Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice

by L. J. Sellers

  Still wet with sweat, Evans fried a pork chop for breakfast and wolfed it like a starving animal. She craved carbs, but if she ate them after a workout they made her sleepy. She checked the time, then showered and dressed for work. Dark slacks, topped by a sleeveless knit top and matching jacket with handcuffs in the pocket. It was almost a uniform. She tossed a Luna bar in her brown-leather shoulder bag and took a quick inventory. She still had aspirin, band aids, and masking tape, in addition to all her crime scene tools. What else would she possibly need that day? As she slung the heavy bag over her shoulder, she remembered she needed to replace the blade in the small utility knife she carried at all times.

  Finally Evans strapped on her Sig Saur, took a moment to enjoy the look and feel of it, and headed to the department.

  She sat at her desk, gulping a tall coffee she’d picked up on the way and decided to call McCray again. She would never nail Bekker without the help of other police officers who were willing to tell her what they knew. McCray still didn’t answer, so she left him a message, offering to buy lunch.

  “Evans, you lucky dog.” Tom Dragoo, a vice detective, slid up to her desk.

  “Lucky? Since when?”

  “You got the coma-woman case. I hear she’s Sergeant Bekker’s ex-wife and crazy as box of weasels.”

  “Where did you hear that?” How the hell did the information get around so fast?

  “Someone heard Lammers give you the assignment. You know how her voice carries.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Never mind. But good luck.” Dragoo gave her a wicked grin and slithered away.

  Shit. Did Bekker already know she was investigating his ex-wife’s complaint? The department was such a gossip mill. She would have to work fast. Evans grabbed her bag and headed out. It was time to talk to Gina again.

  In the parking lot, seeing all the patrol cars, Evans had one of those moments when she couldn’t believe how her life had turned out. Right out of high school, she’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct and had spent two nights in jail. Hearing the doors clang shut behind her was terrifying and she decided to make radical changes. Two months before, a sheriff had come to her civics class and said, “Out of these twenty students, one of you will end up in prison.” It had been a punch in the gut. Evans had known he was talking about her. Yet until she was arrested, she continued to party and shoplift just to see if she could get away with it. Life in Ketchikan, Alaska was that boring.

  She’d been sentenced to three months’ probation for the drunk and disorderly charge. Her parents kicked her out and she was homeless, sleeping on friends’ couches while she waited tables and saved money. When her probation was over, she left Ketchikan with only an overnight suitcase and took the ferry to Seattle. She stayed with a friend of a friend until she could find work. Her first stop was the social security office, where Leeann Egerton became Lara Evans. She had not seen or talked to her parents since the day they kicked her out. Birthday calls to her brother were all the contact she had with her old life.

  When Evans entered Gina’s room at the care center, a physical therapist was working with the patient and her parents hovered nearby. The family greeted her warmly. “We were just getting ready to leave,” Sharon said. “But I’m glad you’re here. Gina said you could go through her stuff, but she thinks if you have the notebook, there’s nothing else that will help you.”

  The physical therapist manipulated Gina’s fingers and said, “Now squeeze.”

  Gina scrunched her face with effort and her hand contracted. She beamed with the result but tears rolled from her eyes. Joy or pain? Evans wondered. Maybe some of both.

  After the Stahls left, Evans took a seat and said to the therapist, “Gina and I need to talk. Can you come back later?”

  “I’m almost done.” The woman didn’t even look up. “You can ask questions while I finish.”

  Evans didn’t like the situation but what else could she do? Driving back and forth to Springfield to talk to Gina for ten minutes at a time was annoying enough. “I need to know more about the day you were assaulted. Did you get any threatening phone calls or unusual encounters?”

  “Not that I recall,” Gina said, still squeezing, “but my memory is still sketchy. It gets better every day though.

  “Go through as much detail as you can. It might help you remember.”

  “I came home from the shop and made dinner. I thought about going out to follow Gary again, but after talking to Trisha, I decided to contact another one of his victims instead. I was waiting for the weekend.” Gina spoke slowly, but her voice was clear. “I spent time on the computer, then read for a while, then went to the kitchen to make popcorn. That’s when it happened.”

  “How did he get in? Was your door locked?”

  Gina shook her head. “I usually didn’t lock it until I went to bed.”

  Evans thought that was beyond stupid. She kept her doors and windows locked, even though she possessed two handguns and carried Mace at all times.

  “I know,” Gina said, reading her face. “But my condo was in an upscale neighborhood with security patrols.”

  The physical therapist moved around the bed and picked up Gina’s other hand.

  “What else do you remember about the attacker?”

  “What did I tell you already?”

  Evans flipped through her notes. “Between five-seven and six feet tall and less than two hundred pounds. Brown jacket and a ski mask. Your ex-husband fits that general size, but does it match anyone else you know? Or knew then?”

  Gina gave it some thought. “I’d been married for five years, so I didn’t have any male friends. I ran my own clothing business and almost all my clients were women. At the condo, my neighbors were mostly older couples.”

  “Had you seen anyone suspicious around the complex? A delivery man who matched that description?”

  “I’d seen Gary at my apartment complex. I’m sure it was him.”

  “I have to look at all the possibilities.”

  “Squeeze,” the therapist directed.

  Gina squeezed for all she was worth. “I want to get up again.”

  “I’ll be back with the wheelchair in twenty minutes,” the PT responded. She rounded up her gear and left the room.

  “Who else would want to harm you?” Evans asked. “Do you have any enemies?”

  “No.”

  “Were you dating?”

  A look of sadness came over Gina. “I had just started seeing someone.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He didn’t do this.”

  “What if Bekker went after him too?”

  Gina sucked in her breath. “Oh my God. I never thought about that. His name is Stuart Renfro. He’s a nurse.”

  Evans jotted it down. A nurse would have access to Demerol. “Has he been here to see you?” So far, Gina’s awakening hadn’t made the news but eventually it would.

  “We had only been on two dates. When I stopped answering my phone, I’m sure he moved on.”

  “Do you have any other family here in town besides your parents?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “You had a prescription for Valium. The bottle on your nightstand was empty. Did you take it all? Did you try to kill yourself?” Evans watched her carefully. Gina’s eyes didn’t shift and her hands didn’t flutter.

  “I took one Valium that day, like usual. I did not try to kill myself.”

  “What about the Demerol? Was that yours?”

  Gina’s mouth pulled tight. “I didn’t have Demerol in my house. Gary must have brought it with him. He probably injected me with it.”

  “Where would he get the drug?”

  “He’s a cop. He’s resourceful. He probably took it from one of his victims.” Gina’s voice weakened, sounding tired.

  Something had been nagging Evans and finally she hit on it. “If Bekker tried to kill you because he knew you’d been following him and documenting his sexual enco
unters, why didn’t he take the notebook?”

  “I left it in my car. He probably didn’t find it.”

  “There’s nothing in the case notes or in your neighbors’ account of that evening to indicate your apartment had been searched.”

  “Gary wanted it to look like suicide, so he was careful.”

  Evans was trying to look for other motives and not be too focused on one suspect. “Did you owe anyone money?”

  “I was behind on my bills and I owed my divorce lawyer, but I was making payments.”

  “When was your divorce final?”

  “A month after the attack. My parents told me this morning. If I had been awake when the final papers came, I would have thrown a party.”

  Evans smiled, then looked at her notes. “Did Stuart Renfro have a wife or girlfriend you didn’t know about? Someone who might want to harm you?”

  “He was divorced too. And we’d only gone out twice. We hadn’t even slept together.”

  Evans had run out of questions. “If you think of anything else, call me. I don’t care what time it is.”

  “Okay,” Gina murmured, her eyes closing.

  Evans planned to track down Stuart Renfro, but first she had to talk to McCray about Bekker. The bastard ex-husband was such an obvious suspect she hated to waste her time looking for anyone else, but she would cover everything as Jackson had taught her.

  Earpiece in place, she pressed speed dial #5 as she drove back to Eugene. She turned the air conditioner on low and ate a bite of her Luna bar. Come on, McCray, pick up.

  Finally he answered. “Evans. This must be important. What’s going on?”

  “I have a complicated case I need to talk to you about.”

  “Why me? Jackson’s your mentor and I’m retired now, remember?”

  “You worked vice and I need to know about Gary Bekker.”

  A long silence.

  “McCray, are you still with me?”

  “I’m here. You just pulled the scab off an old wound and I need to know why.”

  “Will you meet me for coffee?”

  “I quit coffee, remember?”

  “I’ll buy you tea or lunch if you like. This is important. Can you meet me at Full City or should I come to you?”

  “Give me hour. I’ll be there at eleven-thirty.”

  “Thanks.”

  McCray was already in the coffee shop when she got there. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and Evans almost didn’t recognize him. It was the first time she’d seen him in anything but brown corduroy and button-up shirts. He was still thin and white-haired, but the lines in his face had softened. Nothing like getting away from dead bodies and late nights staring at phone records to lighten a person’s stress load.

  Evans hurried to the counter where he stood waiting to order. “McCray, I’ll buy.”

  He smiled. “This place takes me back.”

  “This coffee kept us going on some cases, didn’t it?”

  They took their beverages to a corner table and McCray got right to the heart of issue. “Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’m going to rat out a fellow officer. Why are you asking about Gary Bekker?”

  “Did you know his ex-wife has been in a coma for two years?”

  “I did. So? She overdosed, likely on purpose.”

  “She came out of her coma and claimed she was assaulted and drugged. She says her ex-husband did it.”

  McCray kept his poker face. Only his eyes registered a reaction. “I’m surprised Lammers assigned you the case.”

  “She doesn’t know yet the victim has accused an officer.”

  “Bekker had an alibi for that evening. After his ex-wife’s parents came in and suggested he was involved, a discreet inquiry was made. IA determined Bekker was drinking with a friend that evening.”

  “Another cop?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s probably bullshit.”

  McCray shrugged. “What do you want from me?”

  “Gina says her ex-husband is a predator. That he coerced vulnerable women—hookers and drug addicts—into having sex. Gina was following him and writing down his activities. She says it’s why he tried to kill her.”

  McCray’s eyes closed for a split second, like a man who’d said a quick prayer. Followed by, “Oh, christ.”

  “What do you know?”

  “There were rumors about him. He was reprimanded twice for using excessive force.”

  “What rumors? I need to know what I’m getting into here.”

  “It’s way over your head. You need to take it to IA.”

  “It’s my first lead on an important case. I can’t just give it away.” Evans grabbed McCray’s hand. “Please tell me what you know.”

  He pulled free of her grip. “Another vice cop saw Bekker’s car in front of a hooker’s house late at night. The detective assumed he was dicking her and not paying. He gossiped and snickered about it, but that was it.”

  “Which detective?”

  “Didn’t you say the ex-wife was keeping a journal? Why don’t you find it and see what’s in there first?”

  McCray was trying not to name other officers. Evans wasn’t giving up. “Did you trust Bekker when you worked with him? What was your take on the guy?”

  Another long silence. “He was an asshole. He pushed buttons with his co-workers and he got physical with suspects. I didn’t like working with him. One of the many reasons I transferred out of vice.”

  “Is he capable of killing his wife?”

  McCray grinned. “At times, we’re all capable of killing our spouses.”

  Evans gave him a look.

  “If his ex-wife says he attacked her, then what more do you need? Go to the DA and file charges.”

  “It’s not that simple. Her assailant was wearing a ski mask, so she can’t positively identify him. And Bekker had an alibi. I’ve got nothing to take to the DA.”

  McCray scowled. “So you’re going after his sexual transgressions to break down his character?”

  Hot anger flashed in her face. “He wasn’t just cheating on his wife. He preyed on women who were in trouble and afraid of him and he forced them into sex. He’s worse than scum and needs to be locked up.”

  “If what you say is true, then I agree. I just don’t know how to help you.”

  “Give me the name of the detective who saw Bekker at the prostitute’s house.”

  McCray hesitated but not for long. “Bohnert.

  “No shit.” John Bohnert now worked in violent crimes but Evans didn’t know him well.

  “That’s not who gave Bekker an alibi,” McCray said. “That was Pete Casaway.”

  Casaway had retired last year. “Would he lie for Bekker?”

  “If he was certain of his innocence, yes.” McCray’s eyes bore into hers. “If Jackson were in trouble, you would lie for him, wouldn’t you?”

  She would do almost anything for Jackson, but McCray didn’t need to know that. “That depends on the situation.”

  “What if his ex-wife died of an overdose and her parents said Jackson killed her? Then he came to you and said, ‘I was home alone but I need this to go away.’ Would you give him an alibi?”

  Evans squirmed. “Probably.”

  “Remember that when you talk to these guys. Bekker is their friend and a cop and they thought they were doing the right thing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Don’t tell anyone you got their names from me.”

  “I won’t. Thanks for your help.”

  “Be careful. This could turn against you very quickly.”

  Chapter 9

  Evans hurried across Pearl Street toward City Hall. The police department still occupied half of the white-brick structure, but not for long. The city had finally purchased a new building on Coburg Road and the department would move when the remodel was complete. She was excited about having more workspace but would miss the energy of being downtown. As she entered the parking lot below the building, sweat brok
e out under her light blue jacket. This was the warmest September she’d ever experienced in Eugene.

  Evans stood by her car, undecided. To properly investigate the attack on Gina, she needed to visit the apartment complex where Gina had lived at the time and find out if any witnesses were still around. She needed to question Gina’s boyfriend at the time and rummage through the letters and files stored in the Stahls’ house. All of it seemed like a lot of work that would lead nowhere. On the other hand, building a case against Bekker for sexual assault would likely have better results. She was eager to talk to the prostitute, Trisha, and get her story on file. Before she went to her boss and called Sergeant Bekker a dirty cop and a killer, she needed something solid.

  She called Pete Casaway, Bekker’s alibi for the night Gina went into a coma, and left a message. She didn’t mention Bekker in her message.

  Evans made up her mind. Trisha Cronin’s address was nearby, so she’d make a quick stop on her way out to Gina’s old neighborhood.

  Trisha’s apartment building was in an area of the Whittaker neighborhood called heroin alley by landlords and law enforcement. The once-white building hadn’t been painted or washed in a decade and the shrubs had died from neglect. Or maybe from the toxic piss of its residents, Evans thought, crinkling her nose as she climbed the stairs up to unit ten.

  She knocked gently, trying not to sound like a cop.

  Trisha answered, wearing a bathrobe and looking half asleep. She was thirty-something, a little doughy, and had once been pretty. Evans struggled for a way to describe her hair color when she started her notes. Fried-dyed-pink-blond?

  “Ah shit.” Trisha tried to shut the door, but Evans shoved her foot and shoulder into the space.

  “I’m not here to harass you. I want to help.”