Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice

by L. J. Sellers

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday, September 8, 8:25 a.m.

  Sophie flashed her ID badge at the security camera, entered the Willamette News building, and hurried into the lunchroom to pick up a copy of the morning’s paper. The cafeteria had been closed a year earlier after the bulk of the layoffs, but they’d left the lunchroom open. She grabbed a newspaper from one of the tables, said hello to the entertainment reporter, and trotted up the open staircase. On the way, she noted all the empty work stations on the first floor. So many people had been laid off, the newspaper had moved the remaining support staff upstairs and was trying to rent out the first level for cash. The once busy, noisy office was dying and it was damn sad. But the truth was, she wouldn’t trade her iPhone, iPad, or Kindle to get it all back. She loved new technology and she’d find a way to keep her career going too.

  She clicked on her computer, then laid the paper open on her desk. Her story about Gina Stahl was on the front page of the City section and Sophie scanned it to see how it flowed. She quickly realized the layout editor had cut selective chunks of her copy to make it fit a limited space. Shit. She hated when they butchered her careful transitions. She read the paragraph referencing Gina’s accusations.

  Stahl says her attacker wore a ski mask, but the victim believes the assault was carried out by her ex-husband. Stahl says she was collecting evidence about her ex-husband’s criminal activities and that he tried to kill her to silence her. The police are investigating various leads.

  It was a little choppy, because someone had edited out the fact that the victim’s ex was a police officer.

  Sophie grabbed her phone and called Detective Evans again. She wished she had Evans’ cell number instead of her desk phone, because so far, Evans had not called her back. Sophie wanted to know the names of the women Gary Bekker had victimized so she could interview them, but she suspected the detective wouldn’t tell her. She would have to visit Gina again and reassure her that she would not use the women’s names in print. The paper had a policy of not naming the victims of sex crimes and Sophie fully supported it.

  “What are you working on this morning?” Karl Hoogstad, her editor, clumped up behind her. He was round in the middle and bald on top, except for a strip of gray hair across the back of his head. Sophie tried not to hold it against him.

  “I’m heading over to the care center to talk to the coma woman again. I want to dig into the sex crimes she says her ex-husband, the cop, committed. I think this could be the biggest story we follow this year.”

  “Okay. I trust your instincts.”

  Sophie’s heart about burst with pride. It had taken her years to earn some respect at the paper. Her intuition on the story of two missing women last spring had netted her an eye-witness account of the perp’s apprehension. Hoogstad had apparently not forgotten. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll still want to see each story before it goes to layout.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he walked away, her phone rang. Hoping it was Evans, she grabbed it. “This is Sophie.”

  “Roger Norquist, returning your call. You’re going to run a story about my fundraiser?”

  “Just a short piece.” Sophie had lost all interest in the politician, but decided to get a quote while she had him on the phone. “Why are you starting your campaign so early? Are you worried about your ability to win next year’s election?”

  “I’m not officially campaigning, just fundraising, and I’m not worried. I plan to start early, work hard, and win this time.”

  “You lost the Senate race in 2006. What’s different for you now?”

  “I’m more in tune with voters, and the mood of the public is turning more conservative. Voters are tired of big government and big spending. My platform–”

  Sophie cut him off. “I’m sorry, but I only have the space for a sentence or two. Next fall, when your campaign is in full swing, we’ll talk again.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  She hung up, glad to get off the phone and back to her juicy story about the psycho cop.

  * * *

  At his desk, Jackson keyed the loan shark’s name into the criminal database and discovered Ray Durkin had served three and a half years in the Oregon State Correctional Facility on charges of assault and extortion. He’d been incarcerated in October of 2003 and released in April of 2007. Which meant Durkin had gone to prison years after his loan dealings with Derrick. Jackson was relieved that his brother’s judgment wasn’t completely worthless. Still, Derrick had borrowed a chunk of cash from someone he’d met in a strip club, who later went to prison. Sometimes it was hard to believe he and Derrick had the same DNA.

  Durkin had fulfilled his parole terms and had no criminal history since. After failing to find Durkin in the citizen database, Jackson googled his name and was surprised to discover the ex-con was working as mountain-bike race promoter. Jackson searched the Cascade Mountain Races website but couldn’t find a phone number, only an email contact. “Crap.”

  “What’s going on?” Schak heard him swear and rolled his chair over.

  “My only lead has no address and no phone number that I can locate.”

  “Who is it?” Schak knew Jackson was working his parents’ case.

  “Ray Durkin. He was a loan shark back then. Now he’s a promoter for mountain bike races.”

  “Ray Durkin was a loan shark?” Schak looked stunned, an expression Jackson had never seen on his face before.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve met him. He’s not just a promoter. He hosts mountain bike races on his property and donates a percentage of the profit to the Big Brother program.”

  Jackson suppressed a groan. “How do you know this?”

  “Remember when my son was into mountain biking? I watched a couple races up there.” Schak looked over Jackson’s shoulder at the website on the monitor. “I’ll be damned. Durkin’s an ex-con.”

  “And a suspect in my parents’ homicides.”

  “What’s his connection?”

  “He loaned money to my brother Derrick, then threatened him when he didn’t pay. Derrick moved in with Mom and Dad the day before they were killed.”

  “Jesus.” Schak shuddered. “Are you going up there to see Durkin? He has a cabin on his property off Murdock Road.

  “How do I find it?”

  “Take Fox Hollow to Murdock, then take the second or third gravel road on the left. I think there’s a sign.”

  “Thanks.” The fax machine near the hallway jumped to life and started spitting out paper. “Maybe that’s my phone records.”

  Searching and sorting phone numbers was the most tedious aspect of his job. His parents had not made or received that many calls in the weeks prior so it wasn’t a worst-case scenario. Nearly a third of the calls were to or from Derrick. Jackson knew his brother and mother had been close, but he hadn’t realized they talked on the phone that much. He tried to remember how often his mother had called him. Maybe once a month, to invite him and his family over for Sunday dinner.

  He suppressed the thought and kept keying in numbers. The outgoing calls were to his mother’s sisters, to a doctor’s office, and to the utility company. Some of the numbers for the outgoing calls were no longer listed or no longer in service. The incoming calls were more diverse. On the evening before the murders, they’d received a call from a company called Valley Fresh. Jackson googled the name and discovered it was a bakery and cereal business that had been in Eugene for sixty-five years. The call had come in at 6:07 p.m., and he assumed it was some kind of sales pitch. Earlier that day, they had also received calls from an insurance company and the Democratic headquarters.

  On September 21, two days before the murders, only two calls were listed. One at 5:17 p.m. from EWEB, where his father had worked. Most likely his dad was calling home to see if his wife needed anything at the store. A second call came in at 8:15 that evening. Jackson entered the digits. A business named popped up and gav
e his heart a little jump. Lucky Numbers. The strip bar owned by Seth Valder, an associate of Ray Durkin. Had Durkin called from the bar looking for Derrick? Or had he started harassing Derrick’s parents for the money?

  Jackson spent another twenty minutes keying in phone numbers, then lost patience with the process. He was eager to talk to Ray Durkin, so he mapped Murdock Road on the computer to see where it met Fox Hollow, then headed out. It was long trip and he hoped like hell Durkin would be around.

  Jackson drove out East Amazon, a long narrow street heading toward the south hills. The weather had cooled a little, so he opened his window and enjoyed the end-of-summer air. He turned on Fox Hollow and tried to remember the last time he’d been in this part of Eugene. As he passed the Cascade Raptor Center, where they rescued and nurtured birds of prey, he realized that was it. He’d taken Katie and a friend to see the owls and falcons on her twelfth birthday.

  Murdock turned out to be a hard-packed gravel road and Jackson drove it slowly, watching for the Cascade Mountain Races sign. He spotted it tucked into a V in the road, and laurel had started to grow over it. Jackson turned onto a loosely packed gravel road and slowed down even more. He wondered how often Durkin made a trip into town.

  A half mile later, the road dead-ended into a large gravel parking area. Off to the right sat a large white truck with KSL Construction lettered on the side. Beyond it, the framework for a two-story house rose toward the sky, and Jackson heard the rhythmic pounding of hammer on nails. A log cabin was nestled into a grove of fir trees at the other end of the gravel lot.

  A dark blue sedan was parked in front of the cabin. A shiver ran up Jackson’s spine. It had been eleven years and Durkin had spent three of them in jail. Was it possible this was the car that had been parked outside his parents’ house that day?

  Jackson climbed out of his vehicle, touching his weapon out of habit. Barking dogs descended on him in a mad rush. He reached for his Taser and realized he’d left it in the car. Two tan pit bulls and a big black mixed breed formed a half circle around him, barking aggressively. The noise was nerve-wracking.

  “Back off!” Jackson yelled and drew his Sig Saur to take some measure of control. The scar through his eyebrow was compliments of an angry unleashed dog.

  A man came running up from the direction of the construction. “Quiet, boys!”

  The dogs went silent but didn’t move.

  Muscles bulged under the man’s t-shirt and his brow dripped with sweat. He was forty-something with a dark blond ponytail, sun-bronzed skin, and tinted glasses. “Sorry about the dogs,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Are you Ray Durkin?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “I have some questions about a loan you made eleven years ago.”

  Durkin looked amused. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Can we go inside somewhere?” Jackson wanted to get out of the sun and away from the dogs.

  “Okay. Let’s get this over with.” Durkin started toward the cabin and the dogs followed. Jackson glanced back at the construction site to see if they were being watched. A second man tossed wood scraps in a big green trash bin and seemed to pay no attention to Jackson’s presence.

  At the door of the cabin, Jackson said, “I’d like the dogs to stay outside.”

  “They’re harmless.” Durkin grinned.

  Jackson started to dislike him. “Leave them outside.”

  “Stay.”

  The dogs plopped on the low-slung deck.

  Inside, the cabin was cool and the main room held three couches. A big fireplace took up one wall and the interior reminded Jackson of a ski lodge. Durkin went to the small adjacent kitchen and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He sat at the table and gestured for Jackson to join him.

  “What loan and why now?” Durkin asked, as Jackson sat down.

  “In 2000, you loaned money to Derrick Jackson. I want to know the details.”

  Durkin looked blank. “That was a long time ago. Give me a clue.”

  “He borrowed the money for a solar panel business.”

  Durkin’s eyes clouded, as if he remembered something painful. “He’s your brother, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “I loaned him ten thousand and he only paid back six of it. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve got a whole new life here.”

  Either Derrick had lied about the amount of the loan or Durkin was lying now. “You just let it go? Four thousand dollars?”

  “Circumstances changed.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean.” Durkin took a long pull of his beer. “We both know your parents were murdered around that time. Suddenly the cops and the media were all over that house and Derrick was grieving and dysfunctional. I wrote off the four thousand and moved on.”

  “Bullshit. Derrick says you threatened him.”

  “That was before. It’s also the nature of the alternative loan business.”

  “Where did you get the ten grand?”

  “I was doing a nice business. I had cash in the bank.”

  “You called the Jacksons’ house two days before the murders. Who did you talk to?”

  “I don’t remember.” Durkin glanced away.

  “Don’t lie to me. What did you say to Evelyn Jackson?”

  “I never spoke to her.”

  Jackson decided Durkin was a pathological liar. “Why did you call her house?”

  “I was looking for Derrick. He still owed me money and he was hiding.”

  “What did you threaten my parents with?”

  Durkin sat forward and tried to look earnest. “I admit, I broke a few fingers and I cheated a few people. I also did time for it. But I never threatened anyone’s family.”

  “Where were you on the afternoon of September 23, 2000?”

  Durkin’s mouth opened in surprise. “You think I killed them?”

  “Where were you at the time of the murders?”

  “I don’t remember. It was eleven years ago.”

  “What kind of car were you driving then?”

  “The same one I have now. I had just bought it. Why?”

  “Someone saw it parked outside my parents’ house the day they were killed.”

  Durkin shook his head. “Not my car.”

  “Then you won’t mind submitting a DNA sample for comparison. It’s an opportunity to clear yourself.”

  “Sorry, but I’ll pass. I don’t trust the system.” Durkin took another drink of beer.

  Jackson thought about the ex-con’s fingerprints on the beer bottle and made a note to have the crime lab compare Durkin’s prints to those at the scene. “Were you ever in the house at 2353 Emerald Street?”

  “No.”

  “When I come back with a subpoena, I’ll have to take you down to the department for a cheek swab. Why don’t you save us both the trouble?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone and I don’t have to prove it.” Durkin bolted to his feet, sounding frustrated. “I run a legitimate business now and I donate ten percent of my profits to the Big Brother/Big Sister program for kids. I also sponsor teenagers to come up here and race. The idea is to help young people stay out of trouble so they don’t make the same mistakes I did. I don’t appreciate being hassled.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “I thought they caught the killer and he went to jail.” Durkin vibrated with impatience.

  Jackson didn’t budge from his chair. “It turns out, they didn’t. What did you think of my parents?”

  “I never met them.” Durkin gestured toward the door. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “That’s a big house you’re building.”

  “It’s a lodge. A lot of people come here to race.”

  “Did the money come from your loan shark days?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Are you still in contact with Seth Valder?”

  “Not since
I got out. I gave up the old life.”

  Jackson sensed he’d been lied to again, but Durkin seemed to be done talking. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I want the number.”

  “I don’t want to be harassed.”

  Jackson waited him out.

  Durkin sighed and gave him the number.

  Jackson stood to leave. “Keep your dogs under control when I walk out so I don’t have to shoot them.”

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday, September 8, 2:16 p.m.

  Evans checked her notes for Gina’s neighbor who had moved. The name wasn’t there. Shit. How could she have been so sloppy? She used her desk phone to call the Riverside Terrace and was relieved when the manager picked up.

  “This is Detective Evans again. I need the name of the neighbor who lived on the other side of Gina Stahl at the time of her assault. You told me she moved.”

  “Give me a sec and I’ll look.” After a while, the manager said, “Alison Bertram. I have her forwarding address, but it’s in Salem. Do you want her phone number too?”

  “Thanks, I’ll take both.”

  Evans made of note of the name and number. “I noticed a camera mounted on the front gate. Do you still have video footage from 2009?”

  “You’ll have to call the company that maintains the camera. It’s Secure Systems West.”

  Evans thanked her and made the next call. She asked to speak to the manager, and a moment later, a man came on the phone. “This is Chuck Summers. How can I help you?”

  Evans introduced herself. “I’m investigating an assault that took place a few years ago at the Riverside Terrace. Do you have security film from August 3, 2009?”

  “Of course. Which cameras do you need?”

  Yes! “The front gate and anything that would show the exterior of apartment sixteen.”

  “Would you like me to download the files to a disk?”

  “That would be great. Can I pick it up now?”

  “Sure. We’re always happy to work with the police department.”

  A surge of adrenaline pulsed in her veins. Evans stood and began to pace. What if the cameras had caught Bekker driving into the parking lot or walking up to Gina’s apartment? By itself, it wasn’t enough for a conviction, but it could give them leverage for a plea bargain. Then she remembered the attacker had worn a mask. When had he put it on? What kind of vehicle had Bekker driven two years ago? Would he have taken his city-issued car?