Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  Another glance around the bedroom told him there wasn’t an adjoining master bath, only a closet with no doors. No surprise in a rental like this. A few dresses and shirts hung in the recessed space. Jackson headed into the hallway and noticed three other doors. Likely a bathroom and two more bedrooms. Where were her roommates?

  The smaller bedroom gave him pause. Clothes and toys belonging to a young child, likely a boy, covered the floor, and a small foam mattress lay in a corner. Where was the kid? His pulse picked up as he rushed into the third bedroom.

  Empty, except for the faint smell of cigarette smoke and mold. His mind jumped from one thought to another. Why would she rent a three-bedroom house if she had so few possessions? Or had she not finished moving in? And where the hell was the kid? Maybe someone else with a child had planned to move in, then changed their mind. Or the killer had fled with the child after assaulting his new roommate. Or maybe the boy had wandered off.

  Jackson hurried back to the small bedroom and glanced at the closet. The doors were missing there too, and the closet was empty, including the overhead shelf. He grabbed his cell phone and called dispatch. “Detective Jackson here. Have you had any reports of a lost or found child? Maybe a boy, about three or four years old, picked up in the Bethel Trainsong area?”

  “Do you have a description?”

  Jackson looked around for a photo. “Not yet. Will you alert officers to be on the lookout?”

  “Right away. Call back if you get more information.”

  “Thanks.”

  Maybe there was a photo of the child somewhere. Jackson took a step toward the hallway, but a small sound caught his attention. He spun around, listening hard. Had that been a thump? A dog or something brushing against the house? Another small sound from below. A whimper? He followed it toward the closet and kicked a cardboard box of shoes out of the way. Maybe a dog or animal was stuck under the house. Or a frightened little boy.

  Jackson knelt in the closet doorway and spotted a seam in the carpet. A plastic handle pressed against the dirty fabric, blending in. He lifted the access door, letting it rest against the closet’s back wall. Cool, dusty air rose from the dark space below. Jackson dug in his carryall for a flashlight and softly called, “I’m a police officer. I’m here to help.”

  Silence for a moment, then another whimper. He shone the light into the dirt under the house. “Can you crawl toward the light? Don’t be scared. I’m here to help.”

  A little sob made his heart lurch. The boy was down there! “You must be hungry. Come out and I’ll get you something to eat.” Evans would have a protein bar in her shoulder bag. She prepared for everything.

  Something moved directly under him, so Jackson froze. The top of a small head came into view, then the boy looked up. His eyes widened and he quickly retreated out of sight.

  What had scared him? Jackson was a big man with a rugged face and nearly black eyes, but he’d never frightened a child before—that he knew of. “Hey. Don’t be scared. I’m a police officer.” Then it hit him. No uniform. Jackson pulled out his badge and held it down into the hole with the light on it. “Here’s my badge. I don’t wear a uniform because I’m a detective.”

  Should he call in one of the patrol officers? Maybe the boy would respond better to a woman.

  The little head came into view again and his hand reached for the badge.

  “I’ll let you hold it if you come out.”

  The boy crawled into the space under the access hole and stood, his head sticking above the opening. Tear-streaked dirt covered his sweet face, and curly ash-brown hair hung in his eyes.

  “I’m Jackson. What’s your name?”

  The boy silently reached for the badge again. Jackson reluctantly let go, and the kid clutched it like a security blanket.

  “I’m going to help you out of there now.”

  More silence. But the kid didn’t retreat, so he lifted him out of the hole. Before he could set him down on the carpet, the child threw his arms around Jackson’s neck in a tight grip. The sweetness of the gesture soon gave way to a mild sense of panic. He had a job to do.

  “This must be Benjie.” Evans came into the room. “Where was he? The patrol officers should have found him.”

  “Under the house.”

  Evans stayed near the door. “His mother’s name is Amanda Carter. I found this little guy’s picture in her wallet with his name on the back.”

  “Do you have anything to eat in your bag? I promised him something.” Jackson hoped to trade the food for his badge.

  “I have half a protein bar.”

  While Evans rummaged in her bag for it, Jackson negotiated with the boy, whose head now rested against his shoulder. “Evans is a detective too. She’s going to give you a snack, and I need you to give me my badge.”

  Benjie took the snack but held firmly to the badge.

  “Evans, will you call social services while I try to get some information from Benjie?” Jackson wasn’t optimistic the boy would answer questions yet, but he had to try. “After you call, search the house for personal documents. A computer, family contacts, a rental agreement. Our victim hasn’t lived here long.”

  “I’m on it.”

  They both headed out of the room.

  “What have you got for me?” Rob Schakowski was in the hall. The barrel-shaped detective with a buzz cut had been his partner at crime scenes for two decades.

  Jackson was relieved to see him. “How was court?”

  “The usual. The defense lawyer tried to make me look incompetent.”

  They both hated testifying in court even more than filling out reports. “I’m glad you’re here. I need you to find out who owns this house, then search the car out there.”

  “Will do.” Schak headed back to the living room.

  His arms started to ache, so Jackson sat down against a wall, the boy still gripping him tightly. The weight of the small body, the tiny hands locked behind his neck, the absolute dependence—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a child this way. A decade had passed since Katie had clung to him like this after a nightmare. What had the poor boy witnessed? How long had he been under the house?

  “You’re safe now,” Jackson whispered against Benjie’s soft hair. “You’ll be fine.” The boy’s mother would not, but he’d leave that difficult conversation to a social worker with the right skills. The memory of having to tell Katie her mother was dead made his eyes grow warm. The worst day of his life. This one was shaping up to give it some competition.

  “Why don’t you sit and relax?” He encouraged the boy to loosen his grip, and the kid finally let go, sliding into Jackson’s lap. “You’re a brave boy. It must have been hard to crawl into that dark space.”

  The boy glanced up with a tiny smile but didn’t speak.

  The trapdoor would have been heavy for him to lift. Or had his mother put him down there to keep him safe? “How old are you, Benjie?” The boy looked tall enough to be four, but his dimpled face made Jackson think he might be younger.

  The boy held up three fingers, then took a bite of the protein bar.

  “What made you go under the house? Did your mother tell you to?”

  Benjie shook his head.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  The boy buried his face in Jackson’s chest.

  He stroked Benjie’s hair and told him not to worry, that everything would be okay. Liar. His mother was dead, and his life was about to radically change. But at least he was young enough to bond with a new care provider. Losing a parent at age three was less devastating than losing a parent at fifteen. Just ask his daughter.

  Evans came back into the hall. “Social services can’t send anyone for a few hours. They suggested taking him to the department.”

  “Typical.” He wanted to curse the devastating budget cuts that had af
fected every office of city and state government—but he wouldn’t do it in front of the boy. Still, it was time to do his job and process the crime scene. Jackson stood, knowing better than to ask Evans to take the child.

  He carried Benjie through the house, hoping to hand him over to a patrol officer. Jasmine Parker, a crime scene tech, was taking fingerprints from the front doorknob. Her work was too important to interrupt. They nodded at each other as Jackson stepped outside. The patrol officer who’d been on the porch was knocking on a door across the street. No one answered, and the officer turned and headed down the walk. Jackson gestured for him to come back over.

  As he waited, he tried to reassure the boy. “Another policeman will take you to our office. You’ll be safe there. I need to work.”

  Benjie whimpered and clung more tightly. Damn. This wouldn’t be easy.

  When the officer approached, Jackson asked his name.

  “Terry Valenciano. We worked a scene together about five years ago. But I was new then and we didn’t actually meet.”

  “I need you to take this child into the department and wait with him until a social worker shows up. His name’s Benjie and he’s pretty scared.”

  “Uh, okay.” The officer couldn’t hide his discomfort.

  Jackson pried the little fingers from their grip on his neck. “Terry is a nice policeman. He’ll let you push some buttons in his car.” He tried to hand over the boy, but Benjie let out a shriek and grabbed for him again.

  “Hey, you’re safe now. You’ll be fine,” Jackson pleaded. The boy cried and fought to hang on.

  Officer Valenciano mumbled, “I’m really not good with kids.”

  Jackson gave up. “Never mind. I’ll keep him with me.”

  Still carrying the boy, he went back inside and stopped in the hallway. About six people were in the house now, all doing their jobs, and he felt rather useless. He could still direct the investigation and process information, but he had to protect the child from hearing anything disturbing.

  “Benjie, I need to put you down so I can get something. You can hang onto my leg. I’m not leaving you.”

  After more negotiation, he was able to set the boy on the floor, but Benjie instantly grabbed a fistful of pant leg. Jackson searched his carryall for earplugs, one of the many useful items he carried on the job. After a bit of cajoling, he persuaded the boy to wear the earplugs, and in exchange, he let Benjie play with his flashlight. The boy held it with one hand, still clutching Jackson’s pant leg with the other.

  Jackson removed an earplug and said, “You can sit in the hall and see me no matter which room I’m in. I’m not leaving you. I just need to work.”

  The boy still wouldn’t let go. Jackson put the earplug back in and stroked his hair. Poor kid. He vowed to find out what had happened here, no matter how challenging.

  He stuck his head into the bedroom, where the medical examiner was extracting fluid from the victim’s vagina.

  “Was she raped?”

  “There’s swollen tissue and evidence of a sexual encounter, but we may never know the exact circumstances.”

  “Any idea how she died?”

  Gunderson rolled his eyes. “We usually do an autopsy before giving a finding.”

  Jackson ignored the sarcasm. “What about when she died? Have you taken her temperature?”

  “Most likely between eight and ten last night. Now let me do my job.”

  Jackson glanced over at Evans. She had dug through the victim’s plastic crates—a poor person’s stackable dresser—and pulled out everything but the clothing. Now she was squatting next to a crate, glancing at a folder of papers. Just witnessing that made his knees hurt. He loved working with Evans, but sometimes her stamina and flexibility made him feel old. More often, she kept him upbeat. Whenever he considered taking a less-stressful job, the thought of never again seeing Evans and his other teammates made him want to stay.

  “Find anything?” he called from the hallway.

  “She has immunization records for the boy, but there’s no birth certificate for either of them.” Evans riffled through the stack of papers. “This is mostly the kid’s drawings, recipes for gluten-free food, and coupons. No bank statements, no rental agreement, no saved mail.”

  That was unusual. “What about a computer?”

  “There’s a small tablet, but I haven’t looked at it yet.”

  “Bring it to me. It’s something I can do until the social worker gets here.” He remembered he had the victim’s cell phone in his pocket and hoped to find a family contact. Someone out there would want to know what had happened to Amanda. He also hoped they would take little Benjie into their lives. He hated to think the boy would end up in foster care.

  His cell phone rang. It was Lammers. “We’ve got the owner of the phone who called in the body. Tess Gilmore. She lives right next door, on the corner.”

  “I thought the caller was male.”

  “That’s what dispatch said. Talk to everyone in the house.”

  As much as he wanted to handle the questioning himself, Jackson relayed the information to Evans and asked her to go next door. With Amanda’s tablet computer in one hand and Benjie’s little fingers in the other, Jackson took a seat on the couch. He texted Lammers and asked to have Quince join the task force too. This was shaping up to be a challenging investigation.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lara Evans smelled cat shit on the front lawn and dreaded entering the house. Plywood covered a bedroom window, the siding had cracked from lack of paint, and the blinds in the front were broken. A long, dry August had killed the grass and withered the rhododendrons.

  She knocked lightly, trying to sound more like a missionary than a cop. These people would probably not be happy to see her. A woman in a long black sweatshirt opened the door. Evans’ first thought was, It was too hot for that. Her second, Where were your pants?

  “Tess Gilmore?”

  The woman tilted her head.

  Evans held out her badge. “Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I have some questions about your neighbor.”

  Early thirties with cropped plum-colored hair and an eyebrow ring. Tess stared, as if trying to make up her mind. Evans braced for a door slam. “I’d like to come in.”

  “I’m not feeling well. Can you come back later?”

  She stepped forward. “The woman next door is dead, and you called the police to report it. We have to talk about this now.”

  “Oh shit.” Tess jerked her head in exasperation but stepped back to let Evans enter.

  “I didn’t make that call.” The bare-legged woman gestured for her to sit.

  Evans looked around at the furniture, spotted several cats, and decided to remain standing.

  “My kid must have.” Tess turned toward the hall and yelled, “Dylan! Get in here! A cop wants to talk to you.”

  The bitch! She’d warned her son on purpose. Evans started for the hallway.

  A window slammed open in the back of the house.

  Shit! Why did she always get the runners? Evans bolted through the kitchen and out the back door. A teenager was halfway across the small brown backyard. She sprinted after him, reaching the fence as he started to climb over. Evans grabbed his black hoodie and jerked him down.

  “On the ground! Arms behind your back.” She resisted the urge to pull her weapon. Shooting an unarmed teenager was not on her list of career moves. “I just want to ask some questions.”

  The boy cursed but complied. One knee on his back, Evans cuffed him, then helped him up. He looked young, with shoulder-length dark hair and his mother’s narrow face.

  “If you behave yourself, I’ll take the cuffs off.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Evans laughed. “This isn’t television.” She nudged him toward the house. “Unless you killed her, you’re not in trouble.”
/>   His silence as they walked back unnerved her. An innocent person would have protested the accusation. She wanted to question him without his mother present. Afterward, she would search the house. The boy’s eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like pot, so, unless he had a medical card, it was within her rights.

  Inside, his mother stood near the sliding glass door, watching.

  “I’m going to question him in my car,” Evans said, walking past her.

  “No.” Tess grabbed her son’s arm. “Talk to him right here in front of me.”

  Damn. It had been worth a try. They sat at the kitchen table, and Evans tried to ignore the crusty cereal bowls, unopened mail, and cat hair. She’d seen much worse. She set her recorder on the table and she clicked it on. The mother bit her lip but didn’t protest.

  Evans locked eyes on the boy. “What’s your name and how old are you?”

  “Dylan Gilmore. I’ll be fourteen next month.” He slouched in his chair, trying to look defiant.

  “Where were you last night between eight and ten p.m.?”

  “With a friend downtown.”

  “What’s his name and where can I find him?”

  “Her name is April, and she hangs out at the library.”

  “Last name? Address?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just met her yesterday.”

  “That’s not much of an alibi. Did anyone else see you downtown last night?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know their names.”

  His mother cut in. “He wasn’t home or next door. I can vouch for that.”

  Evans ignored her and kept her eyes on the kid. “Tell me what happened when you called 911 today.”

  Dylan looked down at his hands. “I accidentally threw my frisbee over the fence, so I climbed over to get it back. Then I saw her through the window.”

  Pure fabrication. Evans snapped her fingers, and the boy looked up. “How did you see the body through the window? You’d have to be standing right there.”

  “My frisbee landed next to her house.”

  Evans softened up to try for empathy. “So you decided to look in her window. Most boys your age would.”