Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Or the work of a cold-blooded pyscho.” Detective Rob Schakowski stood in the archway, looking paler than usual. He’d lost a little roundness since his heart attack, but his buzz cut and square face still made him look mean, which he was not. Unless you were an uncooperative lowlife criminal.

  “Hey, Schak. Glad you’re here. Let’s start a room-by-room search.” Jackson slid the video camera back into his bag. “We’re looking for anything that doesn’t belong and any form of communication either from the killer or the family. Round up cell phones and open e-mails if you can.”

  Schak headed to the desk in the corner and McCray started down the hall. Two evidence technicians entered the house and Jackson told them to start with the front door, then move to the bat and knife. They needed to start running fingerprints though the system ASAP. Jackson went back to the kitchen to hear what Gunderson had to say.

  The medical examiner kneeled next to the teenage boy. From the back, with his short gray ponytail and black shirt, Gunderson looked more like an aging artist than an investigator. Yet his attention to detail often made the case.

  “I need a time of death,” Jackson said, knowing Gunderson would do it first anyway.

  “Give me a minute.”

  With gloved hands Gunderson pulled back the elastic waistband of the boy’s shorts and plunged a large thermal probe into his hip. While he waited for a reading, Jackson took in more of the kitchen. The countertops were cluttered, but overall the space was clean. A black baseball glove, like the kind worn by batters, was on the end of the counter near the door leading to the garage. Had the boy come in from batting practice and left the glove and bat in the kitchen?

  A moment later Jackson noticed the pigs. Ceramic pigs in assorted sizes, colors, and moods nestled among the countertop appliances. The largest one, a happy, white-speckled creature with a contrasting pink lid, caught his eye. Jackson lifted the top and inside was a palm-sized silver handgun.

  Instinct told him it belonged to the family. Why had no one used it to protect themselves? Had the attacker or attackers broke in and overwhelmed them? Jackson lifted the mini revolver and sniffed it, concluding it hadn’t been fired recently. He emptied the chamber and put the gun and bullets in separate pre-labeled bags. The killer must not have known it was there.

  “Body temperature is 84.6 degrees,” Gunderson announced. “So I’d say this boy died between eleven and twelve last night.”

  Ten hours ago. The killer could be in Mexico already. Even if he was still around, he’d had plenty of time to get rid of his bloody clothes and possibly establish an alibi.

  “Any obvious defensive wounds?”

  “He has minor nicks on his hands, so it’s likely he struggled with his attacker.” Gunderson bagged the boy’s hands to collect any trace evidence that might dislodge during transport.

  “Any head wounds?”

  “None that I see.”

  The son hadn’t been struck on the head. What did that mean? Had the boy come in while his parents were being attacked and tried to stop the slaughter?

  A clicking sound filled the room as the medical examiner took a dozen photos of the boy’s knife wounds and position on the floor. The smallness of the room and its overpowering smells closed in on Jackson. He had to get out for a moment and breathe fresh air.

  He also needed information, such as the relationship between the victims and who else lived here. He’d been assuming they were a nuclear family, but he could be wrong. He pulled his booties off at the door and headed for the sidewalk. Evans was still talking to the sister, who had calmed down a little. Quince was with the older couple at the edge of the lawn.

  Jackson introduced himself to the sister, then turned to Evans. “Give me a rundown on who lives here.”

  “Jared and Carla Walker, and their two children, Lori and Nick Walker. The kids’ cousin Shane, from Jared’s side of the family, spends a lot of time here but doesn’t live in the house.”

  Jackson looked at Rita. “How old is Shane and where does he live?”

  “He’s twenty, and I’m not sure where he lives now.” She reached into her purse for a tissue. “He used to live with his parents, Kevin and Tracy Compton, on Windsor Circle. Tracy is Jared’s sister.” A startled expression came over Rita’s face. “You don’t think Shane was involved, do you?”

  “Is he capable of something like this?”

  “Lord no.” An emphatic shake of her head. “He’s had his troubles, but he loves his family and he’s very close to his cousins.”

  Jackson gave Evans a slight nod. Shane would be the first person they interrogated. “What kind of trouble?”

  “He used to have a drug problem, but it’s in the past.” Rita raised her hands to cover her face. “Shane didn’t do this.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “He worked at Country Coach until about a month ago when he was laid off.”

  Evans broke in. “Should I go find him?”

  “Send a uniform to the Compton house and put out an attempt-to-locate. I need you here, talking to the neighbors.” Jackson suspected finding Shane would require some manpower.

  He turned back to Rita. “Any idea who might have done this?”

  She shuddered. “None. My sister and her husband were good people. Good kids too.” Rita began to sob.

  “Had anything changed in their lives recently? New friends? Marriage troubles? Drug or alcohol use?”

  “They both lost their jobs recently like half the people in this country, but otherwise I can’t think of anything.”

  “What was the status of the front door when you arrived?”

  “It was closed but not locked. When no one answered, I opened it and went in.” Rita inhaled short little gulps of air, trying to control her sobs. “I need to be at the hospital with Lori.” She started to move away.

  Jackson touched her arm with just enough pressure to stop her. “I understand. We’ll let you go in a minute. Right now we need your help to find out what happened here.” Jackson steered her toward the mobile unit. “I’d like you to go with Officer Anderson into our mobile office and sit down and write out the names of everyone connected to this family, including friends and co-workers. Make a note of the connection, please. It will be very helpful for us.”

  “You don’t think Lori will live to tell you who did this?”

  After losing that much blood, Jackson thought she might never wake up. “She may be unconscious for a while. We need to act now.”

  Rita nodded and followed the officer.

  Jackson took a moment to assess the situation. A bad-boy cousin with a drug problem who might be a suspect—and a survivor. He started to feel a little less bleak about this case, but the image of the severed hand would be with him for a while.

  Chapter 2

  More cars came up the street, and Jackson recognized the district attorney’s black Lexus. He waited while the DA parked, strode up the sidewalk, and ducked under the yellow tape. Dressed in gray pinstripes that made him look lean and hungry, Slonecker always managed to make Jackson feel disheveled. He briefed the DA about what he’d learned so far, then let Slonecker go in and see for himself.

  Evans was talking with the woman who lived on the right, and Quince was still questioning the old couple. Jackson directed two patrol officers to canvass the homes across the cul-de-sac. He and his team would likely question them all again later, but right now they needed to know: Did you hear anything? Did you see anyone come and go? What was he driving?

  Jackson planned to focus on the family’s cell phones, where he would find their most important contacts. He started for the house, then heard Sergeant Lammers call out, “Jackson, wait.” She came barreling up the sidewalk, creating her own wind factor. Lammers rarely attended a crime scene but this was no ordinary homicide.

  “Sergeant.”

  “Are you acting as primary here?”

  “I assumed I was.”

  “I don’t think you’re ready.” Her han
ds came up to her hips and her green eyes challenged him. She was his height and matched him pound for pound.

  Jackson kept his face blank. “This is a tough case. I need to run it.”

  “Your surgery was only five weeks ago. You still look pale.”

  “It’s early June. Everyone is pale.”

  “I need your experience here and your determination, but I can’t let you push yourself too hard.” Lammers nodded in the general direction of his belly scar. “You can have all the help you need, except for Detectives Bohnert and Rios, because they’re working the car jacking case.”

  “I could use more patrol units. I want to round up people and bring them here to interview.”

  “You’ve got it. Solve this quickly, please.” She reached for her cell phone. “The public is jittery enough with these car jackings. The last woman was hurt badly.”

  More vehicles raced up the street, including the white KRSL news van. Crap. That didn’t take long. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the street, but it wasn’t always enough to keep the media at a distance. Especially a certain newspaper reporter who managed to worm her way into his cases.

  Jackson jogged up the driveway, not wanting to get caught by a cameraman’s telephoto lens. He hated seeing the bodies again, but he needed to gather cell phones and check the other rooms in the house. To find the perpetrator of this heinous crime, he had to get to know each of the victims, to peel away the layers of their lives and see where their connections led.

  Schak was still at the computer in the living room, and a crime tech lifted fingerprints from the front windowsill. Joe had pulled the plaid couch away from the wall to make room to work. The window had sliders opening on both sides of the solid center, but the screens were still in place.

  “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “None in this room,” Joe said, not looking up. “The front door mechanisms weren’t jimmied or smashed and the screens are still in place, so no one came through the front widow. Unless they put the screen back when they left.”

  Jackson crossed to where Schak clicked open computer files. “Anything jump out at you?”

  “Not so far. Lots of photos, music downloads, and jewelry designs. Very few text documents. This is not a family of writers.”

  “Are there more computers in the house?”

  “There’s a laptop in one of the bedrooms. McCray is looking at it now.”

  Jackson remembered the purse on the kitchen counter. Is that where Carla kept her phone? He braced himself and headed for the cluster on the other side of the archway. Jasmine Parker, the lead evidence technician, was bagging the severed hand, her face expressionless as always. The DA looked like a man waiting in a hospital, not expecting good news, and his assistant looked queasy. The medical examiner knelt next to the dead man and said, “He took two blows to the head. From the looks of their placement, I’d say the perpetrator was shorter than this victim.”

  Jackson jotted down Perp likely < 6’ tall. It didn’t narrow the field much. “Anything else I should know about the assailant?”

  “The force behind these blows was very powerful. Your perpetrator may not be exceptionally tall, but he’s exceptionally strong.”

  “Any idea why he left the girl alive?” The DA glanced at Jackson.

  “He probably didn’t mean to,” Jackson speculated. “The father was likely his target. Or maybe the mother, but either way, he had to take out the father first. The kids may have been an afterthought. They probably came in to see what the commotion was about. The perp was on his way out and only knifed them because they saw him or got in his way. By then, his rage and energy were spent, and the attack on them was weaker. He may have thought the girl was dead.”

  Slonecker nodded and turned to the ME. “He didn’t use the baseball bat on the kids?”

  “The medics transported the girl out before I got here,” Gunderson said, “but the boy has no head trauma.”

  “The girl has none I could see,” Jackson added. “There might be two killers.”

  “We have a working theory then.” Slonecker shifted his weight like a man ready to move on. “Any suspects yet?”

  “We have patrol units looking for Shane Compton, a cousin who spends time here and used to have a drug problem.” Jackson walked lightly around the perimeter of the room. “I’m grabbing Carla Walker’s phone, then I’ll create a comprehensive list of contacts for the family.”

  “Anything you need from us, just ask. My assistants will write all the subpoenas to save you time.”

  “We need phone records going back three months for every cell phone in this house. I’ll have a list to you in a few minutes.”

  Jackson grabbed the denim purse, tucked it into his oversized bag, and began a room-by-room search. The first bedroom clearly belonged to a female. The bedspread was a fuzzy pale orange, and the walls held posters of Brad Pitt and a young female singer Jackson didn’t recognize. Clothes covered a rattan chair in the corner and books were scattered across the desk: a math book from school, a library book about Hawaii, and a paperback titled Dead Girl Walking. The room was fairly tidy for a teenager. McCray sat at the desk, perusing a small white laptop.

  “Did you see a cell phone in here?” Jackson asked.

  “I did a cursory search of the drawers and closet.” McCray glanced over his shoulder. “No drugs, no weapons, no cell phone.”

  His partner’s well-worn face seemed to have new worry lines. Was it the case or something personal? Now was not the time to ask. “Anything interesting on her laptop?”

  “Her internet history shows recent visits to a site where people connect with roommates and several sites listing rentals in Maui. She may have been planning, or at least dreaming of, a move to Hawaii.”

  “Seems like age-appropriate behavior. What about e-mails?”

  “Mostly to and from a girl named Jenna, no last name mentioned, and a guy named Dylan Dalka, who lives in Australia. Lori, the daughter, seems unhappy with her waitressing job and is worried about her family’s finances.”

  “Both parents were laid off recently. We’ll talk to their ex-employers tomorrow.” Jackson gave the room another quick look. Nothing grabbed his attention. “Is there a purse on the desk?”

  “There’s this.” McCray handed him a plastic evidence bag containing a small red backpack. “Her driver’s license says Lori Anne Walker, age eighteen.”

  She was about to graduate from high school, Jackson thought. Please let her live. His next thought gave him a jolt. What if Lori was still in danger? If the killer knew the family, he would soon find out Lori had survived. Jackson called Sergeant Lammers, who was probably still standing on the sidewalk, and asked for round-the-clock patrol support outside Lori’s hospital room.

  Jackson slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket, stuffed the red backpack into his now-bulging shoulder bag, and walked down the hall. The door to the next room stood open and the stink of rotting shoes drifted into the hallway. Clothes, papers, sports equipment, and gadgets cluttered the room like an invasive growth. Jackson was glad to be wearing gloves as he checked the pockets of the jeans on the floor, searching for the boy’s cell phone. He found a pocketknife, two condoms, and a crumpled notice from school. The cell phone was on top of a tall dresser crammed with unfolded clothes. Jackson bagged the phone, then conducted a quick search of the drawers and closet.

  Satisfied there was nothing pertinent in the boy’s room, Jackson crossed the hall to the master bedroom. Later, they would slow down and carefully examine everything, but right now he was looking for the obvious—a bloody handprint on the wall, a discharged weapon, hate mail—anything that would give them a direction and a suspect to bring into custody.

  The room was a study in contrasts. Light blue carpet for her, a brown-and-gray bedspread for the husband. Dozens of little perfume bottles and tiny glass sculptures on her dresser, and a pile of coins, receipts, and work gloves on his dresser. Jackson’s visual search revealed nothing si
gnificant—only more ceramic pigs, presumably collected by Carla, and a stack of hunting/fishing magazines, collected by Jared. On the surface, they seemed like a normal, working class couple with two normal kids.

  What the hell had happened here? Had a crazed killer chosen them at random?

  Jackson noticed the bed was elevated with corner blocks. He knelt next to it and clicked on his flashlight. Underneath, a large silver container took up a chunk of the space. He grabbed the handle and pulled it out where he could get a look. The weight surprised him, then he realized it was a gun safe. The shape indicated it contained rifles, and the case had a built-in lock that opened with a key. His team would search for the key, but if they didn’t find it, the evidence techs would bust open the safe at the crime lab.

  Evans came into the room. “Jackson, I think we have a timeframe for the crimes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The neighbor next door on the right heard shouting around eleven o’clock. She heard someone yell, ‘I’ll kill you.’”

  Chapter 3

  Marlyn Beebe was striking, with large violet eyes and dark hair that looked as if it would never go gray. Sitting straight as a board, she enunciated every word carefully. Evans had mentioned on the way over Marlyn was a librarian.

  “I was in the kitchen, making some chamomile tea. It helps me sleep.” Marlyn nodded between beats. “I heard shouting from the Walkers’ house. That’s when I heard someone yell ‘I’ll kill you.’” A tear rolled down Marlyn’s face. “I feel terrible now that I didn’t call the police.”

  They sat at her kitchen table, a gorgeous piece of handcrafted oak, and bright sunlight filled the space. Marlyn was drinking coffee that smelled wonderful. Jackson considered breaking his no-beverages-from-witnesses rule and accepting some. “What happened after?”

  “Nothing really. That’s why I didn’t call. People say that kind of thing when they’re mad. Parents say it to their kids all the time. ‘If you wreck my car, I’ll kill you.’”