Joe glanced over, his crooked nose and massive upper body making him look like a boxer. “Hey, Lara.”
“I have a strange request.”
“Good. I like strange.”
“I need you to go out to North McKenzie with your high-powered camera and take pictures of bruises.”
“That’s not all that strange.”
“The victim is in a coma. I need scrapings from under her fingernails and DNA samples taken too.”
“Give me an hour.” He clicked something on his computer, then turned back. “The new hospital, I assume?”
“Yep. By the way, where’s Parker?”
“She got called out to a crime scene. A woman was found dead at Wayne Morse Park.”
“A homicide?”
“Mauled by a dog or some wild animal.”
“Gruesome.” Evans wondered who’d been assigned the case. “Do they have an ID?”
“I’m not sure. Ask Jackson. Parker said he was the lead.”
The information surprised her. Jackson was working his ex-wife’s kidnapping with the FBI. Why would Lammers assign him an accidental death? Something big had to be going on and she wanted to be on the task force.
“You’d better get going or I won’t finish this in an hour.” Joe waved her away.
“Lyla Murray is in the ICU. Room seven.”
“Got it. Go.”
On her drive to the courthouse, Evans flashed back to her interrogation of Taylor Harris and the young woman’s you-can’t-touch-me attitude. Where did that come from? Either her parents were rich or they had spoiled her or both. After questioning, Evans had booked Taylor into the county jail for obstruction of justice and asked that she be held overnight if possible. With only 130 beds open, the deputies had to let almost everyone but killers and pedophiles go, then crossed their fingers and hoped the guilty showed up in court. It infuriated Eugene cops, but the county ran the jail and the county was broke. If Taylor’s parents or friends posted bail—a likely scenario—she had probably been released. Evans had to work quickly to get a warrant signed and conduct a search.
She pulled out her phone and called Lammers. “Evans here. Did you find a canine unit to work the cemetery with me?”
“I just got the call-back. Officer Drummond and his dog can meet you this afternoon. Give him a call.”
“Thanks. So who’s the victim at Wayne Morse Park?”
“Dakota Anderson, the daughter of Ivan Anderson, the target of the ransom kidnapping.”
“She was mauled by an animal?”
“So it seems.”
“That’s bizarre. Is Jackson on both cases?”
“Yes. And they need more boots on the ground. How close are you to nailing a suspect in the assault case?”
“I have one. Taylor Harris, a potential roommate. I think it was a hazing gone too far and other sorority sisters may have participated in the attack.”
“A hazing? For fuck’s sake. What the hell is wrong with people? Why would an intelligent person let someone else beat them?”
The outburst surprised Evans. Lammers rarely commented on people’s behavior because she always expected the worst.
“I think Lyla was away from home for the first time and wanted a local family.” Evans was winging it, trying to understand the behavior. It wasn’t something she would have ever subjected herself to. When someone hit her, she fought back. It was in her DNA. She’d once taken down a sergeant after he’d assaulted her.
“Can we prosecute her?” Lammers wanted to know.
“I hope to. Joe Berloni will go out to the hospital to take high-res images of Lyla’s injuries, and I’m on my way to get a search warrant for Taylor’s house, phone, and car. If I find the weapon, maybe Joe can match it to her bruises.”
“The victim is still unconscious?”
“She had a second surgery and they put her in a medical coma to help her heal.”
“We need to resolve this with or without her help. I want someone to do time for the assault. I hate that hazing shit.”
“I’m on it.”
Judge Marlee Volcansek looked annoyed to see her. “I have to be in court in five minutes. Can this wait until my break at noon?” She was pretty for an older woman and Evans noticed her face looked tight, as if she’d had some work done.
“No. I need to search now before the suspect hides the weapon or ditches her cell phone.”
“What’s the case?” The judge sat back down at her desk.
Evans remained standing, hoping it would be quick. She summarized the case details, then added, “I want to search Taylor Harris’ room, car, and phone. She lives in a house on campus with a group of other women.” Evans set the paperwork on Volcansek’s desk and the judge skimmed through it.
“Have you questioned Taylor Harris?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Crap. The judge was going to give her a hard time about this. “She denies meeting with Lyla Murray, the victim. But so far, Taylor’s alibi doesn’t hold up.” Evans hadn’t been able to reach any of the contacts her suspect had given her, so that was a bit of a stretch.
“Do you have any evidence linking her to the assault?” The judge gestured impatiently with her hands.
“Not yet. That’s what I hope to find.”
Volcansek sighed. “I don’t think I can sign this.”
Evans wasn’t giving up. “I believe the beating was a hazing. When I said that to Taylor, she claimed that if a person consented to a hazing, then it wasn’t an assault. Her statement is in the warrant.”
The judge’s face stayed impassive but her eyes sparked with anger. “I’ll let you search her car and her room for the weapon, but not the rest of the house she resides in. And not her phone. That’s too invasive of her personal life, based on how little you have. You don’t want to compromise her trial.”
Evans started to argue, then changed her mind. She could come back for the phone search after she found the weapon…or any other evidence. “Thank you.”
The sun broke through the clouds just as she reached the big house on Potter Street. In the glaring winter light, the home looked less stately than it had before. The paint was old, the siding curved in places, and moss covered the left side of the roof where it was shaded by a tall fir tree. There was still no place to park. Evans circled the block and finally left her car in the driveway, blocking the Subaru that was sitting there. She remembered Taylor saying she drove a Mini Cooper and that it was in the shop.
Evans knocked on the door and a different young woman answered. “What’s up?”
“Detective Lara Evans. I need to see Taylor Harris.”
“I don’t think she’s here.”
“That’s okay, I have a search warrant for her room.” She held out the paperwork.
The girl’s eyes went wide. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Come with me upstairs. I’d like to ask you some questions while I search.”
“Me? Why?” She stepped back and tightened her bathrobe.
“Because I’m trying to solve a vicious assault. Come with me.” Evans strode through the kitchen, catching sight of another young woman slipping out the back door. She had shoulder-length red hair, so she knew it wasn’t Taylor. Eventually, she’d question everyone in this house, but finding a solid piece of evidence would give her the leverage she needed to get one of the members to confess or rat on her sisters.
She jogged up the stairs at the back of the house, glancing over her shoulder to see if bathrobe girl was following. “What’s your name?” she called out.
“Caitlyn Steinbach. Can I get dressed first?”
“No.”
Evans stopped at Taylor’s room and knocked. She announced herself, knocked again, then tried the doorknob. Locked. She looked back at Caitlyn. “Is there a set of master keys?”
“Taylor has them.”
Evans dug through her bag for a set of lock picks and got to work. It was faster than taking the do
or off the hinges and she didn’t want to call the SWAT unit to bash the door in.
“I’m calling the house’s owner,” Caitlyn announced.
“Good. I need to talk to him too.” The day before, Evans had called the company that managed most of the campus rentals, but they no longer had this house on their roster. But they had in the past, and they’d given her the owner’s contact information. She’d tried and failed to reach him.
The lock gave. Evans pushed open the door and turned back to Caitlyn. “Go get dressed, then come stand in the hall again.” She needed a few minutes to concentrate.
Clothes were piled on the end of the bed and textbooks were stacked next to a cluttered desk. A large mirror filled one wall, making the room seem bigger. Evans headed straight for the eight-foot closet with folding doors. The space was crammed with clothes, shoes, and sports equipment. Evans pulled on latex gloves and began filling a large plastic bag with potential weapons to take to the lab. Two tennis rackets, a softball bat, and a hockey stick. Technically, she was only supposed to search for the weapon, but that gave her license to look at everything. She lifted piles of sweaters on the top shelf and peeked in shoes boxes but didn’t find anything of interest.
Evans dropped to her knees and looked under the bed, pushing things around as she searched. A sleeping bag, a tent, and a suitcase. Nothing that could be used to strike and bruise. Her bet was on the baseball bat. As she stood, Caitlyn called from the hallway, “I’m back.”
Evans glanced over. “Where were you Saturday night?”
“Performing at a dance recital. Why?”
That would be easy enough to check. “What’s the name of this sorority?”
“We’re not a sorority.”
“How long have you lived here?” Evans opened a drawer and dug through T-shirts as she talked.
“Two and a half years.”
“What does it take to get in?”
“An invitation from Taylor or one of the others.”
“What others?” Evans pulled open another drawer.
“House leaders who used to live here.”
“Who invited you?”
“Ashley Harris. Taylor’s older sister.”
“What was your initiation like?” Evans looked over to watch her face.
“I can’t tell you.” Caitlyn looked nervous.
“Why not?”
“It’s against the rules.”
Evans stepped toward her and locked eyes. “Taylor is about to go to prison for assault. I don’t think you should be worried about getting kicked out of the house. If you were there in the cemetery on Saturday night when Lyla was beaten, I suggest you tell me now before Taylor blames you. The first one to talk gets the best deal.”
Caitlyn’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Is Lyla all right?”
“She’s in a coma and she’s lost a lot of blood. Tell me what you know.”
The girl bit her fingernails. “I didn’t know it was like that now. I got paddled but I survived.”
“Why would you let someone do that to you?”
Caitlyn made a scoffing sound. “An hour or so of pain and humiliation in exchange for knowing that I’ll have a steady place to live and popular friends who’ll have my back? It was an easy choice.”
Evans reached for her recorder, preparing to take a statement. Footsteps thudded in the hallway and a thirty-something man stepped between her and Caitlyn.
“I’m Austin Hartwell, owner of this property. Can I ask what you’re doing?” At six-four, he was nearly a foot taller than her, but his blue eyes and sweet smile kept him from being intimidating.
“Detective Lara Evans, Eugene Police. I’m conducting a search.” She pulled out the warrant again and showed him.
Hartwell barely glanced at it. “You should have called me first.”
“I left you a message last night.”
“Sorry. I’m a busy man.”
“What do you do?” Evans jotted down his name.
“I own and manage several businesses. Why?”
“Do you meet and interview the women who rent rooms here?”
“Other than dealing with one main tenant, no. I let the house leader handle the individual rentals.”
“Did you know the women accepted to live here are initiated with a violent hazing?”
He pulled back in surprise. “I had no idea. Is Taylor involved? Is that why you’re searching her room?”
Evans ignored his questions. “Do you know Lyla Murray?”
“No. Is she a tenant?”
“I believe she was about to become one, but now she’s in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Hartwell glanced at his watch. “How much longer will you be here? I was on my way to a meeting.”
“Maybe another hour. I still need to get a statement from Caitlyn but you don’t need to stay.”
“Let me know if I can help in any way.”
Behind him, Caitlyn ran down the hall.
“Hey,” Evans called out. “I’m not done with you.”
Caitlyn kept moving.
CHAPTER 24
Tuesday, January 10, 10:52 a.m.
Jackson climbed into his car and started the engine, relieved to be out of the cold. He felt guilty that Quince was going door-to-door and Schak was searching Dakota’s vehicle, both in the cold, while he sat in his car with the heat on, perusing Dakota’s cell phone. Outdoor homicides in the winter were a bitch and they’d had several already this season. It was even worse for Parker, who would be outside most of the day.
The phone’s icon for missed calls was flagged, so Jackson looked at the log first. Her father, Ivan Anderson, had called at 8:05 that morning, and someone named Jacob Renaldi had called at 8:47. Jackson punched #1 and hoped her voice mail didn’t require a password. A canned message gave him some options, then Ivan Anderson’s frantic voice said, “Dakota, I’m worried sick. Please call me. I appreciate what you tried to do for me and Renee last night, so don’t think I’m upset. Just call me.”
Jackson waited through another annoying list of voice mail options, then a male voice came on. “It’s Jacob. I’m sorry about last night. Will I see you today? Call me.”
Who was Jacob Renaldi and what was he sorry about? The name and number went into Jackson’s notebook. If Renaldi was the boyfriend, it would save Jackson some digging around. He clicked open an icon for text messages and began reading. Renaldi had texted this morning with the same message, right after calling. He had also been the last person to text the night before at 10:48 p.m. Jackson opened their conversation and read:
Dakota: Can I come over? I think I just lost my job.
Jacob: Sure. What happened?
Dakota: Tell you then.
Jackson called the department on his own phone and asked a desk officer to find an address for Jacob Renaldi and get back to him as quickly as possible. Renaldi was likely the last person to see Dakota alive. While Jackson waited, he scrolled through a few more texts. Most were from women with names like Brittany, Katrina, and Ashley. They used abbreviations that often weren’t obvious to him, but mostly the texts were about getting together or gossip about another woman.
The desk officer called back with information: “Jacob Renaldi lives at 40855 Bailey Hill Road. He has no priors, except a minor-in-possession charge for alcohol when he was twenty. Anything else I can get you?”
“Repeat the address, please.” Jackson checked his note and made a correction. “Thanks.”
He clicked off and hurried across the street to the park.
Schak had his head in the trunk of Dakota’s silver Honda, so Jackson stood next to him, waiting. Finally, Schak stood and turned. “Nothing interesting. A set of golf clubs in the trunk and a shopping bag with some shoes in the backseat. No blood, no drugs, no dog hair.”
“A gas receipt or fast-food container?” Jackson wanted to know where Dakota had been between the time she left the station and was killed in the park.
Sc
hak shook his head. “I took photos of the stuff in the trunk and I’ll let it go to the crime lab with the car.”
“Makes sense.”
They heard footsteps and looked over to see Quince jogging toward them.
“Anything useful?” Jackson asked.
“Not a damn thing from the neighbors. And no one was in the park’s historic house, so I’ll have to check back and see if it was open to the public last night. Which I doubt.”
“What now?” Schak rubbed his head again. “We’ve never had a case where the suspect was a dog.”
“I need to update Agent River and she can tell Dakota’s father.” Jackson had a pang of guilt for passing that gut-wrenching task to someone else, but he was also relieved. “Then we need to find Jacob Renaldi. According to Dakota’s text messages, she went to see him last night after she left the TV station. I have a home address but see if you can find out where he works.”
“Anything for me right now?” Quince asked.
Jackson handed him Dakota’s phone. “Start calling everyone on her list. Find out who owns a dog.”
They each climbed into their car to get out of the cold, but sat there working their devices. Their jobs hadn’t become easier in the digital age, but the way they investigated had been simplified. Jackson pulled out his new computer tablet, got online, and went straight to Facebook. New technology had once intimidated him but now he appreciated it. If his city-issued Impala had been properly equipped, the little tablet wouldn’t be necessary. But this was Eugene, with the most underfunded police force of any city of its size. After watching Evans make quick productive searches with her tablet, and sitting in his car yesterday wishing he had one, he’d stopped and bought one last night. Even his doctor used the device now. Which reminded him that he had a CAT scan scheduled soon and he needed to check his calendar.
Jacob Renaldi’s profile photo showed a close-up of an attractive man with a shaved head. A knowing smile played on the man’s mouth and Jackson distrusted him already. His Facebook page was lean and no-nonsense, as if it had just been posted, but the information section mentioned that Renaldi owned a business called Security First. Jackson googled it but found no Eugene connections.
Rules of Crime (2013) Page 14
