Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “You get out too!” he yelled at Bremmer. The officer left, muttering “Liberal asshole” under his breath.

  Jackson glanced down at the wounded man. Blood no longer seeped into the jacket around his head. He touched two fingers to the man’s neck and found no pulse.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sunday, November 23, 6:55 a.m.

  Schak woke to the jarring noise of the alarm, head pounding and throat dry. Why the alarm? What day was it? He staggered over to the dresser and slammed the clock. The quiet, traffic-less morning made him realize it was Sunday. But he was working a case; that’s why he’d set the alarm. He’d also drank more than he intended, which was why he felt so crappy. The smell of coffee made him aware that Tracy was awake and hadn’t left him. He crossed himself, a reflex, and got in the shower.

  His wife didn’t come into the kitchen to talk as he ate the breakfast she’d cooked for him, so he knew she was mad. He didn’t blame her, but they would get through this. He would limit himself to an after-work beer or two until after Danny’s funeral service—and after his killer was caught. Then he would quit.

  Schak rinsed his plate and stuck his head into Tracy’s craft room. “Thanks for breakfast. I have to work today, but I’ll try to be home for dinner.”

  For a long moment, she didn’t look up. Finally, she said, “Be safe,” her usual farewell as he left for work. She still cared about him. Heart lighter, he hurried out of the house, hoping to reach the Andrade home before they left for church or whatever they had planned for the day.

  The Andrades lived on the other side of the expressway from the Sorensons, in the Cal Young area, where the homes were older, but just as large and with more property. He noticed a new-model car in the driveway and suspected the three-car garage held another high-end vehicle. If this case was related, the perp was targeting rich families. And if so, the crimes had to be as much about blackmailing for cash as they were about sexual perversion. But he didn’t know yet if Mara’s family had been targeted.

  Relieved someone was home, Schak rang the bell and heard a small dog barking behind the door. The man who answered the door surprised him. A tall white guy with blond hair going gray and a slight European accent.

  Schak introduced himself, then asked, “Are you Mr. Andrade?”

  “Yes, but call me John.”

  “Is Mara Andrade available? I’d like to speak to her.”

  “What do you want with my daughter?”

  “I’d like to ask about a possible assault earlier this year.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tensed. For a long moment, he was silent. Finally, he asked, “Why now? We didn’t officially report it at the time.”

  “There’s been another victim.”

  A quick squeeze of his eyes. “I worried there might be. Please come in.”

  Schak waited in the foyer while Andrade went upstairs. Muted voices engaged in a heated discussion, but eventually Andrade came back down, followed by a teenage girl.

  Schak stared, mesmerized by her doll-like appearance. Huge eyes like a Disney princess, flawless mocha skin, and perfectly straight brownish-black hair. The girl didn’t quite seem real until she spoke.

  “I really don’t want to talk about this, but I understand why I have to. Let’s make it fast, please.”

  The father and daughter sat across from him at a formal dining table that looked as if it had never been used. Schak took out his notepad and recorder. Sometimes he couldn’t read his own handwriting and had to go back to the source. He struggled with how to begin. This wasn’t an easy subject for two men to discuss. “Please tell me what happened when you were assaulted. Start with the exact date, if you remember.”

  “May seventeenth. I’ll never forget. It was Saturday, and I went to a party with some friends.”

  The girl stopped, so he prompted her. “Where was the party?”

  “At Alex Crenshaw’s house. He’s a friend who graduated last year.”

  Schak cut in. “Taylor Crenshaw’s brother?” The name had been in the suicide victim’s contact list.

  “Yes, but like I said, he’s my friend. He didn’t assault me.”

  “Who else lives with him?”

  “Tristan Channing. He’s a university student. And gay. So it wasn’t him either.”

  Schak wrote down the names. How would he keep all these young people and connections straight? “I still have to question both men.”

  “I never confronted them,” her father said, sounding a little ashamed. “Because it could have been anyone at the party, and I didn’t want to risk the video going viral. Especially after I’d paid the extortion.”

  So this one had been about money too. “How much?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  The perp had gotten greedier. “What’s the address?” He really hoped to get lucky and find some overlap between the crimes.

  “It’s on the corner of Eighteenth and Patterson.”

  Only a half mile from the more-recent assault. But the whole neighborhood was party central.

  Mara spoke up. “The last thing I remember is doing tequila shots with Alex, then my mother was waking me up, and I was on the sidewalk in front of our house.”

  Did the perp drug the girls? “Any flashes of what happened in between?”

  “No.” She glanced away.

  Was she lying or just ashamed? Schak was starting to think both victims had been drugged. “Did he record the assault?”

  “He sent us a video,” Mr. Andrade said, struggling to keep his voice even. “It showed Mara on a bed with her eyes closed, and he was—” The man paused, searching for a word he could live with. “Probing her.”

  “With his hand?”

  “Yes. He wore a white latex glove.” Mr. Andrade was still talking for his daughter.

  Were the gloves hiding a scar or a tattoo? Or was he just being extra careful?

  “He texted us and said he would post the file online if we didn’t pay him ten thousand dollars within five hours.” Mr. Andrade rubbed his forehead, his face anguished. “I know we should have gone to the police, but Mara was terribly upset, and her mother was horrified, and they just wanted to give him the money. So I did.”

  “Where and how did you pay him?”

  “He had us put the money in a pouch that was hanging off the back of a disabled woman’s wheelchair,” Mr. Andrade explained. “She was waiting to board a Mobile Source van, which showed up moments after we dropped it in.”

  Weird, but clever. “Did she know she was a courier?”

  “I doubt it. I walked by and slipped the cash in, and she never seemed to notice.”

  “What location?”

  “Lincoln and Twenty-Third.”

  Did the perp live nearby? Or drive past the pickup site on his way to work? He had to know about the disabled woman’s schedule somehow. And where had the perp picked up the money? Schak scribbled a note to check with Mobile Source. “Did the blackmailer keep his word?”

  “We never heard from him again, and the video was never shared. That we know of.”

  “Do you have a copy?”

  “No!” Mara sounded mortified. “I couldn’t even watch it.”

  Schak shifted in his chair. How was he supposed to ask this? He looked at the father. “Tell me about the actual assault. I need to know what he did, so I can look for similar crimes in the database.”

  “I can’t listen to this.” Mara scrambled out of her chair and ran upstairs.

  Mr. Andrade closed his eyes. “He penetrated her with his fingers, then with a dildo. That was all he recorded. But he also raped her, because she got pregnant.” A pained intake of breath. “And had an abortion. Her mother is still upset about it, but Mara wanted to terminate the pregnancy, so I took her.”

  Mara’s assault had happened in May, and Ashley�
��s in November. Had there been more in between? Or some before?

  “Rape is rape,” Mr. Andrade added. “I’m glad Mara was unconscious. She’s still depressed about the abortion and ashamed of what happened. But she’s not traumatized. Not like she would be if he had dragged her behind a bush with her eyes open.”

  Some consolation. “Did you keep the texts the blackmailer sent?”

  “For a while, then I couldn’t bear to have them on my phone. But I wrote down the number before I deleted them, and I know it from memory.”

  Schak let him have the notepad. “I need to know more about the party. Can you get Mara back in here?”

  Schak spent another ten minutes with the girl and came away with a list of five people she’d known at the party, two only by first names. He needed help with this case, but with Danny dead and everyone focused on finding his killer, he might not get any backup for a while.

  He needed to know how the perp targeted and accessed his prey. “Is there anything else you can tell me, particularly about the party?” Schak glanced back and forth between the father and daughter.

  “I don’t think so.” Mr. Andrade stood. “I’m sorry there’s another victim, but I’m glad you’re investigating. I feel better now than I have in six months.”

  Mr. Andrade was done talking. Schak shook his hand, gave both his business card, and headed out. When he was halfway down the sidewalk, the door behind him opened and Mara called out, “Wait.”

  He turned, eager to finally hear from the girl out of her father’s earshot.

  Mara glided toward him, her voice soft. “I think I was already pregnant when he assaulted me. But I let my parents believe—” She looked down, then finally met his eyes again. “It was easier for them to support my decision that way.”

  He wished it didn’t matter, but it did. “Are you saying the assailant didn’t actually penetrate you?”

  “He didn’t—” Again she struggled to express herself. “He didn’t ejaculate in me. And he may not have put his penis inside me.” Her face hardened. “But it’s still rape.”

  He didn’t know the legal distinction between rape and assault, but he wanted to say the right thing. “Either way, we’ll find him and send him to prison.”

  Mara nodded. “I also remembered something else. One of my friends told me the cops broke up the party. When she said it, I had a dreamlike flash of an officer helping me.”

  The other party had been busted too. Was the sexual predator and extortionist a police officer?

  CHAPTER 14

  Sunday, November 23, 7:05 a.m.

  Jackson made breakfast for the kids, then disappointed them both by announcing he had to work for a while. “But I promise to take time off as soon as I have some level of resolution for Officer Thompson’s case,” he said, getting up.

  “What exactly does that mean?” Katie asked. “You’ve said it takes months to build a murder case against a suspect who doesn’t confess.”

  That, of all things, she remembered. “What I mean is that once we know for sure we have the right perp, we can slow down and collect every piece of possible evidence. And I can take a day off before that phase begins.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Sort of.” The truth was much messier. A viable, but unconfirmed, suspect was dead, and a second suspect had yet to be located.

  “What’s a perp?” Benjie asked, with a mouthful of banana.

  “The bad guy,” Katie answered. “Dad catches bad guys, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know.” His little voice had a note of seriousness. “He saved me from the bad man.”

  They were all quiet for a moment. Benjie’s first father had threatened both of Jackson’s kids—the worst day of all their lives. Katie patted her belly and broke the mood. “I think the baby wants another waffle.”

  “You’ll have to make it yourself.” Jackson grabbed the stack of mail on the table. “I have to see what bills I haven’t paid, then get moving.” He wanted to be at the clinic when it opened to question Thompson’s girlfriend. After that, he had to go into the department and give his statement about the tragic incident at Albertsons. There wasn’t much to tell. He’d arrived too late to prevent Henry’s death. His brother had been inconsolable. Jackson had called CAHOOTS—Crisis Assistance Helping Out on the Streets—a mobile social service that dealt with situations that involved people who were intoxicated, irrational, or self-destructive. Bremmer had argued for arresting Jacob, but Jackson had pulled rank and refused to let him. Mental health assistance at the jail would have taken hours, or days, to be administered, and he didn’t want another death on his conscience. Especially if the twins weren’t guilty. He wasn’t yet convinced they were.

  He focused on the mail, sorting the junk from the stuff that looked important. A letter from the county court gave him pause. He opened it and scanned the top paragraph. Another person had filed for custody of Benjie and both petitions would be heard next week. Stress gripped his gut and gave a twist. Who could it be? He’d traveled to Utah to search for relatives. Jackson scanned the letter and found the name: Caprice Arlen. She didn’t match Benjie’s mother’s name, and he had no idea of the woman’s relationship to the boy. He remembered receiving an earlier letter from the court about Benjie’s great-grandmother’s estate going into probate. Was this about money? Had some relative come out of the woodwork to claim the boy’s inheritance? He would gladly pay her to go away if that’s all she wanted. He made a note to call his custody lawyer in the morning.

  His phone rang, and it was Lammers. Jackson grabbed his coffee and headed to his desk, away from the kids.

  “Jackson here.”

  “The chief wants to meet with us this afternoon.” Lammers wasn’t known for small talk.

  The big boss didn’t come into the department on Sundays—unless all hell had broken loose. “When? I’ve got leads to check out.” He’d have to call Evans and ask her to search Thompson’s house.

  “At noon. It’s about Henry and Jacob Walsh. Sidney Willow has the homeless community all stirred up, and they’re gathering on the courthouse plaza.”

  “They know about Henry’s death?”

  “Of course. You let Jacob go, and CAHOOTS medicated him, then released him to Willow.”

  His fellow officers would blame him for this. Could he diffuse it? “County or old federal courthouse?” The two plazas were only a block apart, but both were popular protest sites.

  “Both. It’s not just the homeless but their supporters. This could be huge.”

  Damn! “I told Bremmer not to arrest Henry, to wait for me. This could have been avoided.”

  “Bremmer is on paid leave, if that helps at all.”

  “Not really. I’ll see you at noon.”

  Crescent was a midsize clinic on the outskirts of town. The parking lot was nearly empty, and he was hopeful they wouldn’t be busy dealing with urgent care patients. As cold as it was, few people were willing to venture out this Sunday morning. He expected a minimal staff and hoped Trisha Weber would make time to talk to him.

  Inside, only two patients waited in the chairs along the wall. They both looked like flu victims.

  “How can I help you?” The receptionist was young, pretty, and tan—for November in Oregon.

  “I’m looking for Trisha Weber.”

  “She’s with a patient. Can you wait a few minutes?”

  At least she was here. Jackson showed his badge. “This is important.”

  The receptionist swallowed hard, said, “I’ll get her,” then went to retrieve the medical assistant.

  A few minutes later, a tall woman in purple scrubs hurried out of the back area, a nervous smile playing on her face. “I’m Trisha Weber. What’s this about?”

  Jackson’s heart sank. She didn’t seem to know her boyfriend was dead. “Can we go somewhere private and t
alk?”

  The pretty woman’s lower lip trembled. “Sure.”

  She led him to an alcove in the waiting room, and they sat on facing chairs. Jackson dreaded the conversation. How to start? “Did you know Officer Dan Thompson?”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “What happened?”

  He noticed the tattoos covering her entire left arm. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Just fucking tell me.”

  Jackson braced for hysteria. “Dan was killed Friday night.” He started to mention the homeless camp, then stopped. He wanted to see what conclusions she jumped to. Everyone was still a suspect.

  “Oh, fuck me!” She slammed a fist into the padded chair. “I knew better than to date a cop.”

  Her coarseness surprised him, perhaps because of the medical setting. He wanted to acknowledge her loss, but he had to press forward. “How long had you known Dan?”

  “About three months.” She kept looking at her hands and twisting a ring back and forth.

  Had Thompson given it to her? “Where did you meet him?”

  “In a bar.” Her head jerked up. “How did he die?”

  “He was stabbed.”

  She burst into tears. After a brief, noisy cry, she said, “My ex-boyfriend threatened to hurt Danny. But I didn’t think he would kill him.” She slumped back in the chair, arms crossed. “Gene had it in his head that we would get back together when he got out of jail, but that’s not gonna happen.”

  “Where can I find Burns?”

  “He’s staying with his brother in Springfield.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Greg and Jolene Burns. Near the corner of Twentieth and Main. That’s all I know.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Did you tell Danny’s mother and brother? He was close to them.”

  “Another officer did.” Now for the tough questions. “When did you last see Dan?”

  She sat forward again. “Wednesday night. We had dinner at that new steakhouse at the mall. Why?”