Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  No vehicle was in the driveway, and no one answered the door at Tattriona’s. Did she live alone? Jackson tucked his business card between the door and its frame and left. He would try her at work, but first he wanted to take another look at the crime scene. He drove down the road and pulled off in the next driveway. All the law-enforcement vehicles were gone, and even the victims’ cars had been towed to the bays at the crime lab. Now the property was just a quiet, fading old farmhouse with yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the door.

  Jackson unbuttoned his coat as he strode around to the nursery in back. Stalling’s text to Darby Sigler, asking him to arrive early in the morning, made Jackson think something important might have been scheduled. Such as a harvest. And if the killer knew it was harvest time, maybe he had come back in the middle of the night and tried to steal the buds from the crop. Maybe he’d used a crowbar and accomplished his goal. A police team was scheduled to collect and destroy the plants this afternoon.

  Jackson rounded the corner of the house, relieved to see the nursery door was still locked and intact. He used the key, pushed it open, and turned on the light.

  What the hell?

  Eight rows of what had been tall green plants had turned brown and wilted over, like a potted forest that had been napalmed. Had they been poisoned? And when? The locked door meant no one but law enforcement had been in the nursery since yesterday. Had Stalling caught someone destroying his about-to-be-harvested crop? Was that what his murder had been about?

  CHAPTER 15

  Thursday, December 3, 7:35 a.m.

  Evans finished her kickboxing workout, showered, and downed another cup of Italian-roast coffee while still in her towel. Time to put on the work uniform: black pants, a sleeveless blouse, her weapon, and a pastel blazer. Officially, as a detective, she could wear anything, but she needed to be taken seriously in the field—and skirts were out of the question. The pastels kept her from feeling masculine, especially after years as a patrol cop, when she wore a dark-blue uniform and cap. She grabbed an overcoat she probably wouldn’t wear, even though it was cold, and left her small duplex.

  The drive to the pot store took just over ten minutes. Getting around the area was like that, unless she needed to question someone in Springfield, Eugene’s sister city. Or any of the small towns on the periphery, where people lived but commuted to Eugene to work—or commit crimes. Green Medicine sat between a Grocery Cart and a flooring store on West Sixth. The space had once been a deli, and before that, a coffee roaster. The pot store might not be in business much longer. In addition to half a dozen medical marijuana stores that had been operating for nearly a decade, new retailers were obtaining licenses and popping up everywhere. Not all would survive. The newly licensed growers were in stiff competition too, not only with one another, but also with the black market, which was still thriving by undercutting the legal retail prices.

  Evans entered the building, feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t even like to visit state-run liquor stores. Something about a business focused solely on selling intoxicants gave her a bad vibe. The space was long and narrow, with a counter running the full length of a side wall and the products enclosed in glass. The anti-theft protection would also keep children who might enter from consuming the candy-like edibles. That was the one part of the legalization measure that bothered her—that pot or THC oil could be added to foods that were appealing to children. Certainly, the state legislature would write new rules about packaging and placement of those edibles.

  The man behind the counter turned to her with a smile, then blinked a few times. She was just as surprised by him. At least sixty, with gray hair, a mustache, and a potbelly. A lifelong stoner who’d finally found his dream job? Or an outcast who couldn’t find any other work after the recession? She walked toward him. “Detective Evans, Eugene Police.”

  “Hello. What can I do for you?”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “No. I’m Dave Hutchins, and I just work here.”

  “Give me the owner’s name and phone number.”

  “Jay DeSpain.” He rattled off a number, then said, “He’s out of town right now on business. What’s this about?” Spoken with the confidence of someone who’d never been in trouble.

  She decided to trust Dave, for now. “One of your clients was poisoned, most likely with a product from this store. I need to know your suppliers, and I need to take samples for testing.”

  “Oh no!” He blinked and reached for a vapor pipe. “What kind of poison?”

  “I can’t reveal any details. Do you have a list of suppliers?”

  “Sure, but it’s pretty short. We get all our smokables from Ganja Growers and our edibles from Hightones.”

  Evans pulled out a notepad and jotted down the names. She didn’t think she would be there long enough to get out her tablet computer. Before she could ask for details, the clerk supplied a few.

  “We also just received some samples from Riverside Farms, and we may start buying from them too.”

  Ganja Growers was the name on the business card at the scene, and Riverside was the victim’s business. Was the shooting part of a turf war for retail business? “Do you know of a dispute between the two growers?”

  Hutchins shook his head. “But Hightones is pretty aggressive about being an exclusive provider for the edibles.”

  “Who is their competition?”

  “There’s a bunch of start-ups, but I only know about Mary Candy, because they came in once with samples and I had to turn them down.”

  Evans pulled out the evidence bag containing Lammers’ pot brownie. Wrapped in thick cellophane, its only label was a silver-blue musical note. “Is this one of Hightones’ products?”

  The clerk took a quick look. “Sure is.”

  “I need to take a sample of these brownies from your store and maybe a few other edibles to test for the poison. And some of the smokable pot too.” Evans dug out the other evidence bag containing the tiny pink-tinted plastic bag with a gram or so of marijuana bud. She worried that her shoulder bag would stink like pot before she got the samples to the evidence lab. “This is the other product the victim consumed.”

  “That’s ours for sure. No one else uses the pink bags.” The clerk took a closer look. “That’s Juicy Fruit. It’s the only medicinal strain we carry.”

  Juicy Fruit? And he could tell by looking? She realized how little she knew about the industry. “So you’re not a medical supplier?”

  “No, but we sell this blend and undercut the price of the medical retailers.” The old guy grinned. “Almost all strains work for pain management, but the medical cultivars don’t get you as baked.”

  “Got it.” Evans glanced into the glass case and noticed buds in a variety of shapes and colors. “Would you get me the samples, please?”

  “I should probably call my boss about it. He keeps a tight inventory.”

  “We can always get a subpoena.” She gave him a tight smile. “And we can bring your boss into the department to answer questions.”

  “Just let me check.” Hutchins pulled out his cell phone and turned away.

  While he held a hushed conversation, a buzzer sounded behind her. Evans pivoted to the door. A young man had come into the store. Buying pot at nine fifteen in the morning? But hey, at least he was awake and functioning before noon. Evans smiled at her own sarcasm. After learning that her high-functioning boss—a police sergeant—consumed pot to manage her pain, she realized it was time to stop assuming everyone who bought or smoked pot was a stoner. Evans showed her badge to the kid at the door. “Would you wait outside for a moment?” The customer retreated.

  Hutchins got off the phone. “I can give you one sample of each.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t know whether the bud or the brownie had poisoned Lammers, or where the poison had originated, so she would have to track down both suppliers and get more samples from each of them. In the meantime, she would drop these off at the lab. Hopefully, they would s
oon know which pot source had been contaminated. Then she would know which supplier to investigate more thoroughly.

  What if the poison hadn’t come from a supplier? Was it possible someone had tampered with a product at some point in the production chain? “Do your edibles come in packages? Or do you get them in bulk?”

  “Most are packaged, either as singles or batches of six. But sometimes they bring a whole sheet of brownies that aren’t packaged, and we wrap them here to order.”

  That added a layer of complexity. “Who delivers them?”

  “A man named John Fenton. Every Monday and Friday. He brings the other edibles too. The little truffles and cookies are already individually wrapped.”

  If an entire brownie batch had been poisoned, more people would be sick. Were more victims in the hospital? She would make that call next. Then visit Ganja Growers and Hightones. The most logical explanation was that a grower had somehow accidentally dried a poisonous mushroom along with marijuana buds.

  “Are you a mushroom picker?” she asked.

  The clerk jerked back, surprised by her abruptness. “No. Why?”

  “Is your boss?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She thanked him and left. On the way out, her phone rang. Jackson. “Hey, what have you got?”

  “A dead crop. The nursery is full of brown, wilted pot plants this morning. They look like they’ve been poisoned.”

  Poison again? “Holy shit.” Evans hurried to her car to get away from the noise of the traffic. She climbed inside and asked, “What if both poisonings were intentional? One businessman trying to ruin another?”

  “Or a conservative crusader,” Jackson offered. “Like Schak mentioned. Someone pissed about legalization who wants to make the industry look bad and get the law reversed.”

  “But why shoot Stalling, a grower?”

  “The bloodshed just adds to the negative media coverage.”

  “Maybe. I’m on my way to Ganja Growers now.”

  “Do you want backup?”

  She appreciated his concern and knew from experience that it had nothing to do with gender. “Do you think I need it?”

  “Maybe. I’ll meet you there.”

  The rival marijuana farm was in West Eugene across from the wetlands, surrounded by a ring of fir trees that kept it hidden. Its location wasn’t public or listed on the business card they’d found, but as a medical grower, it had been registered with the state for years. Now that the drug was legal for everyone, Ganja Growers was probably expanding its production. Even though individuals were allowed to grow their own pot, most people probably wouldn’t. Too much time and energy involved. Most consumers would continue to buy it as needed, the way they always had. Only now, they could go to a store, instead of conducting a furtive transaction in a parking lot or tavern.

  As Evans shut off her engine, loud barking made her tense. Where were the guard dogs? They would not be friendly. She looked at her notes, preparing to call the owner. Two mastiffs rushed from behind the manufactured home and stood in front of her car. The noise was overwhelming. She reached for the stun gun on the seat next to her. Hitting a dog with both prongs would not be easy. Stopping two dogs with a stun gun would be impossible. She stayed in the car and called the owner, who didn’t answer. She tried Jackson next.

  He picked up right away. “What’s happening?”

  “Dogs. I’m not getting out until you’re here. Even then, I’m not sure how to handle this.”

  “Crap!”

  She knew Jackson hated dogs. He’d been bitten once and would always wear the scar above his eye. Their unit had also handled a murder in which a young woman had been mauled to death by dogs. Evans hadn’t felt the same around them since.

  A middle-aged man stepped out of the home, stared at her from his tiny wooden porch, then finally trotted down the steps. He yelled, “Quiet!” and the dogs went silent. But they stayed near her car.

  Evans rolled her window down an inch and waited for the man to approach.

  “Who are you?” A gaunt face with a weak chin and small eyes. The features were strictly genetic, but they made him appear untrustworthy.

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

  “Matt Sheldon.” He was lean, only twenty pounds heavier than she was, with no sign of a weapon. But his sweatshirt was loose on him, and small guns were easy to conceal.

  “Put the dogs away so we can talk.”

  “About what?”

  “The death of your competitor.”

  He didn’t flinch. The news should have surprised him.

  “I have many competitors. Why me?”

  “You left your business card at the scene of the crime.”

  His eyes flashed with alarm, and his body tensed. “You’re jumping to conclusions.” Sheldon snapped his fingers and said, “Retreat.” The dogs ran silently behind the trailer.

  An engine rumbled behind her, and Evans glanced in her rearview mirror. Jackson. Thank goodness. He parked beside her, and Sheldon’s gaze shifted to the new intruder. Evans took a moment to look around. Behind the trailer, the sides of a greenhouse showed. White plastic sheeting. A cheaper structure than the one at Riverside Farms, but maybe twice as large.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson climb from his car, so she got out too. Jackson introduced himself as he moved toward Sheldon. Evans strode to stand next to her mentor. He was quiet, so she assumed Jackson was letting her take the lead.

  “Lift your sweatshirt,” she commanded. “We need to see if you’re carrying.”

  “I’m not, but I have two handguns and a rifle inside. All legal.”

  Instinct told her Sheldon wouldn’t get in a cop car without an arrest warrant or a struggle. “We have some questions, so let’s go inside.”

  His face tightened as he processed his options. Finally, he agreed. “All right, but I haven’t got much time. I have a business meeting in an hour.”

  Which he might not make. Evans nodded to seem reasonable.

  Sheldon turned and walked into the house, glancing over his shoulder at them every few steps. His background check had come up clean—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been licensed as a medical grower. Still, his paranoia made her suspicious. But maybe he’d become that way because the pot-growing business could be dangerous.

  The mobile home was modern and spacious but smelled like bacon grease. If the industry was so lucrative, why hadn’t he upgraded his living space? Everything else looked normal. A little clutter, but otherwise clean, with a giant flat-screen TV as the focus of the living room.

  “Let’s sit at the table.” Evans wanted to look Sheldon in the eye at close range.

  The three sat down, and Jackson asked, “Where are the dogs?”

  “Out back.” Sheldon became a little defensive. “I need them to protect my business. I’ve had two attempted robberies in the last three years.”

  “Did you report them?” Jackson asked.

  Sheldon snorted. “As if I would invite the police to come out here. I’m legal, but I’m not stupid. You guys are biased and looking for reasons to shut me down.”

  The Vice Unit detectives, who dealt with drugs, held different attitudes from the Violent Crimes people. And patrol cops typically hated all drugs because of the damage they witnessed daily. But then they went home and drank beer to forget about it. The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on her. “We’re here to ask about a homicide,” Evans said. “Where were you yesterday morning between seven and eight?”

  “At home, asleep. I stay up late, so I don’t get up until about eight thirty.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  “I live alone, and I like it that way.” More defensiveness.

  Jackson pulled out a business card and laid it on the glass table. “We found your card at the homicide scene. How did it get there?”

  “Get where? You said my competitor was killed. I still don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Evans wanted to keep
the lead, so she cut in. “Josh Stalling of Riverside Farms. When did you see him last?”

  “I’ve never met him.” Deadpan. With no hesitation.

  “Why was your card twenty feet from his body?”

  Sheldon’s eyes went wide. “I swear to god I have no idea.” The words came out in a loud rush.

  Volume didn’t indicate sincerity. “Have you ever been to his nursery?”

  “No. I’m a busy man and have no reason to spy on or visit my competitors.” He crossed his arms. “There’s enough money in this business for all of us, and I’m doing well.”

  Evans glanced around.

  Sheldon caught her expression. “Don’t judge me by my simple home. I’m sure I have more money than you do.”

  He probably did. Before she could formulate another question, Jackson cut in.

  “You took two calls from Stalling in the last few days. What were they about?”

  A slight hesitation. “He wanted my advice. He’s a new grower and needed help.”

  Jackson pressed him. “You said you never met him.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “A witness saw a gray car leaving the crime scene yesterday morning,” Jackson said. “And you drive a blue-gray Honda CR-V. When we match the treads, we’ll know you were there.”

  Was Jackson bluffing, or did he have new info?

  “I wasn’t there,” Sheldon argued. “Half the cars on the road look just like mine.”

  “But your business card was at the scene,” Evans added. “How do you explain that?”

  Sheldon shrugged, his expression angry. “Maybe Josh Stalling was checking out my business. I leave my cards with the retailers who sell my products. Stalling could have picked it up from them.”