The desk clerk perked up. “It’s so cool that she woke up. I think they tried some new drug or something.” The girl suddenly scowled. “Why do the police want to see her? Is Gina a criminal?”
Evans needed to talk to staff members but the yappy desk clerk was not on her list. “What room is Gina in?”
“One-twelve, but let me call one of the nurses to go with you.”
Evans would have preferred to see the victim alone but this was no ordinary interview. She waited a long five minutes, and eventually a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs came down the hall. Hair pulled back tight with dark circles under her eyes, the nurse smiled and transformed her appearance. “I’m Jeri Richmond. I’ve been Gina’s nurse for eight months.”
Evans introduced herself, then said, “Can you tell me about Gina’s condition?”
“She was in an unconscious state for two years and twenty-three days. Yesterday, she woke up. Her muscles are weak and she’ll need months of rehab, but she’ll be fine.” The nurse gave Evans an odd smile. “I can tell you this information only because I have Gina’s permission.”
“What caused the coma?”
“She ingested large quantities of Valium and Demerol, sending her brain into a deep sleep. The ER doctors pumped her stomach and kept her from dying. Because there was no injury, Gina continued to show brain function. At first, they thought she would come out of it in a few weeks, but she didn’t.” The nurse gestured and they started down the hall. “When one of Gina’s doctors suggested her parents disconnect the feeding tube, they transferred her here.”
“You said she ingested a drug overdose. That sounds like a suicide attempt.”
“That’s what everyone thought until she woke up and said she’d been attacked.”
As they passed open doors, Evans avoided looking into the patients’ rooms. “Is Gina coherent?”
“She drifts in and out of consciousness, but if you talk to her for a while she’ll come around. She’s surprisingly lucid when she does.”
“What made her wake up after all this time?”
“We have a new doctor on staff and he started giving her Ambien. It’s a sleeping pill, but it’s had great effects on other coma patients around the country.” The nursed smiled. “Gina’s parents advocated for it. They’ve been here nearly every day for two years. They never lost faith.”
After passing several more open doors with unpleasant smells and sounds oozing out, they stopped at a closed door. The nurse hesitated. “Now that Gina’s back, I feel like I should knock.” She rapped on the door but there was no response. “Her parents also paid for daily physical therapy, so she’s in pretty good shape and her body will be fully functional again soon.”
They stepped into a cream-colored room with sunlight flooding through the window. Evans was happy to see the lush courtyard outside. From the moment she’d entered the building, she’d been fighting the urge to turn and run.
Seeing Gina made her throat tighten. The woman’s colorless skin, closed eyes, and total stillness made her look dead. Her long charcoal hair contrasted sharply with the white sheets, but the symmetry of her facial lines transmitted beauty even in repose.
The nurse grabbed a chair from against the wall and pulled it next to the bed. “If you sit here and talk to her, she’ll wake up. Dr. Ellison thinks she’ll be completely awake by tomorrow.”
Evans took a seat, feeling awkward. She hoped the nurse would leave.
“I have to check on another patient but I’ll be back.” Jeri hustled out, leaving Evans wondering what the hell she would say.
She decided that if she’d been in a coma for two years, she’d want to know what she’d missed. Evans introduced herself and reluctantly launched into a monologue. “The last few years have been a little intense. First, there was the oil spill, but maybe you knew about that. We’ve also had several mass shootings and gun control is a hot debate. We need tougher laws, for sure, but I don’t plan to give up my weapons.” Evans cleared her throat. “We’re gearing up to another election and the rhetoric is getting out of control. I’m still surprised by how conservative big chunks of the country are, even though I grew up with rednecks. I’m not very political but I always vote, because my parents vote and I figure I owe it to the country to cancel out at least one of their ignorant opinions.”
Evans wished she hadn’t said that, but it was too late and likely didn’t matter. She pressed on. “The economy is recovering but unemployment is still high. Especially here in Oregon. So people are unhappy and state budgets are in a lot of trouble.”
The woman’s eyes came open and a smile played on her lips. For a moment, Evans thought she might have seen her before. “Gina Stahl? I’m Detective Lara Evans. Sorry if I bored you or offended you with all that stuff.”
“You didn’t bore me but it’s depressing.” Gina gestured with a couple of fingers. “Would you raise my bed?”
Evans looked for the button, pleased Gina was lucid. “Do you feel ready to answer questions?”
“Sure.”
Evans wanted to ask about the drugs found in her blood the night she went into the big sleep, but there was no point in making Gina defensive. “You were admitted to North McKenzie Hospital on August 3, 2009. Tell me what you remember about that night.”
“I was reading, then I went into the kitchen to make some popcorn.” Gina’s voice was weak but she sounded sure.
“What time was that?”
“Around nine o’clock. Would you hold the water bottle to my lips? My throat is dry and my hands are still weak.”
Evans stood and grabbed the water. She hadn’t known what to expect from Gina, and so far, everything had surprised her.
After a few sips, Gina laid her head back and continued. “I heard footsteps in the hall.” Her eyes flashed with remembered fear. “I turned and a man in a ski mask was suddenly there. He grabbed me by the throat and a moment later I blacked out.” Gina swallowed and closed her eyes. “I woke up here, two years later.” When her eyes opened again, they radiated with pain. “At times, I was partially conscious. It was like morning sleep, right before you wake up. I could hear some things but I couldn’t break out of the dreams.”
Evans didn’t want to think about what that had been like for two long years. “Describe the man in as much detail as you can.”
Gina bit her lip. “It all happened so fast.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time. Was he taller than you?”
“Yes. Taller and stronger, but not huge.”
“Would you say he was under six foot? Under two-hundred pounds?”
“Yes.”
“What was his skin and hair color?”
Gina closed her eyes again. Evans waited. Jackson had taught her not to prompt.
“I don’t know. He wore a ski mask and gloves but his jacket was brown and his body was familiar.” Gina locked eyes with her. “I’m pretty sure it was my ex-husband.”
Evans tried not show her surprise. She was terrible at hiding her reactions but she was working on it. “What makes you think that?”
“I had filed for divorce and I was collecting evidence against him.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“He had been cheating on me for years.”
Oregon was a no-fault divorce state. Judges rarely granted alimony unless the couple had been together a long time and the woman wasn’t capable of supporting herself. There had to be more to this story. “Why did you need evidence of infidelity? Had you filed for alimony?”
“It wasn’t about the divorce. He was a predator.”
Something in Gina’s voice made the hair on the back of Evans’ neck stand up. “What kind of predator?”
“A sexual predator. He took advantage of vulnerable women.”
“Why do you think that?”
Gina sighed. “I caught him lying, then I saw him with a woman I knew was a prostitute.”
“Visiting a prostitute doesn’t make him a predator.” Evans k
ept herself from throwing in further commentary.
“He also spent time with drug addicts and women with criminal records.”
So the guy liked to slum around for his extracurricular sex. Evans thought Gina might be a little paranoid. “I still don’t see why you think he’s a predator or why he would want to attack you.”
“I’m tired now. Please go see my parents and ask about the notebook.” Gina’s eyes were closed.
“What are their names?”
“George and Sharon Stahl.” She sounded half asleep.
Evans needed one more piece of information. “What is your ex-husband’s name and where can I find him?”
“Gary Bekker. He’s a cop.”
Chapter 4
Earlier that morning, Monday, September 6, 5:15 a.m.
Jackson slammed off the alarm and bolted from bed. He wanted to get to the department early and read the old case file before his workday officially started. He skipped his morning run, showered, and made a half pot of coffee. Travel mug in hand, he went back to the bedroom and strapped on his Sig Sauer, then kissed his sleeping daughter on the forehead. He would have liked to see Katie walk out the door on her first day of high school, but she probably preferred that he didn’t, so it was okay, he told himself. She’d been getting herself up and ready for years. Having an alcoholic mother and a workaholic dad gave kids an early sense of responsibility.
Just before he headed out, Jackson remembered to take his prednisone. In theory, the drug was shrinking the fibrous growth around his aorta. In practice, it produced mood swings and ten extra pounds, but he could live with that. Other people with retroperitoneal fibrosis had chronic pain and many ended up with colostomy bags. His doctors said he was lucky, and Jackson, still only forty-two, was grateful his kidneys had been spared. Since the surgery to free his ureters from the growth, he’d been practicing gratitude for almost everything.
Just as the sun was coming up, he climbed in his city-issued cruiser and backed out of the driveway.
The violent crimes unit occupied a narrow space crammed with desks, filing cabinets, stacked boxes, and assorted personal items like the team’s bowling trophy and Rob Schakowski’s Buzz Lightyear toy. At this early hour, the room was empty. Jackson passed Ed McCray’s old desk and realized he hadn’t called him since he retired in June. His good friend and long-time partner had taken a bullet in their last big homicide case and McCray’s wife had called “enough.” Jackson both envied and pitied his friend. To be free of the job and its on-call, sometimes round-the-clock, bonds seemed like a gift. Yet without an investigation going, Jackson wouldn’t know who he was.
He turned on his computer and glanced at the two case files on his desk. They were all but wrapped up, with the perps in custody and the DA pushing for plea bargains. He hoped Lammers wouldn’t assign him anything new until he’d had a chance to dig into his parents’ case.
Jackson went in search of the administrative aide. She had the keys to the storage area for adjudicated cases and would have to document what he checked out. If the case had still been open, the file would be in a box in a room at the end of the hall, along with dozens of other boxes just like it. They tried to keep open cases handy to work on whenever they had downtime. They hadn’t had any downtime in months.
He found the admin aide in the break room, yawning and pouring coffee.
“Hey, Nikki. I need to check out a file from the year 2000. Can you help me?”
“Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it to you a little later.”
“I’d like us to go get it now.”
She looked surprised but put a lid on her coffee and started for the stairs. In the basement, she unlocked a steel door and clicked on the overhead light. They stepped into a long musty room crammed with filing cabinets.
“What month and what name?” Nikki asked.
“September. The homicide of Evelyn and Clark Jackson.”
Nikki’s eyes widened. “Your parents?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She touched his arm, yawned again. “Wait here. You’re not supposed to actually be in here.”
Jackson was glad to stay near the open door. After a good ten minutes, Nikki returned with a large brown pocket folder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Back at his desk, Jackson sipped his coffee and stared at the file. Was he ready to rip open the past and relive that horrible day? He’d been on patrol and they’d called him into the department. His sergeant had broken the news to him in small chunks. There’s been a shooting and two people are dead. We believe they’re related to you. Do your parents live on Emerald Street?
Glad to be alone, Jackson sucked in a deep breath and pulled out a stack of papers with two manila folders underneath. A standard form lay on top of the pile. He began to read: September 23, Evelyn and Clark Jackson, found dead of bullet wounds at 2353 Emerald Street. Patrol officers responded to an anonymous tip about a handyman fleeing the house. The information surprised Jackson. He’d never had access to the case details before. They’d picked up Hector Vargas within hours of the crime and Jackson had never had reason to question the chain of events. Now Vargas claimed Jackson’s parents weren’t home when he left their house with the money. If he was telling the truth, the murders hadn’t happened at that point. Who had called in the tip about seeing Vargas leave the house? And why? Jackson noted the time listed for the call: 4:25 p.m. Something was not right about the tip.
He opened a Word document and started his own file of notes and questions, then went back to the case paperwork. The manila folder held plastic sheets with encased pictures. Jackson dreaded seeing them. Yet how could he work the case without looking at the crime scene photos? After eleven years, he still wasn’t ready. At the funeral, he’d paid his respects and looked in the open caskets. His parents had appeared whole and peaceful and that’s how he wanted to remember them.
He picked up a small notepad similar to the one he carried and read Bekker’s personal notes. The abbreviations and sloppy handwriting made it challenging, but Jackson gleaned that the victims had been found in the living room: two shots in the male body, both in the torso, and one bullet through the female’s forehead. A coffee table had been overturned, indicating a struggle. Both victims were wearing outer clothing, as if they had just come in or were preparing to leave.
Page two contained a list of the evidence Bekker had bagged and tagged: a cigarette butt from the driveway, a hundred-dollar bill, and a strand of hair from the female’s sweater that was visibly lighter than the victim’s dark hair. The notation of the money surprised him. Had it come from his parents’ cash box? Jackson hoped the technicians had gathered more physical evidence than what was listed.
He flipped ahead, realizing only five pages had been filled in. Either Bekker hadn’t conducted much of an investigation or he wasn’t much of a note taker. Bekker had talked to the woman who lived next door, Rose Harmon, and she reported that a handyman had been working at the house that day. She also denied being the person who’d called in about seeing him. Jackson hoped she still lived next door but he wasn’t counting on it. Finding witnesses who remembered any kind of detail would be challenging.
He flipped through until he found copies of the autopsies. The medical jargon in the report made for slow reading, which was why he always attended the posts of the cases he worked. The information was easier to process when he was looking at the body and listening to the pathologist. In this case, the gunshot residue indicated his father had been shot at close range. The bullets had gone through his chest, and the technicians had dug both out of the couch. His mother had been killed at a range of five to seven feet and the bullet had lodged in her brain. Neither had defense wounds on their hands or foreign DNA under their fingernails, but his father’s body had an abdominal bruise consistent with a fist punch. Both had died around four o’clock in the afternoon.
A tremor ran through Jackson’s chest. He pushed back from his desk and we
nt outside for fresh air. The sun had warmed the morning air and the streets and sidewalks were filling with cars, bicycles, transients, and oddly dressed young people. He loved Eugene, cultural diversity and all. Sometimes it bothered him that he had never moved away or experienced another part of the country, but his parents had been proud Oregonians who never considered living anywhere else, and he’d grown up feeling that way too. They’d chosen Eugene to raise their family and so had he. God, he missed them.
Jackson considered a trip to Full City Coffee for a pastry, then thought better of it. Back at his desk, he read the ballistics report: .22 slug, partially flattened, with lands and grooves consistent with a Jennings. All of which meant little, since they had never found the handgun. He read a brief typed confession signed by Hector Vargas. Jackson wondered if they had a taped version, and if so, where it was. Back in 2000, the interrogation room had not yet been wired for video. Santori and Bekker had felt free to abuse Vargas as they pleased in the windowless space. Other officers had to have known or at least suspected what was going on. Jackson was ashamed of them all.
He felt around in the bottom of the pocket folder, hoping to find a cassette tape, but it wasn’t there. He made a mental note to visit the crime lab at some point and look at the physical evidence, which should have been stored.
“Hey, Jackson.” Rob Schakowski, another detective and occasional fishing buddy, wandered up looking sleepy. He noted Jackson’s two coffee containers. “Why the hell did you come in so early on Monday?” Schak’s buzz cut and barrel-shaped torso made him look mean but Jackson knew better.
“It’s a long story. Better grab some coffee.”
When Schak returned with a styrofoam cup of crappy house brew, Jackson spoke softly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “Hector Vargas wrote me a letter, asking me to come see him.” Jackson paused to see if Schak knew the name.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 3
