There were no calls from men. He scrolled through Thursday and Friday and saw only more girl conversations. About the time he decided to call it a night, his phone rang, and he checked the ID. Why was his mother calling? “Hey, Mom. What’s going on?”
“I’m at Donna’s, and we’re all reminiscing about Danny. You should be here.”
His mother was a little tipsy, but she was right. He needed a dose of family. He wanted to honor Danny. “I’m on my way.”
His mother came to the door at his aunt’s house and pulled his head close to hers. “Don’t ever get yourself killed. I couldn’t handle it.” She kissed his forehead and pulled back. “Your unit will get the bastard, though, right?”
“I think we already did.” The knowledge gave him less comfort than he’d thought it would.
His mother started across the foyer. “We’re in the family room looking at photo albums. There’s beer in the fridge.”
Schak helped himself to a cold one, then joined his childhood family. It still hurt that he couldn’t get these people together with his new family. Sure, once a year they all had Christmas dinner together, but his wife had never warmed to his mother or his cousins. He realized now it was because of the drinking. Before, he’d thought that Tracy was resentful of his bond with his mother and jealous of Donna’s successes as a physician and a community leader.
His aunt greeted him, and he asked how she was holding up. “I don’t know. Some moments, I think I’m fine. Then Danny’s death comes crashing down on me. Plus, I have that damn malpractice suit, so it’s been rough.”
“I know what you mean. Thanksgiving will be painful and strange without him.” Schak sat on the couch next to Kurt. “I’m glad to see you out of your wheelchair.”
“I’m taking gene therapy now, and it’s helping.” His cousin held a photo album in his lap. Kurt pointed at a picture of the three of them around a big fire. “Remember the camp of a thousand frogs?”
Schak laughed. “Who could forget?” Aunt Donna had taken them camping twice every summer, always to remote campgrounds where they’d had to rough it. Kurt had been challenged by the adventures, but he’d never wanted to be left behind. Those trips were some of Schak’s best memories.
Aunt Donna stepped up to the bar and poured everyone a shot of whiskey. “Now that Rob’s here, we can toast Danny.”
Schak held up his glass. “Danny was a great guy and a fine police officer. A humanitarian to the end.”
Kurt went next. “Danny was a terrific brother. He always included me, waited for me, and made me feel like a whole person.”
There was an awkward moment of silence while they all remembered that Danny had been the one who’d accidentally shot Kurt when they were little kids.
Choking back a sob, Donna said, “Danny changed my life. He made me realize that I had more love to give than I ever knew.”
Schak’s mother finished with, “I loved that kid. He made me laugh every time.”
They clinked their shot glasses together and drank a toast to their lost loved one.
CHAPTER 20
Monday, November 24, 8:25 a.m.
Sophie strode through the parking lot, eager to be back at work in the Willamette News building. A sense of excitement she hadn’t felt in a long time pulsed through her body. She’d witnessed a violent clash between police officers and protestors and had worked on the story all evening, wanting to get the emotions, images, and textures onto the page before they faded. It was some of the best writing she’d done in months, and she couldn’t wait to show her boss.
She flashed her badge and trotted upstairs to her tiny cubicle. The red light on her phone was flashing. Excellent. People had returned her calls. She pulled off her jacket, dumped her big red bag on the desk, and clicked on her computer. While the system loaded, she listened to her voice mails. The first was from Detective Schakowski, asking for her help with a sexual assault case. What the heck? She’d never heard from him before. The blackmail aspect of the case was particularly heinous—and intriguing. She called him back, excited when he answered.
“It’s Sophie Speranza. I’d love to help. Tell me more about your case.”
“I can’t tell you the victims’ names without their permission, but I’ll ask the parents of the girl who committed suicide. They may be willing to go public to help stop the predator.”
“A suicide?” That hit home, giving her a jolt. “How old was she?”
“Sixteen. She killed herself after the perp posted her assault video online.”
How cruel! “You mentioned blackmail. Did he ask for money?” Sophie typed shorthand notes into a file as she talked.
“He wanted fifteen thousand in exchange for not uploading the video. Her parents couldn’t meet his deadline, so it went live Friday evening. The girl took a bunch of sleeping pills and pain medication, and her parents found her dead Saturday morning.”
“The poor family.” Cyberbullying at its worst. Sophie pushed out of her chair and took deep breaths, too angry to focus. A good friend had killed herself in high school after being humiliated by a group of male athletes. She’d written about it to work through her rage, and from that experience, her love of journalism had blossomed.
“There was an earlier victim in May,” the detective said.
“Give me a second, please, Detective. I need to catch up on my notes.” Sophie eased back into her chair and started typing. This wasn’t about her high school friend, and she had to keep her emotions in check.
“Call me Schak, and tell me when you’re ready.”
“I’m set. What else?”
“The first victim’s parents paid the blackmail and never heard from him again. I want to know if there were more. And if so, I need those girls to come forward. The more we know, the faster we’ll catch him.”
“I’ll get the story online today and in tomorrow’s paper. How should they contact you?”
“Give my desk phone number and my email.” He relayed the information, then said he had to go.
“Wait. How does the predator find his victims?” She needed to warn women as well as ask for their help.
“At parties. We think he picks the youngest, drunkest girl, then drugs her and takes her somewhere for the assault.”
“Is he violent? Does he hurt them too?” It made her queasy to ask.
“No. In fact, he takes them home and drops them in front of their house when it’s over.”
“A predator with a conscience.”
“I think he’s just trying to make the parents feel grateful enough to pay him.”
“I’ll get on this feature right away. Keep me updated, please.”
After she got off the phone, Sophie cleaned up her notes and sent the riot article to her supervisor, Karl Hoogstad. She uploaded the photos she’d taken to the server, and minutes later, the crime beat photographer stepped into her cube.
“Nice pics. Why didn’t you call me? I would have come down.” Brian was her age, and they’d started at the paper around the same time.
“I’m sorry. I got the call about the protest at the last minute. And you told me you were going to Bend this weekend.”
“I did go, but you still should have contacted me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m in a weird space here at the paper, and it’s messing with my head. You’ve seen what’s going on.” Or maybe he hadn’t. His job was safe because he was related to one of the owners.
“I’ll process the photos and pick one to use,” Brian said. “I hope to run it across the front page of the City section.”
“Thanks.”
Sophie couldn’t decide what to do next. She still wanted to hear from Jackson about the police officer’s homicide, but she was eager to write the story about the sexual assaults. That warning had to come first. As she crafted her lead sentence, her desk phone
rang. An internal call. Nervous, she picked up.
“This is Chet Harris. Will you come into my office?”
An explosion of fear in her stomach. “Sure. I’ll be right there.”
She headed downstairs to the corner of the building the owners and managers still occupied. The rest of the floor was rented out to a real estate company. The managing editor occupied a corner office with tall windows and a view of the field across the street.
His door was open, so she stepped in. “Good morning.”
From behind his desk, he gave her a bright, phony smile. Chet was an attractive middle-aged man who looked like he’d stepped out of an insurance commercial. This morning he wore a suit, and she wondered who he was meeting with next. Probably the banker who was calling in the loans that kept the paper afloat.
“Have a seat, please.”
Sophie smiled and complied.
“We’ve been reviewing your work, and we have some concerns.”
Oh no. This was it. She decided to go down swinging. “What concerns? I haven’t had any negative feedback from Karl Hoogstad, and I hear great things from readers every day.”
“Karl has been protecting you, but it has to stop. The quality of your writing has been slipping, and we don’t think you’re the right person to handle the crime beat.”
It was all she could do to keep from shouting Bullshit! Sophie squirmed in her chair and chose her words carefully. “I respectfully disagree. I’ve covered three murder trials in the last six months, and I’ve heard nothing but praise for my work. I’ve even been on the scene for several breaking stories. I’m good at the crime beat.”
A long pause. “A reporter shouldn’t be part of the story. That’s one of the issues we have.”
Oh shit. She’d just given him a bullet to shoot her with. “Are you talking about the eco-terrorist situation?”
“That’s one example.”
“I was covering a story and was taken hostage!” Her defense burst out louder than she’d intended. But she wasn’t done. “I reported the news from under a desk, while a man with a bomb threatened to blow up the building. I risked my life to do my job and help the police. How can you hold that against me?”
“I admire your passion, but you’re a liability.” The boss cleared his throat. “Also, the intern who’s been covering a few crime stories is a better writer than you are.”
A punch in the gut. For a moment, she was speechless. “I don’t think a single other person in this building would support that contention.”
“It’s the opinion of the management, and we make the decisions. We’re pulling you off crime and courts, and assigning you to cover Springfield.”
Where reporters went to die. She made one last effort. “But I have relationships within the police department. Access to information that a new person won’t have.”
“You need to help Zee build those connections.”
Not a chance in hell. Rage and dread fought for control. Rage won out. “I know what’s happening here, and I’d respect you more if you just fired me.” Sophie stood. “But if I still have a job, I’ll get back to work.”
“Turn over everything you’re working on to Zee and go find out what’s happening with the remodel of the Gateway mall.”
She nodded, unable to respond.
Trembling, she climbed the stairs and returned to her desk. Her office neighbor stuck her head over the half wall. “Everything okay?”
“No, but I can’t talk about it yet.” Sophie feared she would cry. For a few minutes, she was paralyzed with indecision. She’d already sent in her piece about the homeless protest and riot, which included an update about Officer Thompson’s murder. She trusted Hoogstad to run it with her byline. If Jackson ever called her back with real information, she would pass it along to the intern. She owed her readers that.
But she couldn’t let go of the sexual assault story. It was too important to hand over to someone fresh out of college and too personal to turn her back on. Sophie decided to keep working on it in her free time. She would post the updates to her personal blog, Safety Snapshot, where she listed crimes in Lane County and posted articles about how to stay safe. If one of the victims who came forward happened to be from Springfield, she could legitimately cover the issue as part of her new assignment.
Impulsively, she called Detective Jackson again, and he startled her by answering. “I’ve got two minutes, Sophie, so make it fast.”
“With Henry Walsh dead, will you close out the case? Are you satisfied that he killed Officer Thompson?”
“The investigation is ongoing. New evidence came to light yesterday that widened our focus.”
“What evidence? Do you have another suspect?”
“We do, but he’s dead too, so this will be a long, challenging investigation. I have to go.” Jackson hung up.
Another body? A hum of energy pulsed in her veins. Sophie called the department spokesperson and waited through ten rings. She hated the thought of turning over a three-body story to an intern. Maybe she would write it anyway and see what happened. They would fire her for insubordination, but it was only a matter of time before they fired her for something. They’d laid the groundwork already by claiming the quality of her writing was in decline. Wouldn’t it be amusing if she earned a Northwest Excellence in Journalism award for her eco-terrorist story? The winners would be announced next week. That was the kind of proof she could take into court for a wrongful termination lawsuit. But not if they fired her for insubordination.
The department spokesperson finally came on the line. “Jackie Matthews, EPD.”
“Sophie Speranza, Willamette News. I’m calling about the body found yesterday. What’s the connection to Officer Thompson?”
“I’m not authorized to share that, but we believe the two deaths are linked.”
“What’s the victim’s name?”
“I don’t have that yet.”
That was odd. “Is the victim a transient?”
“Most likely.”
“How did he or she die?” Sophie felt certain it was a man, but for the sake of objectivity, she had to pretend it could go either way.
“A gunshot wound is all I can say. I have to get back to work now.”
“Whose gun?”
But the woman had already hung up. Sophie decided to go ahead and write the update, then quit before they could fire her. The paper was dying anyway. Subscribers were not renewing, and advertising was shrinking everywhere but the Sports section. Besides, Jasmine had ended their relationship—leaving her lonely and confused about what she wanted. She wasn’t serious about her current boyfriend and never would be. He was fun, and she enjoyed hooking up with a man for a change, but he wasn’t intellectually curious enough or passionate enough about anything for her to stay in town because of him. She had to step up her job search and get out of Eugene.
Sophie made another cup of hot tea, then sat back down at her desk in cube world to write her last two stories for the paper. Go cover the remodel of the Gateway mall. As if she would waste her time. They expected her to quit. That was the point. Maybe there was another way to handle this. What if she just kept doing the job, covering crime, and hired a lawyer? They could fire her, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. But would that hurt her chances of getting hired at another media company?
She pushed her employment issue to the back burner and wrote the sexual-assault-and-blackmail story, working through her morning break to get it done. She wanted the piece up on the website before this job blew up in her face. After closing the file, she uploaded it to the server for editing and wondered how her supervisor would handle it.
At noon, she made a quick trip to a nearby deli for a cup of soup, still shivering even after she came back inside. The temperature had dropped so quickly from the warm late summer that her body hadn’t acclimated. N
obody’s had.
Hoogstad came in while she was eating. Bald and round, he filled her narrow doorway. “You had a busy weekend.” He gestured for her to follow. “Come into the conference room, please.”
Sophie grabbed her recorder, slipped it into her sweater pocket, and followed him to the small interior room. Her supervisor had lost his private office when the newspaper moved everyone upstairs. Once inside the windowless meeting room, she reached into her pocket and clicked on her recorder as the door closed.
“I was still on the crime beat when I wrote that piece last night,” she explained. “Sidney Willow called me yesterday about the protest, and I felt compelled to cover it. I’m glad I did.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s an excellent piece of writing.”
“Can I quote you on that?” They were both still standing. This wouldn’t be a long conversation.
“It wouldn’t matter if you did.” They were alone, but he still lowered his voice. “I’m sorry about what’s happening to you, but I can’t help. If I lose my job and my health insurance, I’m SOL.”
Overweight, pasty, and coated in sweat, he was diabetic and took daily insulin. Even knowing he was going to screw her on the way down, she felt sorry for him. “I’ll be fine. Just please run my last two stories. The second one I sent is even more important and needs to go up on the website today.”
“I’ve already edited it.” He shifted and crossed his arms. “I can’t put your name on it though. It came in after I was notified of your transfer.”
Not fair! “It doesn’t matter. Run it anyway. Young women need to know about the predator.”
“You’re the best crime reporter I’ve ever worked with. I want you to know that, no matter what my official evaluation says.”
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 13