Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  Today she might enter a house where a man was intent on killing cops, and she might be the first one he encountered. His home could be rigged with bombs or booby traps. Crazy people were more deadly than ever these days. Evans took deep breaths and willed herself to stop thinking about it.

  A little later, when the doors opened again, she was the first one out, noting their location on the corner. The target house was about a hundred yards away, but this spot would serve as their command post—as long as the weather stayed dry. If he had to, Bruckner would take over someone’s home as a command center. As a hasty team member, she wouldn’t be here long. They all gathered around the hood of Bruckner’s patrol car, and more squad units arrived, along with the big tech rig, a box-style vehicle that carried surveillance and communication equipment and technicians. Normally, the tech rig didn’t go out unless they had a hostage situation, so the sight of it concerned her.

  “Do we have hostages?” she asked Bruckner.

  “No, but the caller said the suspect was threatening neighbors, so I wanted to be prepared.” The sergeant spread out a printed map of the neighborhood. “The target house is here.” He tapped the third house from the corner on the map, then glanced over and pointed at a small blue home with a large yard. All of the residences on the short street were older single-story buildings that were well maintained.

  “Evans, position yourself behind the side fence of the house to the left. The white one.”

  It was light gray, but she didn’t correct him. “Got it.”

  She waited while he gave each hasty team member a post and started lining up the snipers. They would sit in tall trees and on the rooftops of surrounding homes.

  Another sergeant approached the group. Bruckner turned to him. “Let’s start the evacuation. And find out who called it in.”

  “Roger that.” The sergeant went back to a group of patrol officers who had responded. They would go door-to-door, escorting residents out of their homes. The goal was to minimize danger and limit negative outcomes.

  “We don’t know who made the call?” That surprised her. It had taken years, but the department finally had better access to cell phone numbers.

  “Not yet. It was a prepaid.”

  Those phones were used mostly by poor people, teenagers, and criminals. This neighborhood didn’t seem to match those profiles, except possibly the teenage one. But the caller also could have been passing through or visiting and seen the suspect outside of his house, carrying a gun.

  While the team waited for the negotiator to arrive, Bruckner talked them through a few scenarios. “If he gets into his vehicle, we take out the tires first. Unless he’s still armed.”

  “What’s he packing?” Evans asked.

  “The caller used only the word gun, but our suspect, Conner Harron, is a veteran and the registered owner of two rifles and a Walther handgun.”

  Oh shit. The suspect was trained to use weapons. Maybe even itching to fire them again. “What else do we know about Harron?”

  “Not much, except that he has a domestic-abuse conviction and several arrests for disorderly conduct. I’m still waiting on a call back from his sister.” Bruckner’s tone was sharp.

  As a detective, Evans asked questions all day, so it was a habit, but the sergeant wasn’t used to answering them.

  A woman in civilian clothes walked up. Lieutenant Miller, the negotiator. Evans admired her. She’d been the first woman to qualify for and join the SWAT unit, but they’d quickly promoted her up and out. Then she’d come back as a negotiator. So far, Evans hadn’t encountered any hostility based on her gender, but this was her first outing, so her performance today was critical. Any mistake could start a backlash that could lead to her being booted, one way or another. On paper, the EPD wasn’t sexist or racist, but the reality of what white men—the majority—really thought and said could be quite different.

  Bruckner’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the ID and took the call.

  It had to be important.

  Bruckner listened, then said, “Put her through.” He covered the phone, turned to the negotiator, and said, “It’s Harron’s therapist. He called her after this started, and she’s trying to talk him down.”

  “Let me speak to her.” Lieutenant Miller reached for Bruckner’s phone.

  Maybe this would be resolved peacefully.

  The sergeant handed his phone to the negotiator, and they all waited through a long, testy conversation. Evans heard only one side of it, but she had to assume the therapist wanted the whole unit to back away and not do anything that would trigger Harron’s PTSD. The negotiator insisted on keeping their positions, but promised no loudspeakers.

  When the negotiator hung up, Bruckner turned to his crew. “Hasty team in place. Go!” The command that set the confrontation in motion.

  Evans hustled to the sidewalk, then turned, running toward the target home. She stayed to the inside edge of the concrete, keeping out of the suspect’s line of sight as much as possible. A cacophony of heavy footsteps pounded behind her, and her pulse kept pace. When she reached the fence separating the target house from the one next door, she ducked down behind it, landing on her knees. Eventually, she would move into a squat, but it was too early. Several team members ran down the property line to the back. They would scale fences and eventually reach the other side of the suspect’s house—without ever crossing his sight line on the street. Her position was closest. She hoped she didn’t get the order to move in alone. Not on her first time out. But it was unlikely, a last resort for situations where hostages inside the building needed to be rescued.

  She took long, slow breaths to calm her heartbeat. This was the hardest part. Waiting and staying calm while the negotiations played out. Lieutenant Miller would handle them from the command center, after sending in a cell phone duct-taped to a remote-controlled hailer. Best-case scenario, the suspect would accept the cell phone and engage in conversation, letting his frustrations and demands be known. Or better yet, his therapist would talk him into surrendering. Worst-case scenario, he would refuse to negotiate and continue to threaten himself or others. She hoped he wasn’t suicidal. Those scenarios could take forever, and usually had bad outcomes. She personally believed he should be allowed to kill himself if he wanted to, but their mission was to prevent that. Still, shooting him to prevent him from taking his own life made no sense.

  Ten long minutes later, Bruckner’s voice came through her shoulder radio. “We’ve made contact with Harron. He denies threatening anyone and wants us to leave. But he’s armed and agitated.”

  The denial bothered her. Especially combined with the unidentified 911 caller. Was this a hoax? Had Conner Harron been swatted? Even so, he was armed and agitated now. They needed to diffuse the situation. Evans pressed a button on her radio to respond. “Did we find the person who called it in?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “We should question the neighbors. Find out if Harron really made threats. And give his therapist more time.”

  “Evans, you’re not running this operation, I am. And I’ve got experience. Denial is part of the process, so back off.”

  Great. She’d pissed off the sergeant, and her teammates had heard the exchange. “Yes, sir.” Would this be her first and last SWAT callout?

  “I repeat, he’s armed and agitated,” Bruckner said. “Hold your positions. We still hope to engage him.”

  “Copy that.” Evans settled in to wait. The negotiations could take hours.

  After what seemed like twenty minutes of silence, she heard a commotion at the command center. A woman was shouting something about her son Ronnie. Evans pivoted and strained to hear Lieutenant Miller talking to Harron on the negotiation cell phone. She caught bits of one side of the conversation. “. . . have Ronnie? . . . then let him go . . . Prove it.”

  Another long silence, then Bruckner’s voice was back over her radio. “Harron has a kid in there that he claims is not a hostage. Someone who is just visit
ing. But Harron won’t send him out.”

  Shit! A child hostage. This would not end well. The therapist had obviously failed to get Harron to surrender or send the kid out. And Bruckner probably wouldn’t give anyone more time.

  A pause while the negotiator said something in the background, then Bruckner announced, “We’ll stage a fake pullout. Pinter and Ross, leave your posts now and run down the street so he can see you. Then get inside Barney. Everyone else, be ready to go in. After the vehicles start to move, I’ll give the command.”

  Evans’ heart skipped a beat. This was happening!

  “Evans, the snipers report that the boy is in a bedroom on your side. Go in the window if you can. Take the boy out the same way. Otherwise, wait for the team to apprehend Harron.” Bruckner’s voice went soft, almost pleading. “Don’t fail me.” The sergeant shifted gears. “Johnson, Morris, and Morales, take the front door. Use a flash bang. Radcliff, you watch the back.”

  He spoke directly to her again. “Evans, are you ready?”

  She’d been born ready, but she kept that to herself. “Copy that.”

  Running footsteps in the street as Pinter and Ross retreated. The back door of the rig slammed shut, and five vehicle engines rumbled to life in a few short seconds.

  Any moment. Evans pulled in a deep breath. Don’t hesitate. Just go. She’d trained for this.

  “Move in!”

  Evans shot to her feet and rushed around the end of the fence. A quick glance at the blue house, but no sign of Harron. With her Sig Sauer in hand, she bent over to stay low and charged down the fence line. The front yard was rough with tall grass and sunken pockets. After stepping into one and careening off-balance for a moment, she slowed down, glad for the heavy boots. Once she passed the front wall of the house and the suspect’s sight line, she veered left through the side yard, darting around a rusted lawn mower, a trash can, and bags of garbage. She saw two windows on the exterior wall: a small one about six feet off the ground, and beyond it, a larger window with a waist-high sliding egress and a gauzy pale curtain. She bolted for the second window and flattened herself against the house.

  “Suspect is on the move,” Bruckner called through the radio.

  “Where?”

  No response. Bruckner either didn’t know or hadn’t heard her. Keeping out of sight, she carefully peered in the window with one eye. Through the thin yellow curtain, she spotted a young boy on the floor, playing with tiny plastic war toys. He looked five or six, like a kid who should have been in school. No sign of the suspect. Evans stepped in front of the window and, with her free hand, pushed sideways on the movable glass panel.

  It didn’t budge. Shit! Either locked or blocked. Breaking it would be fast, but loud, and would possibly attract the hostage taker. She had no choice. Harron was on the move, and the boy needed protection. She holstered her Sig and tried again with two hands and all her strength. The old lock gave, and the window slid open. Yes!

  Evans hoisted one leg up and over, then pulled herself through. As her second foot landed on the floor, the boy looked up and let out a small cry.

  “Come with me!” She gestured with one hand, pulled her weapon free with the other, and strode toward him—all at the same time.

  A flash grenade went off in the living room, shaking the house. A split second later, Harron charged into the bedroom. Instinctively, Evans lifted her weapon and aimed at his chest. The suspect held a large handgun. Blood pounded in her ears. “Gun down!” she yelled. But it was too late. His arm was coming up. Was he targeting her or the boy? It didn’t matter. Evans pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. Harron crumpled and fell forward, his gun hand landing on the boy’s legs. The kid screamed and burst into tears.

  Evans moved toward the two, shaking with adrenaline overload. She’d just killed a man. And this poor boy had witnessed it. Oh fuck. Could she have done anything differently? With one eye on Harron, she squatted next to the boy. Ronnie. His name was Ronnie. “I’m sorry, but you’re safe now.”

  Two SWAT members burst into the room, assault rifles at the ready. “You okay?” the lead man called out. Officer Johnson.

  “Yes.”

  Johnson kneeled next to the body and pushed the suspect’s gun toward his partner. The other officer picked it up while Johnson pulled Harron’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.

  We cuff dead men. The takeaway message of active-shooter training.

  The boy continued to cry, his mouth open in an angry wail.

  Johnson spoke into his radio. “Harron is down, and the boy is safe. Evans kicked ass.”

  The words rolled over her like soothing music. She hadn’t screwed up.

  But the feeling was short-lived. The boy suddenly stood and started pounding her legs with his tiny fists. “I hate you! I hate you! You killed my friend.”

  Dear god, what had she done?

  CHAPTER 19

  Thursday, December 3, 2:35 p.m.

  Jackson pulled into the Cascade Plaza, a nursing home set in the middle of a residential area in North Eugene, and looked around for Schak’s car. Not seeing it, he grabbed a parking place and climbed out. As if on cue, drenching rain poured from the dark sky. He grabbed his overcoat and umbrella from the car before locking it. He hated to be burdened with anything extra, but it was too damn cold to let himself get soaked. As he headed for the entrance, Schak hustled up the walkway from the other direction. His partner wore a fedora, something he rarely did, and the sight made Jackson smile.

  Schak had located Darby Sigler at his place of employment and called to update Jackson. Schak hadn’t asked for backup, but Jackson was eager to talk to the one person who might have witnessed the shootings. They still had a couple of hours before the task force meeting.

  “Hey,” Schak said, as they met and turned toward the nursing home.

  “Any background on this guy I should know about?”

  “A criminal-mischief charge when he was eighteen and a DUI at twenty-one. Nothing that worries me.”

  “Good. We’re due for a cooperative witness. By the way, what does Sigler drive?”

  “A green Ford.” Schak pointed to a dented car in the back of the lot.

  “That doesn’t match the vehicle the neighbor saw leaving. Someone else was there.”

  They reached the doors and entered.

  “He could be our killer,” Schak reminded him. “He was at the scene, and the person who reports the bodies often is the perp.”

  “I know. But that applies mostly to domestics and family killings.” Jackson stopped at the reception area, a narrow chest-high counter.

  A woman in purple scrubs looked up. “How can I help you?”

  He introduced himself and Schak, then said, “We want to talk to Darby Sigler. He’s not in trouble, but he may have witnessed something. Still, we don’t want you to warn him. Can you get Sigler into a private room where we can ask some questions?”

  “Uhh, suuure.” She spoke slowly, as if trying to form a plan and doubting her ability to do so. “Let me check with my boss about using the admin room.”

  They waited a full five minutes, without speaking. Jackson checked his phone. Messages from Sophie, which he ignored. When the nursing assistant came back, she led them into a space the size of a walk-in closet, occupied by a copier, a tiny laminated table, and two plastic chairs.

  “I’ll go get Darby.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Keep in mind that he’s caring for patients, and we don’t really have anyone to cover for him.”

  Jackson nodded. He sympathized with her concerns, but the patients were not his responsibility.

  “Cheeky of her,” Schak said, when the door closed.

  “It was. But I hear these places are always understaffed.”

  “I’ll shoot myself before I let anyone put me in a nursing home.” Schak was dead serious.

  “The caregivers of the world are delighted to hear that.”

  “Bite me.”

  Jackson laug
hed. “Kera says law-enforcement people make the worst patients. And you wouldn’t last a day in a place like this. Someone would put a pillow over your face and consider it mercy.”

  “I would consider it mercy.” Schak reached for one of the chairs, then looked over at him. “Sometimes death is better.”

  “Yeah.” Statistically, law-enforcement types were more inclined to commit suicide than workers in almost any other profession. Unfortunately, some cops also killed their spouses when they couldn’t take any more pressure. Because they faced life-and-death scenarios so often, they sometimes developed god complexes that made them feel as if they had the right to kill people. Jackson wanted to say these thoughts out loud, but the topic wasn’t within the bounds of their relationship. If Schak had philosophical thoughts, he didn’t share them often.

  The nursing assistant came back with a young man who was also wearing purple scrubs. Good grief. The things people had to do for twelve dollars an hour.

  “These are the men who want to see you.” She let go of Sigler’s arm and left, closing the door behind her.

  Sigler glanced back and forth between him and Schak, eyes flashing with panic. Thirty or so, Jackson guessed. Dark blond and heavyset, with small features pressed into a fleshy face.

  “Have a seat,” Jackson said, pointing at the empty chair. He preferred to stand, especially when his retroperitoneal fibrosis was agitated and painful.

  Sigler complied, settling on the edge of the white chair. “What is this about?”

  “You made a 911 call yesterday morning to report two people shot, then fled the scene.” Jackson decided to go for the jugular and make this quick. The windowless space was even worse than the interrogation rooms at the department. “Why did you kill Josh Stalling and his girlfriend?”