“Did a street person kill him?” Donna asked, her voice trembling. “I worried about his contact with the homeless. Many of them are mentally ill.”
“Most likely, but we’ll look into all possibilities.” Schak’s investigative instincts kicked in. “Was Danny in any kind of trouble?”
They both looked surprised.
“What do you mean?” Donna stiffened. “He was a good man, a straight shooter. You know that.”
Guilt made Schak hunch forward. He should have let someone else do this. “I mean, was there anyone who had a reason to want him dead?”
“You should be looking at his case files,” Donna said. “He dealt with criminals all the time.”
“We’ll do that, of course. But I had to ask. Even cops have personal lives.”
Kurt spoke up. “Have you talked to Trisha? She might know more than we do.”
Schak had met Danny’s new girlfriend, a forty-year-old medical assistant, but he didn’t really know her. She was pretty, but she had two kids in high school and seemed a bit flaky—not right for Danny. “Do you know how to contact her?”
“She works at the Crescent Clinic.” Kurt abruptly began to cry.
Schak couldn’t bear to witness it. If he stayed, he’d start crying too. He and Danny had been Cub Scouts together, had spent weekends at each other’s houses, and had taken road trips as teenagers. Years younger, Kurt had tagged along whenever he could. As adults with jobs and families of their own, Schak and Danny had less time, but had still gotten together for monthly restaurant meals and occasional fishing trips. The “boys,” as their mothers had referred to them, would never all be together again.
“I never wanted him to become a cop.” Donna’s voice held bitterness. “But he worshipped you and did everything you did.”
Schak had always suspected she felt that way, but it still stung. “I have to go help find the killer.” He gave his aunt a quick, one-armed hug, which she shrugged off, then he locked forearms with Kurt the way they had since childhood. “I’ll be here for you as much as I can.” Schak vowed to spend more time with his younger cousin. The wheelchair made it challenging, but Danny had never let it stop him from trying to include Kurt in everything.
He drove back to the crime scene, hoping the body would be gone so he could focus better. The ME was loading Danny into the van, so Schak trotted up to the command unit instead. Quince and Lammers were inside questioning people from the camp. His boss excused herself from the man she was talking to and said, “Let’s step outside.”
He knew the tone and braced himself as he went back out.
“You can’t work this case.” Lammers pressed her hands to her hips. “I know you think you have to, but I’m ordering you to stay out of it.”
“This is bullshit! Jackson worked his ex-wife’s kidnapping.”
“They’d been separated for years. And the FBI was in charge. It was their call.” Lammers touched his shoulder—a rare gesture. “I have another assignment for you.”
Frustration and relief flooded him at the same time. He hated being dismissed from the task force, but at least she was giving him something. It was better than being sent home. That would have made him crazy. And driven him straight to his bourbon stash. “What’s the case?”
“A teenage suicide. Her parents just called it in, and they say she was sexually assaulted recently.”
Oh shit. He hated working sex crimes. “Why isn’t Vice taking it?”
“Because they’re swamped, and the case involves blackmail. Plus a young girl is dead.” Lammers handed him a slip of notebook paper. “That’s the information I have. Go find out what’s going on.”
Schak glanced at the details: Clare and Jay Devonshire, 2345 Brookview Drive. Daughter: Ashley Devonshire, 16. Found dead, likely overdose of sleeping pills.
Dead young girls were hard to take too, but at least he wouldn’t have to think about Danny or worry about bursting into tears. “Will do.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Tell Jackson that Danny’s girlfriend is Trisha Weber, and she works at the Crescent Clinic. She’s probably worth talking to.”
CHAPTER 5
Saturday, November 22, 12:05 p.m.
The Devonshire home was in a new upscale neighborhood not far from the Valley River mall. Big houses on tiny lots, with masonry exteriors and lush landscaping. Most were in the floodplain of the river, but the West Coast’s drought would probably keep them safe.
Not a single patrol car was on the scene—because they were all at the homeless camp, along with the medical examiner. So the girl’s body would likely not be examined or picked up until late this afternoon. No wonder Lammers had sent him—the rest of the department was focused on Danny. He knocked on the front door, and a woman opened it. Mid-thirties, slender, with eyes swollen from crying. A day of grief for everyone. He made up his mind to have a shot of bourbon tonight, because he’d earned it. His wife would just have to deal with it.
“Clare Devonshire? I’m Detective Schakowski, EPD.” He displayed his badge, then slipped it back into his pocket.
She motioned him in. “Why did it take so long for someone to get here?”
“A police officer was murdered, and everyone on duty is looking for his killer.”
“Oh god. I’m sorry.” She blinked back fresh tears.
“I’m sorry for your loss too.” He hesitated. This was a new scenario for him. “Can I see your daughter?”
“This way.” She moved toward a hallway, and he followed.
A man came out of the kitchen. Schak paused while he walked over and introduced himself. “Jay Devonshire. Thanks for coming.” He was all bones, with thinning hair and sagging facial skin.
The wife gestured to an open bedroom door, and Schak entered the room. Everything was purple and black, including the pajamas on the poor dead girl. She lay on top of the bedspread, hands folded on her chest the way a body in a coffin would. Pale lifeless skin, eyes closed, but a look of sadness frozen in her expression.
“When did you find her?”
“About an hour ago,” Clare said. “I knocked and called out to get her up because it seemed so late, even for a weekend. I finally opened the door, and when I saw her like that—” The mother took a long breath that sounded painful. “I knew she was dead. I knew she’d killed herself.” Clare picked up a piece of lavender paper from the desk and handed it to him. “She left a suicide note.”
Schak noticed a small, clear-plastic pouch on the desk next to where the note had been. But first he read Ashley’s words. The message was handwritten in pretty cursive: I can’t bear the shame and guilt. How can I ever look at my friends again? Or at you, now that you’ve seen me that way? I’m sorry I let this happen. Love, Ashley.
Poor girl. Why did they always blame themselves? Schak folded the note and slipped it into an evidence bag. “You’re certain this is your daughter’s handwriting?”
“Yes.” Clare frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Just part of the investigation. I’d like to see her phone and computer, but let me take some photos first.” He pulled out his camera and took several shots of the corpse—photos he would probably never look at again, because he didn’t have any doubt this girl had committed suicide. He moved in and took a couple close-ups of a plastic bag with a trace of white coating on the inside. He turned to the parents, who were still huddled in the doorway. “Do you know what she took?”
Clare choked back a sob. “I think some of my prescription sleeping pills are gone.”
“I’m not sure that would be enough.”
Mr. Devonshire stepped forward. “I have cancer, and I’ve taken a lot of pain pills over the last few months. Ashley could have stolen a bunch from me, taking a few at a time.”
“You think she planned this for a while?”
“I don’t know.” Anguish made the father’s
voice ragged. “She was emotional and sometimes threatened to kill herself.”
Clare cut in. “I didn’t want her to even know about the video. But she walked into my office just as I opened it.” Another round of tears.
Schak waited her out. “I need to see the blackmailer’s message.”
The father spun around, as if he couldn’t leave fast enough, but Clare walked over to the bed and stroked her daughter’s dark hair. As she walked out, she said, “I can’t just act like she’s not here anymore.”
Schak followed them to a small office near the front of the house. Clare grabbed a phone from her desk and handed it to him so he could read the text: The video will go viral unless you pay me $15,000 to destroy it. You have until five today to get the cash. If you call the police, I’ll post it everywhere. I’ll text with instructions soon.
The assailant/blackmailer was articulate but not greedy, which surprised him. “Did he text you again?”
Mr. Devonshire nodded. “We asked for a couple days to get the money together.”
“What did he say?”
“He said no.” Mr. Devonshire clenched his fists. “We tried to explain that we had to cash out the rest of an IRA and that it would take time, but he posted the video last night anyway.”
“Can I take the phone with me? We need to trace these messages.”
Clare blinked, then stammered, “Is that necessary? I run my business with this phone. Can’t you just write down his number?”
Schak nodded, annoyed. Yet he knew he would be nearly dysfunctional if someone took his cell phone. He noted the number and took photos of the messages, so he would have the exact wording if he needed it. “I’ll see if I can engage him and trace the phone he’s using.” But Schak wasn’t optimistic. The perp had probably used a cheap prepaid phone and tossed it when the Devonshires didn’t cooperate. “Please forward the text with the attachment to my email at the department.”
Clare bit her lip. “Do you really need to watch the video?”
He cringed. “I’d rather not, but there may be information we can use. Plus, our tech team may be able to locate where the video was taken. Especially if he filmed it with a smartphone.”
“He uploaded it to a site called Young and Hot,” Clare said through gritted teeth. “And he posted the link on several of her friends’ Facebook pages.”
The prick. “We’ll do what we can to trace the source.” Schak pulled out his notepad. “Tell me about the night the assault happened. Where was Ashley?”
“She went to a party but wouldn’t tell us where,” Clare said. “I’m sorry. We tried to find out, but she shut down and wouldn’t talk to us.”
Someone knew where Ashley had been. “Give me the names of her closest friends.”
“Anna Sorenson and Taylor Crenshaw,” Clare said. “The girls all go to Riverside High School.”
Schak made notes and wondered how he could cut through the schoolgirl drama. “Does Ashley have a Facebook page?”
“Yes. We looked at it this morning, but she hadn’t friended us, so we can’t see her posts.” Clare answered his questions while her husband paced the room.
“I’ll need to take her computer with me. Maybe our tech guy can hack into her account and check her Facebook messages.” Schak hated to ask, but he had to. “Did Ashley have a boyfriend? Was she sexually active?”
Mr. Devonshire spun and shouted, “No! She was assaulted. This is not her fault.”
Oh boy, he’d stepped in it big-time. “I’m not suggesting she’s to blame. I just need to know if she had regular contact with a boyfriend or guys at school. Most young women who are sexually assaulted know their assailant.” Yet the blackmail was highly unusual and indicated the perp might be older. He would explore that angle as well.
Clare drew in a long breath, but it didn’t help. Her husband put his arm around her as she cried.
Her pain reminded Schak of his own loss, and he struggled not to be pulled in by it. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the case. Maybe he needed a vacation instead. That would make his wife happy.
When the grieving mother was calmer, he asked, “Did Ashley have a license? Did she drive herself to the party?”
“She could drive but didn’t have her own car,” Clare said. “She left here around six thirty on Wednesday to go study with Anna. She lives about a half mile away, and Ashley always walked there.”
“How did she get home?”
“Ashley didn’t remember. She said she woke up on the sidewalk around midnight.” Mr. Devonshire sounded sad and defensive. “Neither of us was home. I was in the hospital, and Clare was out with friends.”
It had been cold that night, but not freezing yet. “Give me Anna’s address.” Schak resigned himself to questioning several teenage girls. “Did Anna throw parties at her house?”
“Not that we know of.”
“Do you know any of her friends who might have?”
Clare reached for a tissue on her desk. “The girls had slumber parties, but they were small gatherings, and parents were always home.”
Yeah, right. Schak nodded. “I need to search Ashley’s room, then take her computer to the department.” He started for the hallway. “And I need her cell phone. Her assailant could have contacted her directly.”
“Her phone is on her dresser,” Mr. Devonshire said. “We looked to see who had called her, but didn’t see anyone we didn’t know.”
Clare blinked back more tears. “What about Ashley?”
“The medical examiner will be here later to process her body.” Oh boy, wrong thing to say to parents. But he couldn’t fix it. “Please stay out of her room until he’s done. And call me if you hear from the blackmailer again.” Schak handed them a card and got back to work.
CHAPTER 6
Saturday, November 22, 1:27 p.m.
Jackson and Evans put the twins into the two interrogation rooms, ignoring their distress at being separated, then stepped back out into the open space to confer.
“I wonder if they’ve ever spent time apart,” Evans said. “I’ve never heard anyone say they saw them individually.”
Did they have a mental health evaluation on record somewhere? “I’m more concerned about the spot on Henry’s jacket that looks like blood.”
“We need to get both coats to the crime lab.” Evans snapped her fingers. “Let’s turn up the heat in the rooms and force them to take off a layer.”
Jackson was skeptical. Long-term street people tended to wear everything they owned, even in the summer. “Let’s get one of the clerks to run over to Walmart and buy them new jackets and gloves.”
Evans’ brow creased. “Do we tell them why? Will they understand what’s going on?”
“I don’t know their mental capabilities. Just keep saying we’re trying to clear them.” Jackson ignored a pang of concern. As long as the suspects handed over the coats willingly, it was legal and moral to process the evidence. And as long as they weren’t under arrest or in custody—meaning physically confined in any way—everything they said could be used in court without reading them their rights. Still, he worried about how a judge would view it. “While you get someone to go to the store, I’ll chat briefly with Jacob, then switch to Henry when you get back. And I’ll make sure they understand their presence here is voluntary.”
Jackson stepped toward the opposite door. Their new building had more space than the department needed, but the interrogation rooms that had been added during the remodel were purposefully small. He took a deep breath, went inside, and sat down.
“Where is my brother?” Jacob Walsh rocked forward, hands in his lap.
Jackson had second thoughts about leaving the twins uncuffed. Their mental illness made them potentially dangerous. But it also meant that confinement might be so stressful that they’d become incoherent. He needed information. “Henry is in th
e room next door. You can see him in a few minutes.” He clicked on his recorder and set it on the table. “I’m recording our conversation, and I appreciate you coming here voluntarily to answer questions.”
“We always cooperate.” His eyes were a bit too close together and sharply distrustful. “What do you want to know?”
“About last night. A witness says you spoke to Officer Thompson near the camp at the end of Wallis Street.”
“We wanted blankets, but he didn’t have any more.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“No. But he could have given us money.” A little frustration in his tone. “But we never beg.”
That threw him a little. “Why would you expect Officer Thompson to do that?”
“He gave the lady with the kid money. But we were last in line. It’s a long walk to the new camp.” The suspect’s shoulders twitched. “Can I have a sandwich? It must be lunchtime.”
“In a minute.” Why had Thompson given away cash? “Do you know the woman with the kid?”
Jacob shook his head. “I never saw her before.”
“What happened after the officer told you he was out of blankets and money?”
“We left.” More twitching.
“Where did you go?”
“To the shed where we sleep.”
“Where is that?”
“In Ella’s side yard. It’s on Monroe Street. Why?” Abruptly, he jumped up.
Jackson did too, reaching for the cuffs he had ready in his pocket. “Please sit down.”
“We just wanted a new blanket!”
“We’re getting you a new blanket. And a new coat too. Please sit down.” Jackson started softly but ended with a command.
Evans stepped into the room. “Ready?”
Jackson turned to her. “Almost. Let’s get them new blankets too, since they missed out on the giveaway last night.”
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 4