Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  The pathologist nodded. “It’s a monoamine oxidase inhibitor and contra-indicated for food such as hard cheese and cured meat. We’ll see what’s in his stomach later.” He looked at the ME. “Let’s roll him over.”

  The backside examination went quickly, and Evans planned her next steps as Konrad listed moles and scars. Finally, the pathologist said, “Let’s look inside.”

  Evans braced herself, then decided not to watch. She kept her head up, but cast her eyes on the counter as he began the Y-shaped incision on the chest. The room was quiet.

  “There. Done.”

  Just as she looked up, Konrad lifted the chest skin and flapped it over the dead man’s face. The smacking sound and rotten smell made a little vomit rise in her throat. She swallowed it back and pinched the skin near her thumb. She would not get light-headed or puke or run out. It was just a dead body. She’d seen a few.

  Konrad carefully cut what looked like a liver from the man’s cavity. Evans forced her mind to go blank.

  Her cell phone rang in her pocket. Thank god. She grabbed it and glanced at the screen. An area code she didn’t recognize. “I have to take this.” She spun and exited the room.

  In the narrow white hall, she pulled in long breaths, then laughed at herself. After a moment she answered. “Detective Evans.”

  “This is Paula Grayson. The police department said to call you to find out what happened to my son Logan.” A current of panic under her careful words.

  The desk officers normally didn’t give out her cell number, but today everyone seemed to have it. “I’ve just started my investigation, and the autopsy is happening now, so we don’t know the cause of death yet.”

  “Was he using steroids? I want to know. I think the coach pushed him to bulk up.”

  Whoa! A whole new line of inquiry. “We won’t know until the blood toxicology reports come back from the state lab. That can take weeks, but this case has been prioritized.” Evans reached for a notepad, unable to get her tablet computer going quickly enough. “What makes you think the Ducks’ coach was pushing Logan to use steroids?”

  “He hasn’t been himself lately.” The mother’s voice broke. “He’s been avoiding us, except when he needs money. And he seemed easily irritated.”

  That could describe any college student under pressure. “What makes you think his coach was involved?”

  “Coach Harper was always pressuring him to work harder and push his limits.”

  Evans jotted notes as quickly as she could. “Did Logan ever specifically mention steroids?”

  “No, but this all started after his injury last year.”

  A man’s voice yelled in the background. “Who are you talking to?”

  Mrs. Grayson kept her voice muted. “The detective.”

  From the background again, “I told you not to call him!”

  “We need to know,” the mother argued.

  The connection terminated. Evans would call Mrs. Grayson again later in the day. For now, she had to man up and get back in there. She pushed through the door.

  Konrad held a reddish-purple organ in one hand and a magnifying lens in the other. Grayson’s heart. Evans’ heart contracted in sympathy.

  “Well?” the ME prodded.

  “I think this young man had a heart attack.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Wednesday, September 4, 1:35 p.m.

  As Jackson got ready to head out, his cell phone rang. Sophie Speranza. A little redheaded reporter at the Willamette News. He usually ignored her until he couldn’t anymore, but he had reached out to her this time, so he picked up. “Hey, Sophie. We have to make this quick. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Jackson! Thanks for taking my call. But you sent me a photo of a dead woman. Don’t you have any other image of her?”

  “A driver’s license, but it’s too small to use, and she’s changed her hair color.”

  A sigh. “Okay, I’ll run it, but my boss won’t be happy.”

  “Thanks, but I found the victim’s grandmother and may not need the public’s help.”

  “I guess that’s good news.” She sounded a little disappointed.

  “I still don’t know much about her, so go ahead and run the photo.”

  “Should I use your desk phone or the department hotline?”

  “My desk phone. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Wait! You have to give me something to fill out the story.”

  He hated sharing with the media, but he owed Sophie. She’d given him useful information more than once. She also seemed to know everyone and was a good resource. “The dead woman has ID that says Amanda Carter, but we think the name might be fake.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Let’s just call her death suspicious. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “We’re looking at a couple of them.”

  “Come on, Jackson. Give me one specific detail. Something that won’t affect your investigation.”

  Sophie’s eagerness sucked him in. She loved a good case and stuck with it as obsessively as he did. “Her body was found in a nearly empty rental house.”

  “Interesting. We’ve heard reports of homeless people breaking into zombie homes and squatting.”

  “That’s not the case here. She had a job and a car. Call me if you get any tips from the photo.” He hung up as she thanked him. He’d come to respect Sophie, but he knew better than to give her another opening.

  Jackson stopped to buy juice and snacks for Benjie, then hit the freeway heading south. He’d found Lucille Caiden’s address in the white pages, and it matched the address on the victim’s license. Even if Lucille had moved, Drain was small enough that someone would know where she lived and would tell him if he flashed his badge. He tried chatting with Benjie, glancing over his shoulder at the car seat, but after saying “road trip” with a sad smile, the boy went silent. The next time Jackson checked, Benjie had nodded off. Car rides did that to kids.

  When he reached the small town an hour later, he stopped at a gas station and keyed Caiden’s address into the GPS locator on his phone. He hadn’t mastered voice commands yet, but he would. Benjie woke up and started whimpering.

  “Hey, big guy. What’s wrong?”

  “I want Mommy.”

  Poor kid. What should he say? “I know you do. I’m sorry. She’s not here anymore.” Did three-year-olds understand death? They understood lonely, that was for sure. “We’re going to see your grandma. Do you know Grandma?”

  Benjie didn’t answer.

  Jackson checked the directions, relieved he was only a half mile away.

  Lucille Caiden’s red-shingled house sat back from the road, enveloped in oak trees. Moss grew on the roof and chickens wandered in the yard. An old diesel Mercedes in the driveway gave him hope that Lucille was home. Jackson parked and helped Benjie from his car seat.

  “We’re here?” The boy rubbed his eyes. “I have to pee.”

  “We’ll go inside and find a bathroom.”

  They cut across the dried grass, holding hands. Benjie stopped near the front steps. “I don’t like this house.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No.” A pause. “Yes.”

  “I think your grandmother lives here. Let’s go see.” Jackson had the headphones in his pocket. He needed to question the grandmother whether she liked it or not.

  Benjie inched closer to him. Jackson knocked on the door and waited. He pounded louder, then called out, “It’s Detective Jackson. We need to talk.”

  “Jackson?” The little voice beside him was quiet and worried.

  “What is it?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Why don’t you play with your little computer? I need to make a call.” Jackson steered Benjie to a w
ell-worn porch swing and lifted him up. “Do you like to swing?”

  “Not here.”

  The boy was obviously uncomfortable. Had something bad happened to him here? Jackson couldn’t leave without information. He checked the front door. Locked. He looked around. The nearest neighbor was seventy yards away with no cars in the yard. No traffic on the road either. He heard a lumber mill nearby. Was it safe to leave Benjie sitting here while he went around back? Even if it was, the boy would probably grab him and tag along.

  “How about a piggyback ride?”

  “Can I chase chickens?”

  Jackson laughed. A boy after his own heart. “We’d better not.” He squatted, his knees complaining, and Benjie climbed on his back. Once again, the little arms went around his neck and he liked it. He had second thoughts about leaving the boy with his grandmother. Lucille had sounded old and frail, not an ideal person to raise a young boy. And Benjie didn’t like the house, whatever that meant.

  Around back, a kitten slept in the sun on the cement step.

  “Kitty!” Benjie scampered down and ran for the cat.

  “Gentle, please.”

  At least it wasn’t a dog. While Benjie played with the cat, Jackson knocked on the back door, then began to look in windows. From the dining room glass, he could see into the living area. A gray-haired woman sat on the couch, her head leaning forward. A TV played in the background. As the situation became clear, his chest heaved in a huge sigh.

  Lucille Caiden was dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  From the outside, Jackson saw no blood or damage, but the grandmother could have taken a bullet to the other side of her head. Damn. Had he set this in motion by calling her? He’d just been doing his job. What the hell was going on here? He slipped the headphones back on Benjie. Enthralled by the kitten, the boy paid no attention.

  Reluctantly, Jackson called the front desk of his own department and reported his location. “I came to question Lucille Caiden in a case I’m working, but I think she’s dead. I’m going into the house. Let the local sheriff’s office know.”

  “Copy that. Should I send backup?”

  “No. It could be natural causes and we’ll trust the sheriff’s office to work with us.” He hung up, wishing he’d allowed himself more time to search, but calling had been the right thing. Sometimes he wished he could be a rule-breaker, but he also liked to keep things simple. Watching his older brother get into trouble over and over had turned him into a straight shooter at a young age. At the time, Jackson had thought he was trying to make his mother happy by being the good son. Now he wondered if he was just a coward.

  The memory of a disturbed young woman pointing a gun at his head reminded him that cowards didn’t become police officers—unless they were trying to face their fears. Jackson shook off his doubts. He had to get busy and learn what he could before the local law enforcement showed up. Jackson jogged back to his car to grab his carryall, and pulled on latex gloves.

  How to get in the house? He tried the back door and it was unlocked, but it didn’t look jimmied or busted. Lucille couldn’t have been too afraid if she’d left her back door accessible. Or maybe she’d let someone in. Jackson glanced at Benjie, who was chasing after the cat. He had to take the boy inside where he could keep an eye on him, yet not let him see the body. Oh hell. Nothing like trying to do his job with one arm tied behind his back.

  Jackson called to Benjie, then rounded up the kitten, glad none of his task force could see him now. After pulling the headphones off the kid again, he went into the house, a boy in one arm and a kitten in the other. The back door opened into the kitchen, where he left Benjie. On the other side of the narrow galley was the dining area. He grabbed two chairs and created a barricade. It wouldn’t keep the cat in the kitchen or deter the boy if he became aggressive, but it would buy time.

  “Please stay here in the kitchen while I work.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Jackson found a glass and poured the boy some water, feeling a pang of guilt about messing with the crime scene. What if there was trace evidence on the floor? Or fingerprints on the back doorknob?

  “Don’t touch anything but the cat, okay?” A waste of breath. The kid was three.

  He stepped out of the kitchen, pushed the chair back in place, and rushed to the dead woman on the couch. A quick appraisal revealed no obvious wounds. A yellow nightgown covered much of her body, and she could have been beaten where it didn’t show. Some men were good at that. Caiden’s short gray hair, deeply-lined face, and white compression stockings signaled that she was elderly. Her death could have simply been from natural causes. Brought on by his phone call and news of her granddaughter’s death?

  He snapped four quick photos and checked her hands for defense wounds. None that he could see. With only a few minutes before a deputy arrived, he had to focus on finding information about Amanda. After a quick check on the boy, Jackson began to search for paperwork. Under the newspaper on the kitchen table, he found a pile of mail. Most of it was local bills, but one envelope caught his eye. A personal letter from Salt Lake City. Jackson wanted to pocket it to read later, but he didn’t. This wasn’t his scene or jurisdiction. And he would never impede another officer’s investigation.

  He charged down the hall and turned into the first bedroom, which was filled with boxes, blankets, and rarely used household items. He moved on to the next. An old-lady bedroom with a floral bedspread and a collection of colored-glass bottles. He riffled through dresser drawers, looking for more letters. In the nightstand, he found an address book, but Amanda Carter wasn’t among the names. No computer in the room, only an old-style phone on the nightstand. The grandmother probably didn’t have a cell either.

  Back to the first bedroom. Jackson scanned cardboard boxes to see if the old woman was storing some of her transient granddaughter’s possessions. Bingo! A box labeled Andra Caiden. Much like the Amanda Carter she called herself now. Jackson pulled out his utility knife and cut through the packaging tape.

  The sound of an engine slowing down. Crap. His time was up. He pulled the flaps open anyway. Filled with sweaters, books, and childhood art projects. No help. He rummaged to the bottom and found a high school yearbook. Yes! He scanned the messages on the inside flap. One was signed, Your BFF! Christy Blesser Chadwell. He made a mental note and closed the book, keeping it under his arm. He shoved the box back into the stack and ran to the kitchen. Sliding the chairs back into place, he grabbed Benjie and the cat and headed out.

  Once he rounded the side of the house, he realized the car he’d heard had arrived next door. Relieved that he had another minute, Jackson hustled to the front yard. His own arrival in the parking area had likely destroyed any tire track evidence, but he sat the boy down under an apple tree, tossed the yearbook on the hood of his car, and looked for viable footprints in the dirt next to the Mercedes. The dry summer had left the ground packed hard and nothing showed. But near the start of the walkway, a hose bib dripped, creating a three-foot wet spot. In the middle was a clear print. A man’s dress shoe, he guessed. About a size ten. He squatted and took close-up photos. The sheriff’s department would make a mold if he pointed it out to them, but the state lab might not process it for weeks.

  An engine slowed nearby, then tires crunched on fir cones. He took one last glance around for potential evidence. Sometimes he got lucky and found a dropped cigarette butt or a gum wrapper. Not today. A dark-green sedan rushed down the driveway.

  Jackson stood and turned to Benjie. The boy scampered toward him, a panicked look on his round-cheeked face and his little legs nearly tangling. Jackson scooped him up. “It’s okay. He’s another police officer.”

  An older man in a tan uniform climbed from the car and strode over.

  Jackson introduced himself, but still holding Benjie, he didn’t offer a hand.

  “Deputy Walt Harwood. What are you doing her
e?”

  “Investigating a suspicious death in Eugene. Lucille Caiden was my victim’s grandmother.”

  “And now Lucille’s dead?” The man raised a bushy eyebrow. “Where is she?”

  “On the couch.” Jackson set down the boy and slipped the headphones back on. “She may have died of natural causes. How old was she?”

  “I didn’t know her that well.” The deputy squinted and frowned. “Were you in the house?”

  “Yes. I wanted to check on her. She might have needed an ambulance.”

  “Bullshit. You busted into my death scene trying to help your own case.”

  Jackson couldn’t argue. He held up his gloved hands. “I just took some pictures and looked at the mail on the kitchen table.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I have a homicide to solve, and Lucille Caiden is the only contact I could find. I hope you’ll let me help search the house.”

  “Not a chance.” The deputy stared at Benjie. “Who’s the boy?”

  “Lucille’s grandson. Did she have any relatives around here?”

  “A brother, I think, who died a few years back.” Harwood took a step toward the door and noticed the yearbook on Jackson’s car. “Is that from inside?”

  “Yes. It’s the granddaughter’s. I’d like to take it and track down my victim’s friends or family.”

  “You’re not taking anything from this scene until I’ve had a chance to look it over.”

  Jackson willed himself to be civil. “We should work together.” He wanted to share the threatening note and his suspicion that the stalker might have come here looking for Andra Caiden and her son. But he wanted something in return. “Let me look through the yearbook and I’ll tell you what else I know.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to trade. And no one trusts the Brady Bunch at the EPD.”

  Ouch. He tried not to visibly cringe. The evidence locker scandal—on the heels of sexual-assault convictions for two officers—had sealed the department’s reputation as a bunch of crooked cops. But they weren’t all that way and he wanted to change this man’s mind. “There’s a fresh footprint in the wet dirt by the sidewalk.” Jackson pointed. “I would get some tape around it and have a crime scene tech make a mold.”