Paulson spun and leapt onto the porch, surprisingly agile for his age. Jackson charged after him, ignoring the pain in his gut, as the suspect rushed into the house. Officer Darwood wasn’t in sight. Paulson bolted through the small living room and into a short hallway. Jackson caught up to him as they reached a bedroom at the back of the house. He squeezed the top of the man’s shoulder, then shoved a knee into the back of his leg, forcing him to the ground. Jackson pulled his cuffs, holstered his weapon, and grabbed the suspect’s elbow. “Hands behind your back!”
Paulson didn’t cooperate, but he didn’t fight either, and Jackson cuffed him without incident. He stood and took a quick breath to calm his racing pulse. When he’d made the promotion to detective all those years ago, he’d thought his days of chasing and fighting criminals were over. But that hadn’t turned out to be true, and to some extent, he was glad. The interactions kept him from getting soft. He pulled the suspect to his feet. “Let’s go. In the car.”
“You can’t come into my house without a warrant!” Paulson seemed more worried than angry now.
What would Darwood find? Jackson needed another detective on this case to help search the residences. But everyone was already stretched thin. He fully appreciated the stress of Sergeant Lammers’ job. “You admitted to the crime. We don’t need a warrant to search for the weapon you used.”
Officer Darwood was in the hall, and he made up a reason to have entered the home: “When the dog stopped barking, I heard someone crying in the house, and I responded.”
“Bullshit!” Spit dribbled from Paulson’s nearly toothless mouth as Jackson and Darwood steered him out the front door. They put him into the back of the squad car, read him his rights, and locked the door. Jackson was eager to question him, but the more leverage he had, the more productive the interrogation would be.
“What did you find?” he asked the officer as they headed back inside. The dog was barking again, and Jackson felt sorry for the neighbors within earshot. What could they do to quiet the animal? They might have to be inside the house for hours, depending on what they discovered.
“A closet full of guns, most with the serial numbers scraped off.”
“Let’s hope one matches the casings at the crime scene.” Jackson stopped. “We’ll get a ballistics expert out here to collect and tag the weapons. And we’ll search the rest of the house.”
“I’ll start with electronics.” Darwood glanced around. “If the old man has any.”
Jackson called the crime lab and left a message for Joe Berloni to drop whatever he was doing and come out to the scene. Next he called Evans. “I’m still at the neighbor’s, but we have a suspect in custody, and I’m headed back to the crime scene.”
“Good news. Quince is here now, and the three of us are searching Stalling’s home. We haven’t found anything interesting yet, including a computer, which he doesn’t seem to have.”
When he’d last seen Evans, she’d had the surviving victim’s ID in hand. “Did you run Kayla Benson through the system?”
“I did. And it’s a little peculiar. She’s new to the area, and I can’t really find much about her. I think the ID might be phony.”
CHAPTER 4
Wednesday, December 2, 10:45 a.m.
Detective Lara Evans glanced around the bedroom. “I don’t think Kayla Benson lives here.” No women’s clothes were evident, except a long sleep T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. She hadn’t done a full search yet, but her instincts about these things were rarely wrong.
“Let the guys finish searching the house,” Jackson said in her earpiece. “I need you at the hospital to take the victim’s fingerprints and run them through the database.” Their cellular connection was scratchy, even though he was right down the road.
“I’m on it.” She picked up her shoulder bag, relieved to move on.
“Talk to Lammers while you’re out there. See what happened.”
What? “Lammers is in the hospital?”
“She was poisoned. Possibly from some yard-care product, but I want to treat it like an investigation. She could have been deliberately targeted.”
“Well, hell. I hope she’ll be all right.” Lammers had taken a chance and accepted her into the detective unit after only a year of training with Jackson. Evans owed her for that. And she liked Lammers. The sergeant was gruff but fair, and she would step in and help work cases when they were overwhelmed. “I’ll dig into it.” Evans headed into the hallway. “But I’m still on the shooting case, right?”
“Yes, I want you at the task force meetings. If Lammers’ case becomes an obvious criminal act, I’ll shift you to it full-time.”
“When is the first meet-up?”
“Let’s say five. I’ll buy dinner.”
“No pizza.” The stuff was too filling and weighed her down.
Jackson laughed. “Schak will be mad if we do Thai food again.”
“I’ll settle for sandwiches. See you then.” Evans hung up and stopped in the bathroom, where Schak was squatting down to search a cabinet under the sink. “Find anything interesting?”
He twisted to face her. “Not yet. But I have a feeling we will.”
“I’m heading to North McKenzie to get the vic’s fingerprints.” She patted Schak’s bristled hair. “I already made Jackson promise to buy superfood salad for the task force meeting. See you at five.”
“Goddammit.”
She laughed and headed out. Schak was her buddy, and messing with him was about the only way he’d let her connect. After notifying a technician, she grabbed a fingerprint kit from the white van and jogged to her vehicle, which was parked down the road. She glanced in the direction Jackson and the officer had gone. A patrol car pulled out of the next driveway, and an old woman in a nightgown stood in the yard across the street, watching. Jackson was on foot, coming her way. Evans started to hold up her hand in a friendly greeting, then changed her mind and ducked into her car.
She’d been in love with Jackson since her first week of training, and even dating other men hadn’t changed that. But Jackson had met Kera, and Evans had never had a real chance with him. She knew he was attracted to her; they’d had a couple of moments together that proved it. But they wanted different things. Jackson was a family man who’d recently adopted a three-year-old boy from a crime scene. She loved him even more for his compassion, but she had no desire to have her own kids, let alone raise someone else’s.
She’d even considered leaving the Violent Crimes Unit to get away from him and give her heart a chance to love someone else. But Lammers had talked her out of it. The sergeant had reminded her that being the only woman on the team was a privilege and that, even more important, she was a role model for other female officers. So she had stayed, then trained even harder for the SWAT physical. She’d finally passed it, and she was the only woman in that group as well. So far, she hadn’t been called out on a SWAT mission, but the number of incidents the unit responded to was increasing every year. People seemed more on edge than ever—even in laid-back Eugene.
Evans started the engine, then put in her earpiece so she could take calls while she drove. For the next forty-eight hours, the shooting case would be critical. If a witness came forward or a new suspect popped up, she needed to be available for anything. Investigations were supposed to be methodical, but often some small detail could make the whole team drop everything and pursue a new lead. Self-discipline and routine, with the potential for impulse and adrenaline. She loved all these elements, so the job suited her.
She took the expressway and arrived at the hospital ten minutes later. The complex sat along prime riverfront property, with gorgeous views from patient rooms and a lobby with a massive stone fireplace that ski resorts would have envied. Evans drove around to the Emergency Department entrance in back, hoping to find Kayla Benson, or whoever she was, in the trauma center. With a growing sense of urgency, she parked and hurried to the entrance. If the victim was using an alias, her identity could be the
key to the whole crime.
Evans approached the desk, ignoring two young men waiting, and held out her badge for the admitting clerk. “Detective Evans. I need to see the woman who just came in with a gunshot wound. This is a homicide investigation.”
The clerk scowled. “That was nearly an hour ago. I’m sure she’s in surgery now.”
“Please locate her so I can fingerprint her as soon as possible.”
“Do you know her name?”
“She didn’t have any ID on her, but she goes by Kayla Benson.”
“Oh right.” The clerk hit a few buttons on her keyboard, then scanned her monitor. “Like I said, she’s in surgery on the second floor. There’s a big waiting room up there.”
Evans started to walk away, then spun back. “Where can I find Sergeant Denise Lammers?”
One of the young men waiting cleared his throat. Evans grinned at him.
After a moment, the clerk said, “She’s in the ICU. Third floor, room three seventeen.”
“Thanks.”
Evans didn’t see any stairs, so she took the elevator instead. Normally, she exercised at every opportunity, including a kickboxing workout in the morning and a two- or three-mile run in the evening, just so she could sleep after an intense day. Her body produced a lot of energy, and she had to find ways to burn it off. The SWAT training she’d done—dragging a one-hundred-eighty-pound roll of carpet around the backyard—had kicked her ass every night for months. She would have to do it again in nine months to retake the physical.
The ICU had a locked entrance, so she buzzed the nurses’ station and was finally let in. She introduced herself to a middle-aged male nurse in blue scrubs, then asked, “What can you tell me about Denise Lammers’ condition?”
“She’s still critical, but she has moments of being lucid.”
“What poisoned her?”
“We don’t know yet. We’re still waiting on lab results. But it takes time, and we can’t test for everything.”
That wasn’t encouraging. “What’s the best guess?”
“It’s hard to say. The vomiting and dizziness could indicate an amatoxin or even something like arsenic.”
“Where does amatoxin come from?”
“Poisonous mushrooms. But nothing is confirmed. We’ve called the poison control center in Portland, but they won’t rule out E. coli without lab samples.”
People sometimes died from that infection. They moved down the hall together, and Evans resisted looking at the other patients. She’d been injured on the job a few times, but she had never been seriously ill and couldn’t stand to be around sick people. A shortcoming, for sure. The nurse stopped in front of a door. “If she starts vomiting, you might want to leave.”
Evans walked into the room, and a short, stout woman sat up from the padded bench seat under the window.
“You must be Detective Evans.” The woman approached. “I’m Susan.”
Evans glanced at the hospital bed. Lammers took up most of it, and her eyes were closed. Evans held out her hand to Susan. “Yes. Who are you? I mean, in connection to Lammers?”
“Denise and I are longtime friends.” Susan smiled gently. The woman was soft everywhere—face, body, and eyes.
They were a couple. Of course. Now she knew why Lammers never talked about her personal life. That was too bad. Other gay women in the department didn’t hide it and didn’t get harassed. “You’re the one who brought her in?”
“I called an ambulance. She was too dizzy to walk, and I can’t manage her bulk on my own.” Another warm smile.
“Can we sit down? I need to know everything that happened yesterday, before she was poisoned.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “You think this was a crime?”
“It could be.” Evans gestured for them to sit, and she took the bench so her back was to the window. From there, she could see the patient and the entry. “Did Lammers—I mean Denise—have enemies? Or ex-cons who threatened her?” Evans was usually good about referring to victims by their first names with their families, even though on the job cops used last names for everyone. But this was different. She’d known her boss as Lammers for years.
“Not really. When she was a patrol sergeant, a gang member she’d put away sent her a nasty letter from prison, but that’s it. Except for the emails from disgruntled citizens who think Eugene cops are idiots.”
“I’d like to see those. But they’re probably on her work computer.”
“Yes. She kept her personal email private for only family and close friends.”
“Tell me what happened before she developed symptoms.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Susan adjusted her sweater, then glanced out the window.
She was about to lie!
“Denise was in the garage, repotting some houseplants. When she came in, she said she had a headache. She took some aspirin, then sat down to read. After a while, she started to feel dizzy, so she laid down. A half hour later, she started vomiting and was so sick I called 911.”
What part of that wasn’t true? It had to be the houseplants. What activity were they hiding? “What if someone tried to kill her?” Evans pressed. “They could try again. Please tell me the truth.”
“No one tried to kill her.” Susan’s jaw trembled.
Evans feared the woman was about to cry. “What aren’t you telling me? I know she’s a cop, and I’ll do my best to protect her secret, whatever it is.” Unless it was criminal, but that didn’t seem possible.
Susan leaned forward and whispered, “Denise has fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis. She takes marijuana for the pain. Please don’t tell anyone.”
Pot? Big, brash Lammers—who once took down a PCP-crazed man by beating his legs with a baton—was a stoner? Evans realized her mouth was hanging open, so she snapped it shut. Marijuana was legal now, but that didn’t mean Oregon cops could get away with smoking it. The sergeant could lose her job. Evans was sorry she’d asked. But what if the pot had made her sick? “You’re saying she smoked or consumed cannabis right before she developed symptoms?”
“Yes. She always took one hit from a pipe for immediate pain relief, then usually ate a brownie or cookie for extended coverage.” Susan blushed, her pudgy cheeks pink against her pale face. “I’m sorry I lied. But Denise was in the garage. She didn’t ever smoke in the house.”
“If the pot made her sick, I need to know the supplier.”
“I was afraid of that.” Susan stood and wrapped her arms around herself. “I know it’s legal now, and I buy it for her, but the whole situation makes me extremely uncomfortable.”
Evans slipped her tablet computer out of her shoulder bag, clicked it on, and opened a file. “Where do you buy it? If their supply is contaminated with pesticides or something, we have to get the product out of circulation. Others could get sick. Maybe die.”
“From the Green Medicine store.”
Evans suppressed a smile.
“I know—it’s a funny name.” Susan glanced over at the bed. “Denise is waking up.”
Evans made a note of the supplier, then stepped over to Lammers’ side. “Sergeant, it’s Evans.”
“Hey.” Her eyes finally found Evans and focused. “Why are you here?”
“Just checking in. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. What does the doctor say? Am I gonna live?”
Susan rushed up to her side. “Of course you are.”
Lammers reached out to grab her partner’s hand, then pulled back.
“It’s okay,” Evans said. “I’ll use the word roommate in my report.”
“Thanks.” Lammers grimaced in pain. “What the hell is making me sick?”
“They don’t know.” Susan’s voice ached with anxiety.
Evans cut in. “Susan told me what really happened, and I have to investigate the source of the marijuana. I’ll do what I can to protect you.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Lammers glared at her partner, her face pale. “I guess I’
ll retire early like you wanted after all.”
Evans touched the sergeant’s arm, then quickly withdrew. “It may not come to that. If I weren’t worried about the supply and others getting sick, I would bury this for you.”
Lammers made a nasty burping sound, eyes wide with panic. She grabbed the plastic bowl from her tray and hurled greenish-gray vomit into it.
Ugh! Evans backed away. “Get better, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
She gestured at Susan to come into the hall with her. Once they were outside the room, Evans said, “I need to take her pot supply to the lab and have it analyzed. And dust the containers for fingerprints, in case whoever did this is in the database. You have to cooperate with me on this.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the house later.”
“Give me the address.”
Once she had the information, Evans headed to the surgery area on the second floor. She asked the desk nurse about the condition of the Jane Doe and was told she’d been moved to the ICU. Evans checked her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed any messages, then went back upstairs to where she’d just been. It would be interesting to hear what the victim had to say about her fake ID. Like Lammers, once people experienced a close call with death, they often cast aside the bullshit to get real about what was left of their lives.
CHAPTER 5
Wednesday, December 2, 10:52 a.m.
Jackson noticed Evans getting into her car and started to lift his hand, then changed his mind. It was best to keep their interaction as professional as possible. Rekindling those uncertain and confusing emotions wouldn’t be good for either of them. He strode toward the three patrol officers talking in the driveway of the farmhouse. Their presence back at the scene meant they’d finished canvassing the area. “Any witnesses?”
Two shook their heads, but the third officer, a woman about his age, pointed toward River Road. “No one was home at the next house in that direction, so it will need a follow-up.”
Jackson hadn’t expected much, but still, he was disappointed. The homes in the area all had acreage, which meant they had privacy from one another. Unless someone happened to be passing by at the time of the shooting and noticed an unfamiliar vehicle or heard the shots, they weren’t likely to learn anything from the neighbors. Still, someone from the team would check back with all potential witnesses. “Find anything in your search of the property?” he added.
Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 3
