by Julie Vail
“We’re still reeling,” his mother, Margaret, told me over the phone. “This came totally out of left field.” She told me that Jackson was a good student at a small progressive private school in Flagstaff, where he started in pre-K, and graduated from in 2005. He would have been a senior at Campbell this year. He loved the crew team, and she said he was a natural leader. He was at his best out on the water, “Since we don’t have a lot of it here,” she chuckled.
I asked her if he had changed since he left home.
“In the way I suppose kids change when they go off to college, yes. He was in great shape, he was working out . . . he wanted to lead a two-man crew, and he did, all through his junior year. Then . . . oh, Lord, I don’t know what happened. He was happy.” She started to cry softly. “We spoke the night before . . . before he . . . did it. He was excited about coming home for the summer. He was excited about going back to Campbell for his senior year. He loved college. It was as if Campbell had been created just for Jackson.” She told us he wanted to be a lawyer.
††††
We sat outside Panini Café with Shelby Hughes, Jackson Bennett’s girlfriend at the time of his death.
“I was stunned,” she said.
“You found him?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She began to tear up, so I let her go for a bit. “Shelby, was Jackson doing steroids?”
“Yes. He started last year sometime, and he saw the changes happen so fast, he was hooked.”
“What kind of changes?”
“With his body. He got so big, so quick. It was amazing, and I loved it. I mean, he looked great. But his personality also changed—over night, it seemed.”
“In what way?”
“He became more aggressive, more violent . . .”
“Toward you?”
“He was never violent toward me . . . until . . . that night.”
“What night?”
She sighed. “The night before he . . .” She looked down at her hands. “Jackson caught me with another guy.”
“Who? Jackson know him?”
“Yes. He was his crew coach.”
“Kevin Meyers.”
Her eyes got wide. “Yes. He went wild, and . . . after, he . . .”
“Hit you?” I finished.
“Yeah.” She drank her soda. “I was going to go over the next day, try to work it out with him, but he was . . . already gone. Dead, I mean.”
“When Jackson caught you and Kevin together, did he and Kevin get into it at all?”
“Oh, yeah,” she chuckled. “Kevin started ragging on Jackson for . . . well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“I kind of told Kevin that Jackson had some . . . problems with, you know . . .”
Great. Perfect. “Performance?”
“Yes. And Kevin started ragging on him about it, so then Jackson started saying to Kevin, you know, that he was going to nail him, that it’ll all be over soon, he’ll go to the papers, he’ll go to the cops . . .”
“Jackson will?”
“Yeah.”
“And what did Kevin do?”
“Not much . . . I mean, they didn’t come to blows or anything. Kevin just said, you know, ‘If you say a word, I’ll kill you’, stuff like that.”
I glanced at Alex.
“What?” She looked from me to Alex. “What? Did I say something wrong? Tell me.”
Jesus.
††††
We sat in the conference room with Dan Rios—Amelia’s husband, and the DA assigned to this case.
“I can’t recommend murder-one unless you can prove it was the plan all along.” He looked from me to Alex. “You guys know that, right?”
“Of course,” I said. “We can beat that out of him, no problem.”
He raised a finger and his eyes came together in one big unibrow. I’d seen it before. “Don’t even joke.” He perused the reports on Jackson Bennett.
“Nothing here on the threat that was made to Bennett from Meyers? Wasn’t that girl even interviewed?” As a DA, he was often as stunned as we were with the lack of investigative insight at times.
“Who was the coroner on the case?” I asked.
Dan chuckled. “Oh, shit. Perfect.”
“What?” I pulled the file to me. “Oh, no.”
“What?” asked Alex.
“Chester Miller,” we both said at the same time.
“He was indicted for falsifying death certificates for illegals, among other things. Remember?” Dan reminded. “I did the indictment, not long after the Bennett case. You don’t have to rely on any of his findings, if you don’t want to. In fact, I recommend that you don’t.”
I pushed the file back over to Dan. “So we can reopen the investigation.”
“Or open one, since there was really no investigation to begin with, doesn’t look like.” Dan pulled out the photograph that was taken of Jackson Bennett at the scene. “You have someone in the coroner’s office you trust?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, I’m not a doctor, but this looks like more bruising than a common necktie would cause.” He tossed the picture across the table to me. “Show this to your guy.” He got up. “The last thing I want to have to do is exhume that body.”
††††
I got into my car at close to six, and checked my cell phone for messages. I knew that I had received a call earlier in the day from Karen’s cell, but I didn’t pick up.
“Hi, it’s me,” she’d said. “I just landed. I have to go into the office, and that’s where I’ll be until about 5, if you want to call.” A brief hesitation, a sigh, and then, “Bye, love.” Just hearing her voice made me almost forget what had happened. I needed her like I needed air. She was home now, I was sure of it.
I pulled into the underground garage of her complex, and a silver Audi A4 sat in her space—a loaner, I assumed. My anger took up where it left off. I took the elevator up to her place and let myself in with my key.
She wasn’t in the kitchen and she wasn’t in the living room. I went into the bedroom, and I saw the light coming from underneath the bathroom door. I stood in the middle of the room until the door opened and she walked out into the semi-darkness. She wore a short silk robe I’d seen her in before. She didn’t see me until she was almost on top of me. Startled, she screeched as I grabbed her, yanked the robe off, buried my fingers in her hair, and kissed her. Then I lifted her in the air, and with my free hand, I slapped her ass—hard.
“Oh!” she screeched again, as I lifted her higher. She wrapped her legs around my waist as I carried her to the bed. I threw her down on her back and lifted her arms above her head. I began at her mouth and worked my way down, and I didn’t stop until her shudders left her spent, unable to speak. Only then did I remove my own clothes, and then I slowly loved her all over again.
††††
I sat in the white chaise, looking out her bedroom window at the lights of the south bay. Our lovemaking had been intense, and not a word had been spoken throughout. She lay now, naked and curled up between my legs, wrapped in a light throw. Her head rested against my chest. I ran my fingers, still smelling of her, through her hair, twisting its silky softness into little ringlets around my fingers.
“Are you still seeing him?” I asked finally.
“No.”
“Tell him to stay away from you.” I could feel her stop breathing. I could feel her stiffen in my arms.
“He’s not a threat to you. Or to me.”
I turned her to me. “You will tell him that if he comes near you again, you’ll file a restraining order.”
“No.” She turned away, and lay her head back down against my chest.
“You’ll tell him that you’re with someone else now. You’ll tell him that this person you’re with is a cop, and this cop does not share well with others. He’ll understand, believe me.”
Silence.
“Do it, lady blue, or I wi
ll.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
“You’re becoming a distraction to me, lady.”
She searched my eyes. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not this way. Not like this.”
She closed her eyes, and her lips found the inside of my wrist. “I haven’t had to answer to anyone in . . . well, ever.” She left a trail of kisses up my arm. “I want to do this right.”
“You’re doing fine. We’re gonna test each other’s sore points. It’s part of the deal. It’ll be my turn to piss you off soon enough.”
She sat up, and straddled my lap. My fingers traced the red, raised area I left on her ass not too long ago. Her breath hitched, and she arched her back. There was a flush to her face that made me ache for her. She slid both hands into my hair. “You don’t share well with others. I like that.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She ground her hips down, and I rose to meet her. I was hard as a tree—again. “So, what you said about me being a distraction?”
“Yeah?”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
TWENTY FIVE
The man stood across the street and watched him exit the brownstone he shared with a wife and a child. He was a New York City detective now, with the 312th, same as his father. He was grown now, a man. A husband and a father. A good cop. He looked like his father, like their father. He watched as the man—his brother—got into his car to go to work. He waited until the car left the block, and turned down the street, away from him. Then he, too, drove away.
He had a meeting to go to. His grandfather’s funeral was yesterday. A hard day on everyone. He drove into the city and down into Chelsea. He had a meeting. He pulled up along side the black car. He got out of his car and got into the back seat of the Town Car.
Detective, it’s good to see you again, said the man, but before he had time to inhale and make his next statement, the red haired Los Angeles Police detective pulled out a gun, and in one quick motion fired into the head of the man in the drivers seat. The he turned his gun on the man sitting next to him.
Mister Vitello, this is for Vincent Testarossa. He put the gun against the man’s teeth and pulled the trigger.
Alex was already at his desk when I arrived the next morning. He waved a cream colored file at me.
“All the info on Jackson Bennett’s suicide.”
“Ah, good. And . . .?”
“I don’t wipe my ass without you in attendance, my friend.”
“That’s a fuckin’ waste of time, waiting for me.”
“I know. I didn’t, pendejo. Get over here. Something interesting.”
I walked over and sat on the edge of his desk, for a change. “Chester Miller had help . . . thank God. I think she’s someone with a brain cell or two, eh?”
The medical examiner who assisted Chester Miller was none other than Janet Willows.
“Check it out,” he said, pointing to a half-page report tucked toward the back of the file. I read it.
“She says here that her findings indicate that crushing of the windpipe occurred before death . . .”
“Inconsistent with simple obstruction of the trachea due to hanging . . .” Alex finished reading.
“Let’s go see her.”
“She’ll see us in an hour.”
“So, you have been busy this morning. When did you get in . . . 5 a.m.?”
“I got a phone call . . . early. Sit down, jackass.”
“What?” I sat.
“Got any plans today I should know about?”
“What plans do I have that don’t include you?”
“You tell me?” Gonzo walked in and sat on the edge of his desk, and suddenly I was surrounded.
“Any plans to see someone . . . without me?”
“Or me?” Gonz added, not one, apparently, to be left out. And then it dawned on me. But when? How? While I was in the shower, no doubt.
“Karen called you.”
“Yup. So, give it to me from the top, and we’ll figure this thing out.”
“I got it figured out already.” And I got up and started for the door.
“Hey, padna, c’mon. Get back here and let’s talk it through.”
I sat back down and gave them the story, as I knew it, in case Karen hadn’t, which I knew wasn’t the case.
He listened and when I was through, he put his hands together and said in his best Vito Corleone, “You were very wise to come to me.”
“I didn’t. She did.”
“Then clearly she’s the wise one, dummy. She called because she was afraid you’d go off half-cocked. I told her that you weren’t like that. Not at all.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We shared a good laugh. What do you want us to do, Johnny?”
“Nothing. I’ll handle this.”
“Uh, not a wise choice, brother,” Gonz said. “Karen says he’s harmless, and giving this guy a good ass-kicking, while satisfying, will not help her out here. It won’t help you out, either.”
“Let us go talk to him, nice and quiet-like,” Alex said. “It’s better than you—or her, for that matter—confronting the guy.”
I nodded.
“Okay?”
“Yeah . . . okay.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go see Doctor Willows.”
††††
We drove down to the coroner’s office, where Janet Willows was waiting.
“I saw the finger marks right away,” she told us, after reviewing the photograph again, and refreshing her memory via her report. “This has always been my . . . thing, suicides. I seemed to get all of them early in my career, so I can spot them pretty easily. It’s not always so cut-and-dried, but this one was obvious.”
“So, what was Chester’s problem?” I asked.
“Ego, mostly. Chester was a good medical examiner, and not so good at gathering evidence. That’s where I usually came in, and we worked well together.”
“You stayed clean in the investigation?”
“Yes. And as far as I knew, he was going to incorporate my findings into his report, and I was under the impression that further investigation into Jackson Bennett’s death would be done.”
“So, you did your thing, filed the report, then moved on?”
“Yes. That’s how it works.”
“I get it. Thanks, doctor.”
“Any time, John,” she purred. “And I do mean that.”
“Jesus,” Alex muttered when we got outside. “I don’t know how you do it. You gotta beat ‘em off with a stick.” He seemed glum.
“It’s that wedding ring, pal. It ain’t you.”
“Well, now I feel better.”
††††
We sat in an interrogation room at the Culver City Police Department. Officer Victor Arvisu and Officer Sandra Stokes reviewed the report they filled out the day Jackson Bennett’s body was discovered, hanging from a hook in the closet of his apartment in Culver City.
“The hook was coming down out of the wall,” Stokes recalled
“Right. He’d been there a while,” Alex said. “Time of death was maybe four or five hours prior.” Alex looked at his copy of the report. “So, was the girlfriend, Shelby Hughes, questioned or investigated?”
“No,” answered Arvisu. “She found the body. She was pretty upset.”
“She tell you that Jackson Bennett was threatened the previous evening by a guy named Kevin Meyers?”
“She told us that her boyfriend caught them together, and he was pretty upset. It was a natural thing to surmise that he did it because he was . . . distraught over finding his girlfriend with someone else. Wouldn’t you say that, detective?”
“I would, had you questioned Kevin Meyers and found that he had an alibi for the hours around Jackson Bennett’s . . . demise. Wouldn’t you . . . surmise?”
“Cabron,” Alex muttered.
“Detective, this looked
like a simple suicide to us, and we didn’t investigate further. What can we do now to help?” Stokes asked.
“Did the coroner’s office inform you that the windpipe had been crushed, indicating this was more than just a hanging?”
They looked at each other. “No,” Arvisu answered. “You think if we knew that, we’d be sitting here now?”
“No, I don’t imagine we would. What I do know is, had everyone on this one case had their fuckin’ ducks in a row, a nineteen year old kid would still be alive, getting laid, and rowing crew with Campbell College.” I stood and leaned on the table. “Instead, I have to call his parents and tell them they lost their only son because someone didn’t do their fucking jobs.” And to further make my point clear, I swept the table clean of paper.
Alex grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.” We walked out of the building.
“Nicely done,” he said as we walked to our car. “So, next time we need help from CCPD, we’ll know who to call, first thing.”
I braced myself against the car.
“You wanna fix this, you wanna save the day?” he shouted. “Ask yourself, would Crane have been killed had Meyers been questioned, or even gone down for this? Who’s to say? He didn’t pull the trigger that killed David Crane, Johnny, we’re pretty sure of that. People make mistakes . . . good cops make mistakes.”
“I know.”
“You need to play well with others, or we’ll get fucking nowhere. You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is going on with you? You wanna tell a story? You wanna write the book on how this kid Crane died, and why, so it doesn’t happen again?”
I shook my head clear.
“Not every case gets solved. Not every case goes the way we want it to. If we don’t find Meyers, we may never get to make that phone call to the Cranes. You prepared for that?”
“No.”
“Well, get prepared. It may happen. We may never get the clear answers we need to put this case to bed.”
“Bullshit, Alex. You don’t believe that.”
“I do. I do.” He placed his hands on the top of the car and spoke to me from his side. “What motivates you to do this every day . . . that thing that makes you a great cop? Sometimes it gets in the way, Johnny. You hear me? Solving cases thirty-five years later won’t give you the peace you’re looking for.” He knew my story, and sometimes that came back to hit you in the ass, even when it came from the loving hand of your best friend. I felt the fury building inside me. I glared at him.