. Detectives used them, but patrol officers typically did not. Was it a personal organizer? Jackson clicked it on and saw it held six files. He pressed Play and heard Thompson’s voice say, “Don’t forget to pick up your prescription.” A personal note. But what medication? He slipped the recorder into his carryall, closed the truck door, and started toward the big rig.

  From behind him, a technician called, “Wait! I want you to see this.”

  Jackson hurried over to where Jasmine Parker stood, about halfway between the vehicle and the body.

  “See those marks on the grass?” she said, pointing.

  Jackson squatted next to her. In a small area where the vegetation was shorter—more clover than grass—parallel indentations were visible.

  “Drag marks,” Parker explained. “I saw grass stains on the edge of the victim’s heels and wondered how they got there. I think the killer dragged him away from the road.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Inside the command unit, Michael Quince had set up a fingerprint station and was inking a young man with a full beard, shaved head, and tattooed hands. Jackson pulled out a folding chair and sat next to them. Before he could ask a question, the suspect looked over and said, “The only reason I agreed to do this was to get the cuffs off. I had nothing to do with the cop. I didn’t take any blankets from him or see him last night. I was out on a day labor job yesterday and didn’t get back to the camp until late. I’ve never been to jail, and I’m not going today. My homeless situation is temporary. I’m just having trouble finding a full-time job.”

  The calm, articulate statement surprised him. “How do you know the police officer was at the camp last night?”

  “I saw a dude with a thick blanket and asked where he got it.”

  “What’s the dude’s name?”

  “Gabe. That’s all I know about him. Except he’s a Vietnam vet.”

  “Is he around this morning?”

  “He’s sitting out there on the curb with his hands cuffed, just like I was.”

  “What day labor did you do yesterday?”

  “I helped build a fence at some farm out of town. Call Labor Ready and ask them.”

  He would check it out. “What’s your name?”

  “Dave Kirkland. But I already told him.” He pointed at Quince.

  Quince, who looked more like a movie star than a cop, nodded. “He showed me his state-issued ID.”

  “Did you run him in the database?”

  “He’s never been arrested in Oregon, and he’s not in CODIS.”

  Jackson looked him over. No blood on his jacket. No cuts on his hands. He nodded at the man. “You’re free to go. Unless your prints match the weapon.”

  “They won’t.” The guy hustled out of the rig.

  Evans stepped out of a small room in the back. “This witness says the twins were the last people in line to get blankets from Thompson.”

  The twins were familiar street people and could be seen walking and talking anywhere in central or West Eugene. Albertsons on Eighteenth had big restrooms in the front, and the twins were known to wash up there. “Did you see them in the camp?”

  “No. I think they sleep at the Mission.”

  “Let’s go get them. If they’re not there, we’ll put out an attempt-to-locate.”

  Jackson checked his watch: 9:32. The Mission made everyone leave during the day after they did a morning chore, but he didn’t know the schedule. They would find the twins. Eugene was their home, so they weren’t likely to run even if they had committed the murder. And they didn’t have the mental ability or resources to hide for long.

  “How many have you printed?” he asked Quince.

  “Three. Dave Kirkland, the guy who just left. Suri Baylor, the woman in back with Evans. And some drunk with no ID. He was so out of it he couldn’t talk. He’s outside sleeping now.”

  Jackson hadn’t seen him on the way in, so he stuck his head out and looked around. A patrol officer was headed their way with another handcuffed camper, but no one was on the ground. He stepped back inside. “I think the drunk gave you the slip.”

  “Damn. Sorry.”

  “Write down his details so we can pick him up again.”

  Evans asked, “What about the witness? Should I let her go?”

  “Do you believe her about the twins?”

  “I think so. Plus, she’s tiny. I can’t imagine her taking Thompson down.”

  “It’s hard to think anyone could.” Thompson had been built like Schak, with a barrel chest and massive arms, but was still in his early forties.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs made them all turn. Lammers stepped into the rig, and the room shrunk a little. She was Jackson’s height and weight, but she made it look bulky. “Have you made an arrest yet?”

  “Not quite.” Jackson gave her a tight smile.

  She grimaced. “Keeping patrol officers from using excessive force during this investigation will be impossible. We need to lock this one down ASAP.”

  “Evans and I are heading over to the Mission now, hoping to find the street twins. They were the last to see Thompson last night.”

  “Good. But be careful,” their boss cautioned. “They’re probably mentally ill and unpredictable.”

  “I plan to take them into the department and use the interrogation rooms.”

  “Let’s meet this afternoon at four and update,” Lammers said. “I don’t want Schak on this case, so I’ll work it with you until Peterson is available to step in.”

  Surprised, Jackson opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

  “What do you need me to do?” Lammers asked.


  So he was still running the case. This would be weird, giving tasks to Lammers. “Will you call in some volunteers to search this whole area for discarded clothes? We think the killer used a broken bottle and likely got blood on their jacket.” He gestured at the interview room. “Then question everyone Quince fingerprints from the camp. There’s another five or six, at least.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute.

  Jackson held back a smile, but Evans choked on a laugh.

  “See you at four.” He headed out, with Evans following.

  Jackson spotted the two identical men on Garfield, moving toward them and away from the Mission. Tall, skinny men in their mid-thirties with sandy hair, they talked nonstop as they walked, gesturing with their gloved hands, their spirits seemingly unfazed by the cold. Where were their shopping carts? He pulled over, catching sight in his rearview mirror of Evans doing the same. The men didn’t notice him until he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of them.

  “Detective Jackson, Eugene Police.” He showed his badge, something he rarely did, but he wanted this encounter to go smoothly. Evans stepped up next to him. “And this is Detective Evans. We need to talk to you about last night. And we’d like you to come with us to the department.”

  They blinked in surprise, a synchronistic response. The one in the green jacket said, “We don’t make trouble. We have to go.” He grabbed his brother’s arm and tried to turn him around.

  The other twin, in black fleece, resisted. “Mom always said don’t run.”

  Green Twin countered, “But Willow says we’re citizens and have the right to sleep.”

  They spoke rapidly, with surprising passion, their narrow faces animated. Jackson let them argue for a moment while he scanned their jackets. Because the fleece was black, he couldn’t tell if it was stained. The coat had a tear on the right sleeve that looked recent though. He studied the green polyester as best he could from the side angle. Was that brown spot on the shoulder blood? And could he confiscate the jacket without a warrant?

  Evans eased herself onto the curb, where she could move in either direction. He was glad for her presence. She could outrun anyone, so they would at least take one of the suspects into custody.

  “We just want to talk,” he cut in. “If you come voluntarily, we won’t cuff you.” He held out his hand. “Show me your ID.” He needed their names, but he didn’t trust them to be honest. Street people tended to lie about their identity, a protective instinct.

  The man in the green jacket reached for a wallet, and Jackson tensed.

  “I’m Henry Walsh. He’s Jacob Walsh, but I call him Jake.”

  The state card confirmed his identification and that he was thirty-three. The address listed belonged to White Bird, a charitable medical facility that let homeless people pick up mail at its downtown clinic.

  His brother reluctantly produced his ID as well. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Then come with me, tell us where you were last night, and clear yourself of suspicion.”

  “But we have to get our carts and pick up cans. This is recycling day in the Friendly Street neighborhood.”

  They had routes? “This won’t take long,” Jackson lied, handing back his card.

  “I’ll give you some cash to make up for the cans,” Evans offered.

  Jackson gently reached for Henry’s arm. He seemed to be the more dominant one. “Just come talk to us.” He didn’t want to cuff either of them. If they came willingly, without restraint, he didn’t have to advise them of their rights.

  Henry muttered what sounded like a prayer and let Jackson lead him to the car. He heard the other twin chatting up Evans as she searched him for weapons. With any luck, they would quickly connect the twins to the crime scene and maybe get a confession.

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday, November 22, 9:40 a.m.

  Rob Schakowski rested his head against the steering wheel and fought for control. Seeing Danny’s body torn open and lifeless had been harder than he expected. But blubbering all over himself wouldn’t help Danny. He needed to get his shit together and function like a detective. And a solid family member that others could count on. He started the car and cranked the heat, shivering for the first time since he was a kid.

  He pulled onto the street as the command unit passed with Quince at the wheel. A warm, comfortable place to question the scumbag suspects. A goddamn bum had killed the nicest guy on the planet, probably right after Danny handed him a blanket. What the fuck was wrong with people? The voice of the department’s sensitivity trainer tried to break into his thoughts, but he shoved it away. Fuck that! Danny was dead, and he didn’t have to be politically correct. Not today. He pulled back off the street and called his wife.

  “What’s wrong?” Tracy said, without a greeting, sounding a little breathless.

  He’d been in a restaurant having Saturday breakfast with his son when they’d gotten the call and had come straight to the scene. “Danny is dead. Stabbed by a transient.”

  “No!” She gasped and let out a shocked cry.

  “I just saw his body. Somebody gutted him.” Grief cut into his words, and Schak fought for control.

  “When?”

  “Probably sometime last night, after he handed out the stuff he’d collected.”

  “Oh my god. That’s horrible.” A pause while the TV in the background shut off. “Why are you at the scene? Lammers didn’t call you out for it, did she?”

  “No. Brad got called in when we were having breakfast.” His son had surprised him by joining the department six months earlier, following his example, the way Danny had. Schak was proud of his son, but now more worried than ever.

  “But you’re working too?” A hint of anger. “You should be with Danny’s family.”

  “I’m headed there now.”

  “Give Donna a hug for me.”

  “Okay.” He knew he wouldn’t.

  “And, Rob,” she warned, her voice a familiar nag, “don’t use this as an excuse to keep drinking. I love you, but I’m serious about you quitting.”

  Irritated now and still in shock, he hung up without responding. And immediately regretted it. If he knew how to text, he would have sent a quick apology. But he wasn’t calling her back and risking more emotional fallout.

  He drove across town, watching the neighborhoods improve as he headed south and uphill. His aunt lived on College Hill, a dense older neighborhood with nice views but missing the fir trees that thicketed the South Hills. He hoped to find Donna home on a Saturday morning. As a surgeon and board member of various organizations, she kept busy, and Sunday nights seemed to be the only time she had available for family gatherings. He’d seen her, Danny, and Kurt for dinner at the Oregon Electric Station a few weeks ago.

  Schak parked in front of her home on Lawrence and sat for a moment. His aunt’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but she always kept it in the garage, and he noticed a light on in the foyer. She was home, and he was rehearsing what he would say. Telling Danny’s ex-wife hadn’t been too bad. They had divorced two years ago and were both dating again, so the news hadn’t been that devastating to her. But telling Danny’s mother that her son was dead would be rough. He wished he had a shot of whiskey to take the edge off. The thought jarred him. It wasn’t even noon yet. Maybe his wife was right about his drinking. She’d given him an ultimatum the day before—quit drinking or she was leaving. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Schak climbed out and trudged up the walkway, and a light snow began to fall. Donna opened the door before he reached the landing.

  “Rob. It’s nice to see you. But what’s going on?” A look of mild alarm flashed across her face, which had recently been tightened. Her blonde hairstyle was perfectly smooth, as was her tailored clothing.

  His own mother, Donna’s older sister, had gone a little plump and fr
azzled, but the resemblance would always be there. “I have some bad news. Let’s go inside.”

  She froze in the doorway.

  “Please,” Schak said. “Let’s go in. And if Kurt is here, go get him.” His younger cousin finally had his own place, but because he only worked part-time as an IT guy for the county, he still spent a lot of time with his mother. As they walked into the living room, Kurt rolled his wheelchair in from the kitchen. “Hey, Rob.” Danny’s half brother gave a small smile, worried eyes contrasting with his handsome face. As a child, Kurt had been injured in a shooting accident and had remained disabled despite years of physical therapy. Danny, only eleven, had been holding the revolver. The accident had shaken the whole family, but in time, Donna had come to terms with her feelings, and they’d all recovered emotionally. For the most part.

  Schak greeted him with a fist bump. “Are you okay?”

  Kurt nodded. “It’s just one of my painful days.”

  Schak took a seat on one of the couches, and Donna sat across from him, clutching a sweater in her hands. He hated what he had to tell them and prayed he wouldn’t cry. “It’s about Danny. He was handing out blankets last night at a homeless camp, like he does every year.” Schak stalled, giving them time to brace themselves. “And someone killed him. Cut him open pretty badly. I’m sorry. I loved him too.”

  “No!” Donna argued, as if he’d just lied to her. “He’s a cop. He carries a gun. How could he get stabbed?”

  “We don’t know yet how it happened, but we’ll get the guy.”

  Tears welled in Donna’s eyes, but she steeled herself and suppressed them.

  Kurt made choking sounds, like someone trying to swallow his grief. Donna moved to his side and squeezed his shoulder. Kurt finally managed to say, “I worried about him for years after he became a cop. Then a few years ago, I kind of stopped. I was wrong.”

  “This shouldn’t have happened.” Schak didn’t know what else to say. He’d known these people his whole life, but he didn’t know how to comfort them. He would ease his own pain by working to find the perp.