Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “What’s happening with the sexual-assault-and-blackmail case?”

  He wasn’t about to bring up Thompson. Schak could tell her about the connection. “We’ve found more victims. And we think we found the perp’s fake online profile, so we’re closing in.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Schak and Evans walked up as they talked. “What’s the plan?” Evans asked.

  Schak nudged her. “Will you go see if Dragoo can track the source of the Kelsey Walker profile?”

  “I’m on it.” Evans headed upstairs and Lammers followed her.

  Jackson decided not to question what Schak and Evans were up to. “We need to locate Gene Burns,” he said. “I’ll call the jail.” As he pressed a speed dial key, he added, “And I need to find Jacob Walsh and see if he can tell us more about the person in the truck.”

  A female deputy answered. “Lane County Jail.”

  “Detective Jackson here. Is Gene Burns still in custody?”

  “I’ll check.” A minute later, she said, “He was released this afternoon on bail.”

  Damn. “Who posted the money?”

  “I don’t have that information, but I can transfer you to the records department.” The connection broke after a few minutes on hold. Jackson pocketed his cell. No one in records ever picked up the phone.

  “Someone bailed him out?” Schak asked.

  “Probably his mother or a girlfriend.”

  “Or his ex-girlfriend.” Schak looked like he wanted to spit.

  “You think Trisha Weber bailed him out after he set fire to her car?”

  “I’ve seen abused women do dumber things.” Schak turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to find out.”

  “I’ll drive over to the shed where the Walsh twins sleep and see if Jacob is around.”

  They both headed back to the conference room where they’d left their casebooks and carryalls. Jackson grabbed his overcoat too. He might have to question Jacob where he found him—outside in the cold.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking on the door to Ella’s house. The shed was locked, a sign that Jacob wasn’t inside. He had called out anyway, with no response. The kindness Ella had shown in giving the twins a place to sleep had not been extended to him the last time he’d been there. He hoped to do better today.

  The door opened, but a screen door remained locked. The older woman in a red tracksuit said, “You again.”

  “I need to talk to Jacob. Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “This is important. He may have witnessed something.”

  She made a scolding sound. “He witnessed a cop taser his brother, his only companion. He watched Henry die. Jacob is crushed!”

  More guilt. “I’m sorry it happened. I tried to prevent it.” Jackson reached for a business card. “I want to help Jacob with a more permanent housing solution. Please give him this and have him call me.” He held out the card, and she reluctantly opened the screen door and took it.

  He started down the walkway.

  Ella called after him, “When it’s cold, Jacob hangs out at the deli inside the Albertsons on Eighteenth and Chambers. They have tables and free newspapers.”

  Jackson turned back. “That’s where Henry died. Would he go there?”

  “They are creatures of habit. So yes, he would.”

  “Thank you.”

  It started snowing on the drive over, and Jackson thought about all the people out there without housing. A recent survey had counted nearly 1,800 in the county, a number that had stuck in his mind. As much as he hated the snow, it meant something entirely different to people without a home. Most didn’t have cars either, so even if they could go to the Mission or one of the warming centers, they’d be cold and wet before they got there. He felt powerless to change their circumstances, except maybe the way EPD officers treated them. He made a mental note to take his concerns directly to the chief—as soon as he had time.

  Jackson pulled into the crowded parking lot and had to cross over to the area near the bike path to find an empty space. Everyone was making a quick grocery stop in case the snow kept falling. He spotted the gangly man on the side of the building, shoving empty cans into a recycling machine under a protected overhang. Jackson approached cautiously. “Jacob, it’s Detective Jackson.”

  The man wouldn’t look up or acknowledge him. He just kept feeding the machine in a rhythmic motion.

  “I know you’re upset and grieving, but I’m one of the good guys, remember? I called the crisis team instead of taking you to jail. And I know Henry didn’t kill Officer Thompson.”

  Jacob stopped. For a few seconds, he was still. Finally, he turned. “Where is Henry?”

  Oh no. Starting from scratch. “He’s in the morgue. They’re cleaning and examining his body, and they’ll release it soon.” What happened to homeless people who died? Did a local mortuary cremate their bodies? Who paid? The city? He’d never considered it before. Poor Jacob needed closure, and it seemed unlikely he could afford a service. “Would you like to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you now.”

  “I have to finish these cans.”

  Jackson glanced at the man’s shopping cart. It was nearly empty, so he would wait. “You can turn in the money slip later,” he said, hoping to head off a trip into the store. “I’ll bring you back here.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “What do you want? I’ll go get it.”

  “A turkey sandwich. With mustard and a pickle.”

  Jackson worried about letting the man out of his sight, but he knew how obsessive the twins could be about food—or whatever was on their minds. His mind, he corrected. They were no longer plural. He hurried into the store, bought the sandwich, and came back. Jacob had finished and was talking to another man with cans. The snow had stopped for now. Maybe they’d get lucky and it wouldn’t stick again. Jackson led Jacob to his sedan, hanging on to the sandwich until they were in the car and rolling. He eased into the conversation. “Do you know about Opportunity Village?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like to live there?”

  “I don’t have a little house or a sponsor.”

  “I can help you with that.”

  His voice perked up. “Really?” Then grew skeptical. “Why?”

  “I want you to be safe and to have company.”

  A quick glance his way. “I’m okay. I don’t need meds.”

  “This isn’t about medication. I’m trying to be nice.” But it was time to do his job and get information. Jackson turned down Thirteenth and headed east. “Jacob, I need to ask you about Friday night, when Officer Thompson was handing out blankets.”

  “That was last week. Before Henry died. I don’t remember much.”

  Was this a complete waste of time? He had to know. Jackson set his recorder on the seat and clicked it on. “Did you see Officer Thompson in his truck?”

  “He was behind the truck, handing out free stuff. But not to us.”

  “What about before?”

  “Not that day. We saw him at the Mission once.”

  “What about after the blankets were gone? Did you see him get into the truck?”

  “No.” Jacob faced forward, never once glancing at him.

  “Did you go back to the truck after he sent you away? Did you see someone sitting with Officer Thompson?”

  “Henry said not to talk about it.”

  A flash of dread. Were the twins guilty after all? “Why not? What happened?”

  “Nothing! We didn’t do anything.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I don’t want to be blamed.”

  “You’re a witness, Jacob, not a suspect. What did you see?”

  “Just someone in the truck.” H
is voice got quiet. “I think they were drinking. Cops shouldn’t drink in uniform.”

  “Who was drinking with Officer Thompson?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark, and they wore a coat with a hood.”

  Still, the confirmation of a witness was enough to convince him that the investigation was still open. Unless it had been Pete Scully in the truck. But why would Thompson let a drifter into his vehicle? A dark and bizarre scenario eased into his head. Thompson had heart disease and depression. And maybe a drinking problem. Had he hired Scully to take his life? So he died looking like a hero instead of a suicide? It seemed unlike Thompson, but the combination of depression and alcohol could warp people’s thinking. The scenario also explained the drag marks and the cash in Scully’s backpack.

  Jackson pulled into the parking lot at the old North McKenzie hospital, now functioning as an urgent care clinic. Jacob looked out his window at the building. “Henry’s in the hospital? I thought he was dead.”

  Oh god. Jackson reached over and gently touched his shoulder. “Henry is dead. His body is here because this is where they cleaned him up and did the autopsy.”

  “Oh.” The grieving man hung his head.

  Jackson parked the car. “Let’s go say good-bye to your brother.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Tuesday, November 25, 9:25 a.m.

  Sophie opened an email from a woman who’d been sexually assaulted, and braced for another outpouring of rage, frustration, and shame. Nine so far, plus five voice mails. None had mentioned blackmail, and only two victims had officially reported the crime. The others had refused to put themselves through what one described as a “pointless act of a self-inflicted annihilation.” Were women becoming more afraid than ever to report a rape? She knew she should be working on the Gateway mall story, but this was too important. How many more victims were out there who hadn’t contacted the paper?

  Her work cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the number, not recognizing it. “Sophie Speranza, Willamette News.”

  “This is Octavius Krause. I wanted you to know we’re protesting at the police department in a few minutes.”

  It took a moment to shift gears. Had she met this man? “Are you connected to Willow?”

  “We’re partners. I’m the cofounder of SIRA. She would want you to be there today.”

  “How is Willow?”

  “The same. Still unconscious, but stable.”

  Sophie vowed to get out to the hospital and see the activist as soon as she woke up. “What’s the focus of your protest?”

  “Same issue, police abuse of the homeless. We want the officers disciplined or fired. It’s a nationwide problem, especially for people who are mentally ill.”

  “I’ll meet you there, and we’ll talk more.”

  Sophie hurried out to her Scion without telling her supervisor. The protest was just as important to cover as the sexual predator. But why was it all happening now, as she was being pushed off the crime beat? She hoped the newspaper would run her stories anyway . . . and not fire her.

  On the drive to the police department, she called the photographer and told him about the protest.

  “I thought you were off the crime beat,” Brian said.

  “I am. But I can’t walk away from this one. Can you make it down here?”

  “No, I have a zillion photos to process from the school shooting.”

  One student had died, and three more had been wounded. “Heartbreaking story. I hope I never have to cover one.”

  “I’m still shaking. Gotta go.” He hung up.

  The crowd in the parking lot of the police department surprised her. She was forced to park across the street at the golf club and walk over. A quick visual survey revealed that about half the crowd was probably not homeless, just good-hearted support for fellow citizens. She took photos, then went inside the packed lobby. The group inside looked more like street people, but they were younger and more coherent than most of the men she saw on street corners with signs. Her respect for Willow and Octavius jumped a notch. Organizing and motivating homeless people had to be challenging. Getting this many out here on such a cold day was a small miracle. Had SIRA brought them in buses or vans?

  A young man spotted her taking notes and approached. He had shoulder-length hair, a beard, and a long overcoat, making her think of someone from The Matrix. “I’m Octavius Krause. Thanks for coming.”

  He answered a few questions, then spun toward the front when the crowd got quiet. Jackson, standing on a chair near the counter, addressed the crowd. Octavius rushed forward to respond to the detective, who promised there would be changes in the department. Sophie scribbled notes as fast as she could, doubtful that Jackson had any real authority on the issue. But he also promised to personally help Jacob Walsh, a gesture she found touching and believable.

  A big woman in a dark jacket took the chair next and announced that Willow would make a full recovery. It was good to hear, but again, Sophie was skeptical. The woman also pleaded with the crowd to leave so law enforcement could do their jobs. The crowd responded and started breaking up. Relieved, Sophie tucked her yellow tablet back into her oversize bag. She really wanted to get back to her computer, continue connecting online, and find the profile the perp was hiding behind. She’d created a new profile on both Facebook and Twitter at home the night before, listing her name as Sophie Lynn and her background as a high school student. She sent out dozens of friend invitations on Facebook and started following local high school students on Twitter. She was making progress, but she needed support from someone inside the social circle. Maybe Ashley’s mother would help her.

  Ninety minutes later, Sophie parked in front of the Andrade house, cursing the snow. Damn! The weather wasn’t supposed to get like this until January or February. But after a few days of it, she’d learned to dress in pants for work and kept extra clothes and boots in the car. She liked to be prepared. She grabbed her red leather bag, climbed out of her car, and carefully made her way up the stone walkway. She’d learned Mara’s name after a series of phone calls. Mrs. Devonshire, the mother of the suicide victim, had been reluctant to talk at first, but her anger had finally driven her to complain about Ashley’s friends and their bad influence on her daughter. Afterward, Sophie had texted Ashley’s friend Anna Sorenson, who’d eventually connected with her online, told her about the parties, and given her a list of names. At the top was Mara Andrade, who was rumored to have been assaulted in the spring. Another call, and the young woman had agreed to tell her story if Sophie used a pseudonym.

  She rang the doorbell and was surprised when an older man greeted her. “Sophie? I’m John Andrade, Mara’s father. Come in.”

  He led her to a family room in the back of the house with a view of the river.

  “Mara had second thoughts about talking to you, but she said I could speak for her.”

  Well, hell. She could have done this over the phone. “I’m disappointed, but thank you for standing in.”

  The father’s eyes were sad. “Mara went over the whole incident with a detective recently, and it left her shaken. She agreed to speak with you, but then she regretted it.”

  “I understand.” Sophie took out her notepad and recorder, determined to get a quote or some backstory she could use. “Tell me what happened.”

  Mr. Andrade took his time and gave a full account of the party, the sexual assault, and the follow-up blackmail, giving much more detail than Detective Schakowski had provided. When he mentioned a police officer breaking up the party, Sophie recalled Schak’s reaction to the college student’s account of being pulled over. A rush of adrenaline made her hand shake as she wrote: Cop as predator?

  But Mr. Andrade was not the person to question about it. “How is Mara handling things?” she asked, forcing herself to focus on the victim. “Is she getting counseling?”

  “She did, and it was
helpful, especially after the abortion. But she’s moved past it now. Mara’s planning to attend community college next term and eventually become a counselor.”

  “I’m glad Mara is doing well. At least she’s here in Oregon, where they don’t force women to have their rapist’s baby.”

  Mr. Andrade nodded sadly. “We probably should have called the police instead of paying the blackmail, but Mara wanted it to be over.”

  “Didn’t you worry that he would come back for more money?”

  “We considered it, then decided the criminal wouldn’t want to take the risk again.”

  She understood the unspoken background thought. “Because there are so many potential victims? Because he enjoys the assaults and would likely move on to another young girl?”

  He stiffened and scooted his chair back. “We didn’t really consider that.”

  Sophie couldn’t bring herself to apologize for the comment. That was why rapists often got away with their crimes. She now knew how much victims dreaded talking to authorities. But their parents should know better. “How do you feel about the police department? Is that part of why you didn’t report the assault at the time?”

  “We were mostly concerned that the predator would make good on his promise to release the video if we called the police.”

  “But how would he know?”

  “We worried he was watching the house and would see.”

  “Why not report it after you paid him?”

  “Because he still had the video. And we were never optimistic the police would catch the pervert.” Andrade stood. “I need to get back to work. You should have plenty for your story.”

  Sophie stood too, wondering what he did at home to make enough money to afford the house. “Thank you. Can I call if I need clarification?”

  “If you must.”