Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Damn liberals,” Schak tossed out.

  Everyone laughed. He was only half serious and mostly wanted to be amusing.

  Evans brought up her long-shot suspect. “The neighbor, Tess Gilmore, says the previous tenant from six months ago was a meth addict who also drove a small blue truck. What if he came back and tried to take up residence? The place has been empty since he moved out, or was evicted, so maybe he has a grudge. Not to mention a drug problem.”

  “I like it.” Jackson sounded upbeat for the first time since the meeting started. “I’ll ask the homeowners about the previous tenant when I question them.”

  “What’s my next move?” Schak asked.

  “Run Amanda’s name and vehicle through every database you can. We need to know more about her.”

  The door burst open and Sergeant Lammers charged in. “We have another possible homicide.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Lammers locked eyes with Evans. “I need you to take this one. Schak has court again tomorrow and has to meet with the investigator for the evidence lab fiasco.” Their boss was often irritated, but tonight her eyes had a wild look.

  “What about me?” Quince asked. “I can take it.” He’d transferred from the Vice unit and hadn’t been given the lead on a homicide yet.

  “You don’t want this one.” Lammers gave a mock shudder. “The university’s star quarterback is dead, and it may be an overdose. The politics could be a pain.”

  “So you give it to me?” Evans loved taking the lead, but she had little use for football and even less for politics.

  “You’re always whining that you want more responsibility, so here’s your chance.”

  Bullshit. She didn’t whine. But she did want another solo case. “Where is the body and what happened?”

  “His roommate found him on their bathroom floor with blood on his face and called paramedics. But he was dead when they got there.”

  Shit. They’d contaminated the scene just by showing up.

  “It’s worse than that,” Lammers added, reading her expression. “They took him to the morgue.”

  And double shit. They’d also left her without a real crime scene to examine and probably lost trace evidence from the body. “Why do I always get these cases?” Her first lead assignment had been a woman who’d woken up from a coma and claimed someone had tried to kill her. Her second had been an unconscious college girl in the hospital.

  Lammers flashed her a grim smile. “Because I like you.”

  “Who’s going to assist me, since Jackson has everyone on his task force?” Evans knew the answer.

  “It’s probably an overdose,” Lammers said, avoiding the issue. “I’m sure the case will be resolved as soon as the tox screen comes back. Quince can help, if necessary.”

  “What’s the victim’s name?”

  “Logan Grayson. I’m sure you’ve seen him in the news.” Lammers slid a thin file across the table. “Here are my notes. I suggest you start with the 911 call.”

  At least she had a first step. “I’m on it.”

  “Please keep me updated. Both of you.” Lammers wagged a finger, then strode back out.

  Evans turned to Jackson. “Sorry. I guess someone else will have to follow up with the kid next door.”

  “Quince will take it. Good luck with your case.” A tight smile from Jackson this time. They were still down two detectives, and now they all worked unpaid overtime to get their jobs done.

  “I guess I’m out of here.”

  “Let us know if you need anything,” Schak said, as she walked by.

  “Thanks.”

  Evans headed outside, relieved to feel a cool breeze as she crossed the parking lot. The days were getting shorter, and the orange ball of sun sat low on the horizon. Traffic roared on the nearby expressway—the one disquieting thing about their new location.

  She climbed into her sedan, feeling a little rattled. She had to put Amanda Carter out of her head and focus on Logan Grayson, a name she realized she knew. A star player for the University of Oregon Ducks and a big deal for Eugene sports fans. He’d had a front-page write-up in the Willamette News after a bowl game the year before, and they’d speculated he could win the Heisman Trophy this year. His death would be devastating for a lot of people.

  Lammers had suggested starting with the 911 call, but Evans wanted to see his body and talk to the roommate who’d found him. She hoped like hell another officer had called his parents. She’d never had to tell someone their loved one was dead and didn’t want to start today. Opening the file, she read through Lammers’ notes. Jake Keener had found Grayson and made the call. She keyed in his number and got an answering service, so she left a message, asking him to call back ASAP. According to the notes, the two young men had shared an apartment near campus on Patterson. She would head there first, put up some crime scene tape, and talk to the neighbors.

  A second call, this one to the medical examiner, was almost as pointless. Gunderson picked up but sounded grumpy. “What do you want?”

  “Are you still in Surgery Ten?” Their nickname for the autopsy room in the basement of the old hospital.

  “I’m leaving now.” A door slammed in the background. “You must have caught the campus case, and I sympathize, but you can’t see the body tonight. It’s been a long damn day, and he’ll look the same in the morning.”

  “Can you tell me anything?”

  “He had an abrasion on the side of his head and some bruising on his chest, but he’s a football player, so I don’t know what any of it means yet.”

  “What about the blood on his face?”

  “His nose bled before he died, but there’s no swelling to indicate he’d taken a blow there. It could have been drug-induced. We’ll do the autopsy tomorrow. I’ve already taken a call from his coach.”

  Oh boy. “Does he want the truth or a cover-up?”

  “He wants it resolved quickly,” Gunderson said. “So Jackson’s victim will have to sit in the cooler for a while.”

  He wouldn’t like that. “When did Grayson die?”

  “Best guess is between midnight and three a.m.”

  Midnight? He’d lain on the bathroom floor all day? That was a little weird. “Thanks. See you in the morning.”

  Driving out of the parking lot, Evans changed her mind and decided instead to stop by the dispatch center on “two and Chambers,” as everyone in the department called it. Before she questioned the roommate, she wanted to hear what he’d said to the 911 operator. Picking apart little slip-ups was a good way to pry out information and sometimes elicit confessions.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d missed dinner. And she’d given her protein bar to the little boy. She hated to waste time making a stop, but she needed to eat something if she had to work late. Even though a burrito sounded good, she wouldn’t have the time or energy to run it off when she finally got home. Sugar-free frozen yogurt from the TCBY drive-up window would have to suffice.

  The red-brick center was more attractive in the soft light of the setting sun than in bright daylight. Its L-shape wrapped around a helicopter pad, and the big blue SWAT vehicles sat in the parking lot out back. She would be testing here on Monday. The thought made her stomach clench. Failing was unacceptable. It would only reinforce the idea that women couldn’t do the elite SWAT job. Only one other woman had ever made the cut, and she’d been quickly promoted out of the unit to a supervisor job. Evans didn’t want that, but she’d worry about the politics later.

  She keyed in her code and headed to the call center, a spacious area with plenty of windows and room to move around. Dispatchers had high-stress jobs, long hours, and quick burnout. The department tried to make their workspace as comfortable as possible. She checked in with the supervisor, an older woman who was at least five-nine and soft, with little muscle. It irritated Evans when ta
ll people wasted their physical advantage. But Margo DuPont was competent and pleasant, so she liked her just fine.

  “Lara. Good to see you.” Civilian employees used first names.

  “Thanks, Margo. How’s the job?”

  She let out a rush of air. “An eventful day.”

  “I picked up Logan Grayson’s case, and I’d like to hear the 911 call.” Evans took a seat.

  The supervisor’s mouth turned down. “We all prayed he would make it.”

  He’d never had a chance. “Grayson died late last night.” The call-takers’ hope was a little puzzling. “Did his roommate think he was still alive?”

  “He must have. He was hysterical and kept shouting for us to save him. But I’ll let you hear it.” She handed Evans a headset, glanced at the clock, then clicked a few keys. Margo’s desk held three monitors, and Evans didn’t envy her job.

  The voice on the call was obviously young and upset, but somewhat gender neutral, and he spoke with a slight Southern accent. The call lasted three minutes, but the first few moments contained all the pertinent information.

  Caller: “My roommate is on the floor and not breathing. You gotta send help now!”

  Dispatcher: “What’s your name?”

  “Jake. But who cares? Just send an ambulance. You gotta save him!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Near campus, 1330 Patterson. Apartment number three, on the top floor.”

  “Try to be calm. An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Under the blood, his face looks gray. We can’t lose him. Our season’ll be shot.”

  “Where is he bleeding?”

  “From his nose. But it’s dry now.”

  “Have you tried giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

  “No way. I called you. I’m not a medic.”

  “Does he have a pulse?”

  “I don’t know! You gotta get someone here. He can’t die.”

  “Had he been drinking or using drugs? The paramedics need that information.”

  “Fuck if I know. But I’ll bet his bitch of a girlfriend was here. If she had anything to do with this, I’ll make her life hell.”

  “Please be calm and don’t hurt anyone. Help will be there soon.”

  “I fucking can’t believe this.”

  Before the call was over, Jake was crying, and Margo had choked up too. Evans was thinking about the girlfriend. Who was she? And what had she done?

  Finding out couldn’t wait until tomorrow. With suspicious deaths—which included any young person who died in a non-accident—detectives worked almost around the clock for the first few days. After that, witnesses disappeared, details were forgotten, and suspects fled or hid. She would question the student’s neighbors this evening when they were more likely to be home than tomorrow during the day. She’d also pick up the dead man’s computer and cell phone if she could find them.

  The apartment building was new, one of several that had replaced blocks of old Victorian houses around campus, changing the look and demographic of the neighborhood. Despite the fresh paint and modern finishes, the structure was still student housing and not visually appealing. The trees and lawns of the older homes were gone, and the building bordered the sidewalk, leaving no room for landscaping. Even though Evans had liked the look of the older homes, she wouldn’t have wanted to live with the ancient plumbing, tiny bathrooms, and leaky single-pane windows.

  A blue patrol unit was parked on the street, so an officer was still at the death scene. Probably waiting for an investigator to show up. Good news. She didn’t have to track down the manager.

  Apartment number three occupied the top floor with only two other units, the student equivalent of a penthouse. The door was ajar, and Evans walked in without putting on booties. No point in it now that paramedics had trampled the floor. The officer sat in the dining room, texting someone. Evans walked over, noting a laptop, a stack of papers, and some personal items on the table.

  “Officer Miller.” She’d worked patrol with him a few years back. One of the good ones who didn’t abuse arrestees or harass homeless people.

  “Evans.” He jumped up. “I should say ‘Detective Evans.’ How’s Violent Crimes treating you?”

  “I’m still getting assigned cases like this, but otherwise I love it.” She rested her heavy shoulder bag on a chair and pulled on gloves. “What have we got?”

  “None of the neighbors on this floor was home to question, but I did a thorough search and gathered what seemed important.”

  “Thanks. I don’t see a cell phone.”

  “I didn’t find one. It might have been on him. Maybe a pocket.”

  Damn. Another information delay. “Any observations I should know about?”

  “The paramedics were already dealing with him when I arrived, so I can’t tell you about the condition of the body.” The officer’s expression changed to worry. “I hope it was some kind of freak medical thing. Because Grayson is the Ducks’ starting quarterback, and no one wants to hear that he overdosed. It’s not good for recruitment.”

  “Any drugs or alcohol in the apartment?”

  “Beer in the fridge. That’s it.”

  “Did you talk to the roommate?”

  “Briefly.” Miller looked at his notes. “Keener came home around four thirty after football practice. But he had stayed at his girlfriend’s place the night before, so he hadn’t seen Grayson all day. Keener said he slept for a while, ate dinner, then went to the bathroom and found the body.”

  Something didn’t add up. “The 911 call came in at six thirty. He was home for two hours with a dead body?”

  Miller shrugged. “Men don’t pee as often as women do.”

  Something was still wrong. “Is the roommate a football player too?”

  “Running back.”

  “So Grayson must have missed football practice, but Keener didn’t check on him?”

  Miller flushed a little. “I didn’t ask about that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Jake Keener was distressed, so he went to stay with a friend. Here’s his contact information.” The officer handed her a small scrap of paper, torn from his pad.

  “Thanks. Send me a copy of your report too, please.” The scourge of law enforcement—writing up reports about everything.

  “Can I go? I’m beat.”

  “Of course.”

  Evans conducted a tour of the apartment, noting that the place was bigger and nicer than any student housing she’d ever seen. Did they have a cleaning service? And who paid for that giant flat-screen TV? She knew the football players had scholarships that paid for room and board, but now she suspected wealthy alumni made private contributions to their living expenses as well.

  She trusted that Officer Miller had found anything obvious, so she didn’t waste time on a detailed search of drawers for the moment. She would get to it eventually, probably the next day.

  In the bathroom, she took pictures from every angle, noting the lack of grime. Total neat freaks, except for a few stray hairs. Pulling on gloves, she bagged and tagged several—some blond and some short, dark, and curly. But seeing the scene didn’t give her any real information, and it was hard to visualize what had happened here. Jackson had taught her to at least try to mentally map out a scenario. All she could see was a drunk, oversize young man taking a piss, then collapsing on the floor.

  A search of the medicine cabinet turned up an over-the-counter sleep aid and a prescription bottle of Nardil, a medication she wasn’t familiar with. The name on the bottle was Logan Grayson. She wanted to get online right away to find out what it was prescribed for, but decided to finish her bathroom search first. The bottle went into an evidence bag before she squatted to examine the floor.

  She spotted a small discoloration on one of the off-white tiles. Dried b
lood? Evans dropped to her knees and scraped it into a two-inch evidence bag. She leaned down with her face close to the floor and looked around. Under the edge of the vanity, she spotted an earring. A woman had been here. Maybe recently. Had she watched or helped Grayson die? Evans reached for the earring—a teardrop shape with a white pearl finish—and bagged it too.

  She stood, noticing the toilet was open, the seat was up, and the water was yellow. Evans dug a small plastic bottle out of her shoulder bag and scooped up some liquid. It might not be valid evidence for court, but, if the urine wasn’t too diluted, she could take it to Any Lab Test Now and for fifty bucks find out if the victim or his roommate had a drug problem.

  Remembering that the medical examiner had said the corpse had a head wound, she used a small magnifying glass to examine the edges of the vanity for flesh or blood. Clean as everything else. Grayson hadn’t fallen against the rounded, cultured-marble countertop.

  Back in the living room, she used her tablet computer to get online. She was surprised to discover that Nardil was an antidepressant. It hadn’t occurred to her that an athlete could suffer from depression. Clearly, she needed to learn more about Logan Grayson. In the foyer, she stuck crime-scene tape across the door and knocked on the opposite apartment.

  A giant young man opened the door, wearing only white briefs and a big smile.

  What was with the no-pants people? Yes, it was still warm, but this was Eugene, not Phoenix.

  “Oops. I thought you were someone else. Just a minute.” The door closed.

  Two minutes later, it opened again, and he was dressed in green nylon shorts and a yellow tank top. UO Duck colors. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Evans, Eugene Police. What’s your name?”

  “Lamar Owens. Should I come out?” He was brown skinned and big as a refrigerator.

  Evans didn’t want to assume he was dangerous, but she wished she had a taser. “I’d rather come in. I have a few questions.”

  “What’s this about?”