Her phone rang and she was surprised to see Detective Evans had called back. “Hey. Thanks for returning my call. What can you tell me about Lyla Murray’s assault?”
“I think she was the victim of a hazing.” Evans hesitated for a long moment. “I’m telling you because Lyla is not the first. I hope by going public with the story, someone who’s no longer connected to the sorority will come forward.”
“Which sorority?”
“It’s a private house and no one will admit they’re a club, let alone tell me the name. I think I know who one of the assailants is, but without Lyla’s testimony we may not be able to convict her.”
“You don’t think she’ll live?”
“She’s coded twice and had two surgeries. Even if she survives, she might not tell me anything. No one in the house will talk about the initiation.”
Feeling hyped, Sophie scribbled notes as Evans talked. If there were other women who’d been injured, this could be an important story. She flashed back to her own high school tormentors. Hazing was part of the bully culture in schools and she hated everything about it. “I’ll get the story into tomorrow’s paper. They were holding a space for me anyway.”
“Will you ask victims to contact you or the police department?”
“Of course. Where is the sorority house located?”
Evans gave her the address and Sophie thought she might have been to a party there once. But the university area had many old houses rented by groups of students. “Thanks. I’ll call you if I hear from anyone. Whatever I can do to help make hazing a thing of the past. It’s a heinous practice.”
“This was a particularly vicious assault. I’ve got to go. Bye.” Evans hung up quickly, as if something had diverted her attention. Or maybe she didn’t want her peers to know she’d talked to a reporter.
Sophie called the paper and let them know she was coming back in to submit a late story for the morning’s edition. It wasn’t quite as attention grabbing as a kidnapping/dog mauling, but she’d find out more about that development soon. She would call Mr. Anderson if she had to.
CHAPTER 32
Tuesday, January 10, 7:45 p.m.
While Jackson searched Dakota’s filing cabinet for more banking information, his phone rang.
“This is River. We just found a connection between Jacob Renaldi and Bartolo Diaz, a Westside King. I called the task force members with the update and put out an attempt-to-locate with your department, so we’re looking for Diaz already.” She sounded calm as ever. “I’m heading to your department now to interview Renaldi, if you’d like to join me.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’m at Dakota’s place now.”
“Have you found anything?”
“No signs of a struggle or threatening e-mails, but she owes nearly thirty thousand on a credit card.”
Agent River whistled. “That’s sizable. But not totally unexpected for a rich kid just out of college. I wonder if her father knows.”
“I’ll ask him. Meet you at the department.”
After parking his car, Jackson walked over to Full City for a cup of coffee, his legs heavier with every step. It was too late to be drinking caffeine but he didn’t care. He needed to be sharp for the interrogation and his brain was dragging. Still, he kept working the case over, and what he came back to was motive for Renaldi. Everything pointed to him: his connection to Dakota, his connection to Talbot, and his ownership of attack dogs. But why kill Dakota, except to silence her? The kidnapping had to have been motivated by money. Talbot wanted his lost investment back from Anderson. What had his e-mail said? That he was down eighty thousand? The extra twenty in the first ransom could have been Renaldi’s cut for assisting. But why was the second demand only for twenty thousand? Was Talbot settling for what he thought he could still get of Anderson?
A full moon lighted his way as he trudged up the wide steps to the city hall buildings. The night had dropped to a bitter cold but at least it wasn’t raining. Warming up was always faster than drying out. He entered the department, nodded at the desk clerk, and used his ID to open the door leading from the small lobby into the winding corridors of the department. He couldn’t wait for the move to the new building. This one had grown claustrophobic. He started to head for the conference room to wait for River, then decided to check on his suspect. Renaldi had been in the interrogation room for about six hours. But that was common and desk officers had been checking on him and giving him bathroom breaks.
He unlocked the metal door and stepped in. Renaldi was on the floor on his side, not moving. Oh crap! Jackson rushed over and knelt down, pressing his fingers against the man’s throat. He had a pulse. Thank goodness. What the hell had happened? He grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.
“Detective Jackson here. I need a paramedic at the Eugene Police Department. A suspect is unconscious but still breathing. I just entered the room and don’t know what happened, so don’t ask questions. Just send an ambulance to city hall. Park on High Street and come up the back side.”
He clicked off and stared at Renaldi. A stroke or heart attack? He seemed too young and physically fit for either, but anything was possible. Jackson gently pressed a thumb against Renaldi’s eyelid and pushed it open. The white of his eyeball was nearly all that showed, with only a curve of the iris peeking out from under the flap of skin. A seizure? Jackson wanted to rush to the front area and ask why no one had checked on his suspect but he couldn’t leave until medical help arrived. He felt useless, with no idea of what to do except watch and make sure Renaldi didn’t stop breathing.
Jackson leaned against the wall and dialed the front desk to alert them to what was happening. If this guy didn’t make it, they might never know how or why Dakota died. If he lived, Renaldi would probably sue the department—and him personally.
River waited for Quince to park so they could walk upstairs together. She didn’t have ID clearance for the EPD’s locked doors. She admired Quince for coming back to the department to watch the interrogation, even though she’d told him to call it a night. Most law enforcement officers were like that. They didn’t watch the clock and wait for quitting time. They kept going until the urgency was over or someone with fresh stamina relieved them. The wail of a siren filled the underground parking lot as Quince jogged toward her. Red lights flashed in the sloped entrance.
“What the hell?” River tried to visualize where the ambulance had parked.
“Lammers probably snapped and finally killed someone.” Quince grinned and motioned for her to follow him up the stairs.
As they entered the building, paramedics rushed down the hall in front of them. Had a cop had a heart attack? River and Quince both hurried after the men in light-blue shirts. Her legs still burned from her wild bicycle chase that afternoon.
River saw Jackson come out of the interrogation room and felt a sense of relief. The medics left the gurney in the hall and entered the small space.
“What’s happening?” River called out.
“Renaldi passed out. I think he had a seizure.” Jackson rubbed his temples, stress and bad lighting making him look older than she remembered.
“But he’s okay?”
“He’s breathing but that’s all I know.”
“Did you get a chance to question him?” Quince asked.
“He was on the floor when I came in.”
The three had to press themselves against the wall to let the paramedics pass with Renaldi on the gurney.
“What now?” River’s body screamed that it was time to go home but she wasn’t quitting until Jackson did.
“Do we have an address for Bartolo Diaz?” Jackson asked
Quince answered, “His last known location is two years old, but it’s not far from here. I’ll go with you if you want to pick him up.”
“Let’s do it.” Jackson squared his shoulders.
“Should I follow or wait here?” She was ready to get out of the narrow hallway.
“Neither,” Jackson said. “He’s probably not there and we don’t need three people to find that out. Go home. If we get him, we’ll call.”
“I’ll hang out at my office for a while and see what happens.”
“We’ll let you know.”
Moments after River sat down at her desk, Jackson called to say Diaz was no longer at the known address. They agreed to call it a night and River left the federal building, feeling relieved. Not quite, she reminded herself. She made a mental note to call the prison soon and find out what she could about Darien Ozlo, the inmate who’d threatened her. Did he know she was in Eugene?
Despite how badly she wanted to go home and soak in her hot tub, she found herself driving toward the teen shelter. She’d missed the night before and wanted to make up for it. For her, it was only an hour delay in what would be another night of not sleeping well. But for Saul and June and the other kids, it meant going to sleep knowing that somebody thought they were worth the time.
CHAPTER 33
Wednesday, January 11, 2:55 a.m.
Jackson woke with a horrible pain in his lower gut. He climbed from bed and hobbled his way to the bathroom. The pink urine made his heart pound. Crap. He hadn’t seen that since before the surgery to remove the fibrosis around his kidneys. He took two naproxen and tried to remember when his next CAT scan was. Was it this Thursday? Or next week? What day was it anyway? Deciding it didn’t matter at the moment, he headed back to bed. The pain was less intense now that his bladder was empty. Maybe the blood was just a fluke. His last scan had shown the fibrosis shrinking. But he couldn’t worry about it right now. Renee was still missing and Dakota Anderson needed him to find her killer. Her death had not been an accident. He climbed back into bed, noting the light in his brother’s room was still on.
Four hours later, Jackson left the house, thermos of coffee in hand. A small intestinal ache was still with him but he ignored it. He drove to Renee’s sister’s, had breakfast with Katie and Jan, and updated them on the case. His announcement that they had the names of the two couriers and would soon find Renee gave the women little comfort. Neither understood why the kidnapper hadn’t let Renee go after getting the money yesterday. Neither did Jackson, and nothing he said sounded convincing. Without actually speaking the words out loud, they both expressed the sense that Renee might be dead. Jan was stoic but Katie seemed distraught, and Jackson had no idea how to comfort her. On his way out, he asked Jan to find a counselor that might help. On the drive to the department, he checked in with River, who hadn’t heard from the kidnapper.
His hope of finding Renee faded and he tried to remember the last time he’d talked to her. Had he been kind? He hoped so. The ache in his heart began to drown the pain in his gut. His next stop was at the department and he hoped it would be brief. He had to update Sergeant Lammers and he dreaded telling her about Renaldi’s collapse. Her office door was slightly ajar, as always, and he knocked as he spoke her name.
“It’s a good damn thing you’re here,” Lammers said, waving him in. “I don’t appreciate hearing about your cases from the gossip mill, as I did first thing this morning. What the hell is going on?”
Jackson straightened his shoulders. Where to start? “We brought in Dakota Anderson’s boyfriend yesterday for questioning. Jacob Renaldi breeds and sells what he calls protection dogs. He also works for Evergreen Construction, which is owned by Daniel Talbot, a suspect in the kidnapping. And he was the last person to contact Dakota by phone. So he’s a very viable suspect for both crimes.”
“How did he end up in the hospital?” Lammers tapped her pen on the desk.
“He had a seizure while he was alone in the interrogation room.” Jackson had called the hospital and extracted some basic information. “I left him in custody because it seemed imperative until we could get a court order to search his place. I notified the desk officer and asked him to check on Renaldi and to bring him food and water.”
“Which officer?”
Jackson hated to point fingers but there was no way to protect him. “Chad Rogen.”
“Did you know the suspect was an epileptic?”
“Not at the time. I learned it this morning when I called the hospital. Renaldi is doing fine, an officer is watching his room, and Quince is on his way to question him again.”
“I want him released immediately after questioning. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue us. And if he does, it’s on you.” Lammers jabbed a finger at him. “This is your case and you are responsible for him while he’s in your custody.”
“I understand.” But he didn’t really. What would that mean for his job? “I asked the hospital to hold Renaldi as long as they can. We haven’t searched his home yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“A signed subpoena. The DA’s office is working on it and I haven’t heard from them.” Jackson felt overwhelmed. He’d stayed up late to update his case notes and prioritize their tasks, then realized they hadn’t even begun to look at phone and bank records. “I could use another detective or two. We still need to comb through the files and question Westside gang members.”
“I can pull Evans off her assault case for a few days. What are you and your people doing this morning?”
“I’m headed to Dakota’s autopsy, Quince is questioning Renaldi again, and Schak is trying to locate Bartolo Diaz.”
“Who the hell is Diaz?”
“He’s a known associate of Noah Tremel, the gang member who died in the river with the first ransom. We learned that Diaz bought a dog from Renaldi, so we think he might be involved and may even have been the courier for the second money drop.”
“I know we’re understaffed but every lawsuit takes even more money out of the budget. No more screw-ups.” Lammers’ voice softened. “Send me your notes. I may have some time to work this case with you.”
Surprised, Jackson mumbled “thank you” and stood to leave.
The county performed autopsies in a small bright room in the basement of the old North McKenzie Hospital next to the University of Oregon. Giant stainless steel drawers lined the wall to the right and a built-in counter ran along the back, cluttered with microscopes and various cutting and measuring tools. Jackson closed the door, nodded at the three men in the room, and started to suit up. He didn’t recognize the short man with a thin gray mustache who looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long time.
Rudolph Konrad, the pathologist, who clearly ate well, introduced the stranger. “This is Sam Larson. He’s with county animal control.”
“Detective Wade Jackson.” They both wore gloves and didn’t shake hands. “Thanks for being here.”
“It’s an unusual situation.” Larson looked over at the body on the small raised table. Dakota was still covered with a white plastic sheet.
“Let’s get started.” Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner, stepped up to the table and pulled the sheet back. Jackson remembered what he’d said at Dakota’s crime scene about getting laid off. Would the county really cut out the ME’s office? The pathologist, who performed the actual autopsies, would be overwhelmed if he also had to attend death scenes, process the bodies, and send out all blood and tissue samples.
“The first thing to note is her tattoos,” Gunderson said. “She has one on each upper arm. The right arm says Kerry in a cursive script and has a small heart under it, and the left arm says Nadine in a similar script and has a small shamrock under it.” He looked at Jackson. “Any thoughts?”
Jackson stayed at the end of the table near the corpse’s feet. “They’re most likely the names of her mother and stepmother, who both died.”
“Poor girl.” Gunderson pointed to her ankle. “She also has a small pink and silver tiara.”
Jackson glanced down at the pretty, but unusual, tattoo. “Symbolic of Daddy’s little princess?”
“Good possibility.”
From there the pathologist took over, starting at her toes and examining her skin closely. He used a magnifi
er at times and made small comments, his voice deep and deadpan. His seriousness contrasted with his round face and boyish looks.
Jackson avoided looking at Dakota’s body. She was ten years older than his daughter but still a young woman, and his mind kept imagining Katie on the table and how it would feel for him. The anguish Anderson must be experiencing. Jackson knew he had to go see him as soon as he had the chance.
Konrad worked his way up to Dakota’s genitals, probed her gently, and took fluid samples. “She likely had sex within hours of her death.”
Jackson knew that and hoped someday, when it was his time to go, a pathologist would say that about him. He tuned out for a moment, wondering if the assistant DA had a warrant for Renaldi’s place yet. He was eager to search it, yet he dreaded dealing with the dogs.
He became aware that Konrad was talking to him. “She has scars on the inside of her wrists,” he repeated. “Most likely a suicide attempt. They’re quite faint now, possibly incurred as long as ten years ago.”
After her biological mother died? Jackson hadn’t known Dakota had been that troubled. According to Anderson, she’d been an exceptional college student and was a successful TV journalist with a bright future. His next thought was for his own daughter. How would she cope if Renee died? Pain surged through his body and he didn’t know if it was physical or emotional. He forced himself to focus on the autopsy.
Larson, the animal specialist, leaned over Dakota’s head and studied her wounds. “Definitely a dog,” he said. “Her tissue has been crushed and torn by dull teeth, rather than punctured or lacerated like a cougar mauling.” He looked shaken.
“Can you take measurements for comparison to particular dog teeth?” Jackson asked.
Larson looked at him with raised eyebrows. “This is not a single bite. She’s been chewed to death. We’ll have more luck finding her tissue in the dog’s teeth.”
Rules of Crime (2013) Page 19
