Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)
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Books by L.J. Sellers
The Detective Jackson Series
The Sex Club
Secrets to Die For
Thrilled to Death
Passions of the Dead
Dying for Justice
Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves
Rules of Crime
Crimes of Memory
Deadly Bonds
Wrongful Death
The Agent Dallas Series
The Trigger
The Target
The Trap
The Lethal Effect (previously published as The Suicide Effect)
The Baby Thief
The Gauntlet Assassin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 L.J. Sellers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477822180
ISBN-10: 1477822186
Cover design by Paul Barrett
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951152
This story is dedicated to all the compassionate people around the world working to reduce homelessness and improve the lives of those who live on the streets. In addition, I’m dedicating a monthly portion of the royalties from Wrongful Death to my foundation, Housing Help. I started the charity with a goal of keeping families from becoming homeless, typically as a result of a short-term financial setback. Last year, we helped one family a month stay in their homes. This year, we hope to double that. Please visit the website and make a contribution if you can: www.housinghelpfoundation.com.
CONTENTS
Eugene, OR
Cast of Characters
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cast of Characters
Wade Jackson: detective, Violent Crimes Unit
Katie Jackson: Detective Jackson’s daughter
Derrick Jackson: Detective Jackson’s brother
Kera Kollmorgan: Detective Jackson’s girlfriend / nurse
Lara Evans: detective / task force member
Rob Schakowski (Schak): detective / task force member
Michael Quince: detective / task force member
Denise Lammers: Detective Jackson’s supervisor / sergeant
Sophie Speranza: newspaper reporter
Rich Gunderson: medical examiner (attends crime scenes)
Rudolph Konrad: pathologist (performs autopsies)
Jasmine Parker: evidence technician
Joe Berloni: evidence technician
Victor Slonecker: district attorney
Dan Thompson: slain police officer / Schak’s cousin
Donna Thompson: Officer Thompson’s mother / Schak’s aunt
Kurt Thompson: Officer Thompson’s brother / Schak’s cousin
Trisha Weber: Officer Thompson’s girlfriend
Gene Burns: Trisha’s ex-boyfriend / murder suspect
Jacob and Henry Walsh: homeless twins / suspects
Pete Scully: homeless man / suspect
Ashley Devonshire: sexual assault and suicide victim
Daren Sorenson: Ashley’s friend / suspect
Mara Andrade: sexual assault victim
Grace Marston: sexual assault victim
CHAPTER 1
Friday, November 21, 7:45 a.m.
YOUR DAUGHTER IS A WHORE. Clare Devonshire drew in a sharp breath. The phone pinged again, and a second text landed. No message this time, just an attached video. Fear pulsed through her torso. Paralyzed, she stared at the device. A third ping signaled another text. If Ashley was in some kind of trouble, she had to know. Bracing for the worst, she clicked it open. The message was brief: The video will go viral unless you pay me $15,000 to destroy it. You have until five today to get the cash. If you call the police, I’ll post it everywhere. I’ll text with instructions soon.
Oh god. What had her daughter done? Clare tried not to think about the money. They had just cashed out a retirement fund to pay their portion of her husband’s second round of leukemia treatment. And they’d maxed out their credit cards long ago. With a shaking hand, she plugged her phone into her laptop, downloaded the file, and clicked it open. In a low-lit room, Ashley lay on a mattress, naked, with her eyes closed. The bed was pushed up against a wall, covered with only a wrinkled white sheet. The camera focused on her daughter’s face, then zoomed in on her pubic area. A hand came into the picture, covered by an elbow-length dark-leather glove. The bastard began to fondle Ashley’s genitals. Her daughter didn’t move. She was unconscious! Coffee soured in Clare’s stomach. The man began to probe Ashley’s vagina, and Clare moved to shut it off.
But not fast enough.
“What are you watching?” Her daughter rushed into her small office and leaned over her shoulder. “Was that me? Turn it back on!”
The look on her daughter’s face hurt Clare’s heart. “You don’t need to see it.” She stood and tried to take Ashley into her arms.
Her daughter pushed her away. “Where did that come from?”
“It was texted to me.” Clare didn’t want Ashley to know about the blackmail. “But don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”
“How?” Ashley shrieked. “It’s a video. It’s probably online already!” She burst into tears. “If people see it, I can’t go back to school.”
The outburst brought her husband into the room, his pale, gaunt face pinched with concern. “What’s going on?”
Clare would have preferred not to burden him with more stress. He’d been through so much recently just to stay alive. “Let’s all sit down and be calm,” she said. “We have to figure out what happened, then decide our next move.”
Jay’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, but he didn’t sit. “What is this about?”
“Read the text.” Clare h
anded him her phone.
“What does it say?” Ashley demanded. “I have a right to know.”
Clare couldn’t hold back a sigh. “He wants money to destroy the video.”
“How much?” Ashley started to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
Through clenched teeth, her husband said, “We have to call the police.”
Clare knew he was right. But Ashley cried out, “No! I’m not talking to the cops. I’m not getting a rape kit. I’ll kill myself first.” She was sixteen and fully developed but emotionally still a kid.
“Sit down, Ashley!” Clare had to take charge before her daughter lost control. The girl was high-strung and probably needed a prescription, but they’d tried to teach her meditation and self-calming techniques instead. Clare didn’t trust antidepressants, or any mental health drugs for that matter. “Take three deep breaths and visualize yourself at the beach with all this in the past. You’ll get there soon.”
Ashley started to breathe in, then ran to the hall bathroom, where they heard her vomiting.
Jay squeezed Clare’s hand. “Did you watch the video?”
“Only the first minute. Ashley is naked and unconscious and being sexually molested.”
Jay let out a guttural sound, then jumped up and swore like a bouncer at a biker rally. He paced the room, shouting questions. “How did this happen? Where was she? Did you ask her?”
“Not yet. She got hysterical.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Wait. Let’s find out what we can from Ashley first. Maybe we can handle this.”
“We don’t have that kind of money anymore. We should call the police.”
“He said he would post the video if we did.” Clare heard her own voice rise in pitch. “What are the cops going to do? They’ll never find him in time to help us.”
Ashley came back into the room, her face chalk white and damp from being splashed with water. “Don’t do anything! Don’t call the police and don’t pay him. This is my fault.”
“Who is he?” Clare finally asked. “Do you know him?”
“No!” Her daughter’s eyes were wild with pain. “I was at a party, and I must have blacked out. I woke up in front of the house after midnight, and I knew I’d been raped.”
“When did this happen?” Her husband’s voice had a tortured quality—as if he knew the answer would hurt.
And it did.
“Wednesday. The last night you were in the hospital.” Ashley glanced over at Clare. “Mom was out with friends.”
Guilt ripped at her guts, and Clare lashed out. “Goddammit! One fucking night to cut loose and be a person, instead of a nursemaid or a mother or housekeeper. And now we all have to pay for it!”
Her husband and daughter both looked stunned—Jay with his mouth open, and Ashley with tight, angry lips.
“I’m sorry.” Clare met her daughter’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. You were victimized. But you need to tell us everything about the party. What house? Who was there? Who did you talk to?”
“I can’t! My friends will hate me.” Ashley spun and fled the room.
Clare turned to Jay, her jaw aching with tension. “Should we just borrow the money and pay him?”
Her mild-mannered husband slammed a fist into the back of a chair, making her jump. “Even if we could get a bank loan, it’ll take a week.” His face twisted into a derisive sneer. “Do you want to ask your mother for it?”
“You know I can’t. What do we do?”
“I don’t know yet.” Her husband’s voice was so tight, he sounded like a stranger.
Clare’s cell phone pinged again. “That’s him, texting with instructions.”
“Tell him we need more time.”
Friday, November 21, 5:25 p.m.
Officer Dan Thompson recoiled at the man’s smell—booze, piss, and a splash of vomit. But he handed the homeless guy a blanket and a pair of wool socks. Everyone had a story, and some people’s bad luck started early in life. “Find shelter and stay warm tonight.” The old man thanked him and headed back toward the camp, a hodgepodge of ragged tents and cardboard lean-tos. It wasn’t a sponsored, supervised site like Opportunity Village or the rest stops, but those sleeping areas were limited in how many they could accept. This camp was farther from the town’s center than usual, but his fellow officers routinely rousted the campers, forcing them to keep moving.
Only a few more people lined up near the back of his truck, where he handed out jackets, blankets, and whatever warm items the community had donated over the last week. He did the giveaway every year when the temperature dropped down. It was always on his own time, but he’d kept his uniform on to help build goodwill with the homeless community. His weapon was locked in the truck for the same reason.
A woman with a young child stepped up. “Do you have a jacket for my daughter?” The mother was still in her twenties, but even in the fading light he could tell she’d been homeless long enough for her facial skin to develop a protective thickness.
“I’m sorry, but I gave away the children’s coats at Shelter Care.” The complex where homeless families with young children could stay temporarily had been his first stop. But why wasn’t this woman in a shelter? This camp wasn’t safe for children. He handed her a blanket and a sweater. “This is the only clothing I have left.”
“Thanks, officer.”
“Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“In a tent here with a friend.”
“It’s freezing, and your daughter should be in a shelter.”
“I know.” Her face crumpled with anguish. “But I missed my intake appointment because I had a job interview. Then I didn’t get the job.” Tears rolled down her face.
Thompson dug for his wallet and held out a couple of twenties, all he had left. “Go get a motel room for tonight, then show up at Shelter Care first thing tomorrow morning and talk to Gayle.”
The woman hesitated for a brief second, then grabbed the cash and stuffed it into her front jeans pocket. “Thank you so much.” The woman and child hurried away, heading back toward Sixth Avenue, where they could find a cheap room rental.
Thompson handed his last blanket to the next man in line, thirty-something with a full beard, but clean and—based on his eye contact—sober too.
Thompson looked at two men in line behind him. “I’m sorry, but I’m out of stuff.” No matter how much he collected, it was never enough.
“Do you have more money?” one of the men asked, stepping toward him.
Thompson recognized him and his brother. Twins who’d been a part of Eugene’s street scene for as long as he could remember. Henry and Jacob. But he could never tell them apart.
“No. I’m done here. Sorry.” Thompson closed the tailgate and climbed into his truck. There was nothing more he could do for the homeless tonight. Engaging with the mentally ill brothers would be a waste of time.
He sat for a moment, watching the camp a half block away. This one didn’t have sponsors, stability, or a portable toilet like several others in town did. It was chaotic and messy, with an ever-changing population. The drunks and crazies stayed here because they weren’t welcome—at least for long—in the other camps, and most had been banned from the Mission. But they were still people, and he slept better at night knowing they wouldn’t freeze to death on his watch. The cold had come early this year, and the warming centers weren’t open yet, so people on the street were vulnerable.
Thompson reached for his keys, ready to go home, pour a shot of bourbon, and unwind. If he could. He had a lot on his mind and tough choices to make. A knock on the passenger’s window startled him, and he turned. Now what?
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, November 22, 7:45 a.m.
Wade Jackson opened the newspaper to the real estate section and scanned for house rentals. At the counter, Kera made
coffee with her usual efficient grace. An overwhelming love and gratitude filled his heart. She was beautiful, even first thing in the morning. Wide cheeks, full lips, and a smile you could see from a mile away. But it was the size of her heart that made him lucky to have her in his life.
She set a tall cup of java on the table near him, and he patted her butt, which she pretended to ignore. He was enjoying their time alone. He’d spent a rare night with her, and their toddlers were still sleeping.
She leaned over his shoulder, glancing at the paper. “What are you looking for?”
“A four-bedroom rental.” Jackson looked up and grinned.
“You really think you’re ready?” Her green eyes were both hopeful and skeptical.
“It’s time. I’m tired of shuffling back and forth between houses. And now that Derrick is home all the time, and Benjie is with us, the old house feels too small.” His brother, Derrick, had been a long-haul truck driver when Jackson and his daughter moved into the old family home, so they’d had the place mostly to themselves. Then Derrick had switched jobs, and Jackson had brought Benjie home after finding him at a crime scene.
Kera gave him a mock scowl. “You were supposed to say something sweet about how you can’t stand to be away from me.”
“That too.” He stood and pulled her in for a hug. “Let’s do this. I want you in my life every day, even if only for a few minutes when I have those long investigation days.”
“What’s the plan? Sell both houses?”
“Let’s call an agent and put them on the market.” They had discussed it a few times since Benjie had come into his life and Danette, Kera’s daughter-in-law, had left hers, but always in a vague, someday way. “Derrick and I planned all along to sell our folks’ house, and you . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to remind her of her grief.
“I know. I should get out of here.”
Kera’s only son had died in Iraq at the age of eighteen. But Nate had fathered a child before he left. Then the boy’s mother, who’d lived with Kera since the baby was born, had died in a car accident recently. Now Kera was raising little Micah in a big house filled with painful memories.