“Last summer. August, I think.”
But no gun sightings since. “Have you ever called the city and complained about Conner Harron?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Ever make a 911 call about him?”
“I said I didn’t.”
The yapping was continuous and annoying, and Evans had to walk away before she threatened the dog. “Thanks for your time.”
She knocked on eight more doors and talked to six homeowners, growing more weary with each encounter. No one had seen Conner Harron outside that morning. And no one had ever really seen him with a gun. The mother and young boy who’d been involved in the incident weren’t home, but another neighbor said Harron did childcare for the boy and sometimes for his sister too.
Either Harron had made the call himself, or someone had pranked him with a SWAT response. Evans crossed the street and tried the front door of the dead man’s home. Locked. Did Bruckner have a key? It didn’t matter. She jogged around the side of the house and climbed in through the window she’d used earlier.
As her feet hit the floor in the small bedroom, a tremor ran through her body. She tensed, as if expecting the armed veteran to burst through the door again. Calming herself with long, slow breaths, Evans waited it out, embracing the quiet darkness of the house. When the anxiety passed, she moved quickly into the master bedroom and turned on a light. She and Bruckner had done a quick search of the home earlier, after Harron’s body had been picked up by the ME, but mostly to look for weapons. They’d confiscated two assault rifles, a handgun, and a hunting bow, but otherwise had left his personal possessions untouched. With no crime to solve, they didn’t have the authority—or even the need—to search his computer or other belongings.
But what if the incident had been a crime? What if someone had set up Harron by calling in a false report that would trigger a SWAT response? Someone who knew Harron would react badly to the presence of police officers with weapons? Maybe the perp had meant only to traumatize him, but what if they had meant for Harron to die? A flash of rage possessed her, and Evans had to pause again. How dare they use her as a murder weapon?
Just speculation, she reminded herself. Do the search and get the facts. Earlier, Bruckner had checked Harron’s phone to find a relative to contact, then returned it to the dresser where they’d found it. The sergeant had been the one to call Harron’s sister, and Evans had been relieved to not have that responsibility. Especially since she’d fired the bullets that killed him.
Harron’s phone was still on the dresser, and she picked it up. A quick scan through his calls and messages revealed that he wasn’t a texter and had received only four incoming calls in the previous two weeks, while making ten outgoing calls. Only one of the numbers had been saved in his contact list: Lynn Harron, who they’d learned was his sister. Evans slipped the phone into her pocket. She would look up the rest of the numbers in the department databases.
Did Harron also have a prepaid phone? If he did, she had to find it and try to determine if he’d called in his own house to be swatted. A search of his drawers and closets felt like a repeat of earlier when they’d searched for small handguns. The dead man had a collection of porn magazines in the hall closet that she hadn’t seen earlier because Bruckner had searched that area. But she had seen an iPad in the bathroom, so she hurried across the hall and retrieved it. An odd place to keep it, but maybe he’d been reading there when the police arrived.
After a moment of indecision, she decided to take the tablet with her and slipped it into her shoulder bag. She would call his sister and let her know it had been picked up for investigative purposes. Or maybe Evans would just have the tech officer copy the hard drive tomorrow at the department, then she could put the tablet back. She remembered seeing a pile of paperwork on the dining table and headed for the front of the house, clicking on a light when she entered the room. Would a neighbor notice the lights and call the police? An amusing thought.
Still standing, she flipped through unopened mail, a stack of bills, and articles that had been cut out of the newspaper. Conner Harron had been following the story about Civic Stadium, a baseball arena that had become an abandoned eyesore after the hometown team had moved to a new park at the University of Oregon. The final story was about the arrest of four twelve-year-old boys who’d started the fire that had burned the grandstand to the ground. Was it significant to him? Or was Harron just another Eugenian with fond memories of attending Emeralds games on warm summer nights?
Another clipped news story caught her eye. The article, which was from the business section of the paper, discussed the burgeoning pot-growing industry in Eugene, with a mention of Riverside Farms. Coincidence? It had to be. Harron had saved several other articles on various topics. What if the prank SWAT call had been a random selection? Some bored kid could have picked an address at random and called in a dangerous-sounding scenario—getting his jollies later when he saw the SWAT story on the evening news. She might never find out who’d made the call or why. In major cities like LA and New York, swatting pranks were a serious problem and the perps were rarely caught.
Evans conducted another quick sweep of the house, then was about to leave when she remembered the garage. Bruckner had searched it earlier for weapons, while she’d assessed the medicine cabinet. She backtracked through the kitchen, stepped out the garage door, and flipped on a light. A small fishing boat took up a chunk of the space. But shelves along the back wall held a variety of personal items. Trophies and plaques. Evans walked over for a closer look. They were all basketball related, from middle and high school. Lancers. He’d gone to Churchill High School, here in Eugene. A hometown boy. Why had he kept the awards out here? Had he been working up to throwing them away?
An engine purred in the driveway on the other side of the overhead door. Startled, Evans hurried for the living room and peeked out the front blinds.
CHAPTER 22
Sophie stared at the sedan parked in front of the house. It looked like an undercover cop car. Who was here? She shut off her engine and waited. Earlier, she’d taken photos of the standoff scene from a distance, but she’d failed to gather much information from the cops on the perimeter. Still, she’d gone back to the newspaper office and written two drafts. One with the bare bones of the SWAT incident, then a draft of the contaminated pot brownies story. She’d used allegedly a few times, and sources say, but it seemed critical to get a warning to the public in the next morning’s edition. The pot stores were closed now, so she couldn’t follow up with Hightones until the morning, but it felt important to keep working and interview some of Conner Harron’s neighbors.
If a police officer or detective was in the dead man’s house, she would start with them. Seeing Harron’s home up close seemed important too. Her story would focus on who the veteran was and why he’d been driven to threaten his neighbors. As she got out of her car, Detective Evans came around the side of the house. Oh good. They’d worked together before to catch a sexual predator and had developed a working relationship.
“What are you doing here, Sophie?” Evans crossed the dark front yard, wearing slacks and a suit-style jacket.
She must be freezing! “I’m hoping to talk to Conner Harron’s neighbors. Why are you here? This isn’t a homicide investigation, is it?”
“I’m in the SWAT unit, and I responded to the callout today.” A dark look crossed the detective’s face.
Had Evans fired rounds at the troubled man? Sophie decided to probe gently. “That must have been a tough afternoon. What happened with Harron today? Had he gone off his meds?”
“We’re still looking into it.”
Standard stonewall response. “I heard someone mention a kid this afternoon. Did Harron take a child hostage?”
“There was a young boy in the house, and Harron didn’t send him out when Sergeant Bruckner ordered him to.” Evans moved toward her car. “I have to get going.”
The neighbors could wait. “You look like you
could use a drink,” Sophie called out. “Can I buy you one? The Pantry Pub isn’t far from here.”
The detective hesitated for a long moment. “Sure. That sounds good.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Sophie hoped Evans would open up and really talk about the incident that afternoon. She would buy her several drinks, if that’s what it took.
They walked into the tavern together and found a table near the dartboards. The pub was about half-full, but the crowd was older and no band was playing, so it was pretty quiet for a drinking establishment. Sophie ordered a glass of house white wine—she really wasn’t much of a drinker—and Evans ordered a tap beer.
“I have so many questions,” Sophie admitted with a laugh. “I’ll try not to bombard you.”
“The department will conduct an internal review of the incident today, but there’s no active investigation.” Evans let out a small sigh. “So there’s no reason I can’t tell you what happened.”
“Please do.” Sophie desperately wanted to pull out her recorder but wouldn’t risk making Evans freeze up and change her mind. Cops hated to be recorded, so she wouldn’t even take notes. She would just let Evans talk. The detective clearly wanted to.
The server brought their drinks, and Sophie paid with cash. When she finished the transaction, she looked over to see that Evans had downed half her beer.
“Did you enter the house with the team?”
“I was the first one in. I went through the bedroom window where the young boy was playing.”
“So the child wasn’t restrained?”
“No.” Evans pressed her lips together. “But at the time, we believed the boy wasn’t free to leave and that Harron had been threatening his neighbors with an assault rifle.”
At the time? “But you no longer think that’s true?”
Evans downed the rest of her beer. “Are you hungry? I’m not, but I’d better eat something before I drive home.”
“Sure. Let’s get some chicken wings if they have them.” Sophie loved deep-fried appetizers but didn’t eat them often. Her five-foot-three small-boned frame didn’t allow extra calories. But she wanted to be a good drinking buddy and listener.
“I need a cheeseburger.” Evans signaled their server.
After the waitress had taken their order, Evans pulled off her jacket, revealing the gun strapped to her torso.
“Did you fire your weapon today?” A touchy question.
“I did.” Evans’ mouth pulled into a grim line. “I put three bullets into Harron after he came at me with a gun raised. He died almost instantly.” Evans shook her head. “Some people take multiple hits and survive. But I do firearms practice once a month, and he was only ten feet away. He didn’t have a chance.”
“So what happened? Why did he come at you?”
“I broke into his house to get the kid.” A wry smile. “He probably felt threatened.”
“But the police considered him a danger to the neighborhood, correct? Isn’t that why you were there?”
The dark look came over Evans’ face again, and her forehead wrinkled with stress. She reached for her mug and realized it was empty. “Yeah,” Evans said, forming her words slowly. “Dispatch got a 911 call from someone who claimed Harron was outside his house with an assault rifle, yelling and threatening to shoot people. So the dispatcher contacted Sergeant Bruckner.”
Sophie made a mental note of the name. “He’s the SWAT commander?”
“Yes.” Evans leaned forward. “But I talked to all of Harron’s neighbors this evening, and none of them made the call. No one saw him outside this morning. The kid’s mother let Ronnie go visit Harron, like usual. They’re buddies. Why would she do that if Harron had been obviously out of control?” The detective’s voice was low, harsh, and distressed.
What the hell was Evans saying? “So who made the call? Can’t you track it?”
“It came from a prepaid phone. A cash buyer with no name associated.”
“He was swatted!”
“I think so.”
Wow! And Evans had shot him dead. How tragic. Poor woman. Sophie reached across the table and patted Evans’ forearm. The detective was still gripping the empty beer glass.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t blame yourself. If Harron pulled a gun on you, then you did what you had to do.” What a story this would be! She would dig deep into Conner Harron’s background and get a full picture. But not now. She had to keep Evans talking.
“I know all that intellectually,” Evans said, not looking at her. “But emotionally, it feels like shit.”
“You’ll get counseling, right?”
“Unfortunately. I don’t think it will help though. I just need to find the bastard who made the call. Getting justice for Harron is all I can really do.”
“You think it was some teenager? A random thing?” According to the news stories she’d read, swatting incidents usually were.
“Probably.” Evans looked around, as if hoping to see their server. “I’ve said enough.”
“I appreciate that you talked to me.”
Evans grabbed Sophie’s hand, panic on her face. “You can’t print what I told you about him being swatted. Let the department conduct its review first.”
“But I can independently confirm what the neighbors told you. I was hoping to talk to all of them anyway.”
“You’re free to do that. Just don’t quote me.”
“Who is the next of kin? I’d like to talk to Conner’s family.”
“He has a sister, Lynn Harron. Bruckner called her after the incident.”
The server brought their food, and Evans quickly ate half her burger, then pushed the rest aside. “It’s been a shitty day, and I have to wake up early. I’d better go.” The detective pulled on her jacket and walked out before Sophie could thank her. Not just for the interview, but for doing a dangerous, messed-up job.
Oh hell. She’d been so enthralled with the details of the SWAT incident, she’d forgotten to ask about Sergeant Lammers or mention Brian’s son. But she’d left Evans a message about the sick boy earlier, and eventually the detective would listen to it.
Sophie finished her chicken wings, paid the server, and headed to her car, intending to return to the scene of the standoff. All she needed was one neighbor to confirm what Evans had said, and she could add the mystery 911 call to her article. What a stupid, tragic thing. Halfway to her car, she stopped. What if the caller had known Conner Harron?
CHAPTER 23
Friday, December 4, 5:45 a.m.
The alarm blasted Jackson out of bed, and he stumbled through Kera’s bedroom, feeling disoriented. Five hours of sleep never felt like enough when he first woke up, but once he got going, he’d be fine. He’d spent the evening with Kera and the boys so he wouldn’t have to drive home late, then come back in the morning after dragging little Benjie out of bed before daylight. Jackson couldn’t wait until they had their lives in one place and he was done with the back-and-forth. They were scheduled to sign the rental agreement later that day.
After a shower and a cup of coffee, he felt human again. He walked softly into the boys’ room to kiss his sleeping son, then left the house without waking anyone. The sting with the drug courier would go down this morning, and Jackson still had to meet with his team beforehand.
Jackson stepped outside to leave, startled to see a little red Nissan in Kera’s driveway. What the heck? Oh right. That was Stalling’s truck. Jackson had checked it out of the evidence bay the night before. If the drug courier was expecting Stalling, then Jackson had to play the part and drive up in the right vehicle. He climbed in, started the engine, and cringed at the loud noise. Kera, a light sleeper, was awake now too.
Little traffic was on the dark streets, and he soon approached the meet-up spot. The plumbing store near the corner of Seneca and West First had gone out of business two years earlier. Even before that, two big-box home-improvement retailers had been built almost side by side in the area, and all the smaller
home-related businesses had eventually gone under. Jackson had parked out here late last night and walked around, mapping where his team and two patrol officers would wait and watch. This morning, they were meeting at a nearby café. He spotted Evans’ car in the parking lot. She was always the first to arrive. Jackson pulled in next to her and rolled down his window. “Are they even open yet?”
“Five more minutes.” She smiled. “Have you had coffee?”
“Not nearly enough.”
The café’s neon sign blinked on as two more cars pulled into the small side parking lot. Jackson headed for the front door. The manager unlocked the café as he arrived, and his team followed him in. They pushed two small tables together and ordered coffee and pastries. Jackson pulled out the map he’d drawn after his reconnaissance.
“I see why they chose this spot.” He tapped an area behind the building. “This loading area happens to be walled in by a concrete barrier on two sides.” He traced the outside perimeter as he talked. “And a big tree blocks the view from the business next door. One of you can be positioned in it.” He looked at Schak and tried not to laugh.
“Bite me.” Schak clapped Quince on the shoulder. “This spry young man is happy to do it.”
Jackson finally did laugh. “I pictured you sitting up there on the first wide branch and found it very amusing.” Little about his job was funny, but they all tried to find humor when they could. “Actually, behind the tree will work.” Jackson pointed to a flat roofline above the loading dock. “We need someone up here too.” He glanced at Officer Ortega, whom he’d asked for personally. They’d worked together before at a horrific multiple-homicide scene, and he trusted him to react appropriately no matter what happened. “There’s a trash bin you can climb up from.” The second officer was a woman he’d met recently in a training seminar. “Tyner, I need you in your patrol car across the street. Be prepared to follow the courier if he gets spooked and runs.”
Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 16
