Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  That surprised Jackson. Before he could say anything, Quince added, “It’s personal. And financial.”

  Evans jotted a name on the board. “I also need to find a homeless vet named Boxer and bring him in. He supposedly hates cops and may have threatened Thompson.”

  “Do you know where to look?” Jackson asked.

  “Jacob says he sleeps at the Mission most of the time when it’s cold.”

  “I can put out an attempt-to-locate,” Jackson offered, knowing it wasn’t much good without a description. “We do have to look at other suspects. Thompson’s credit cards and phone were gone, but the twins didn’t have either. Still, one of them could have killed him, then they panicked and fled. Someone else could have come along after he was dead and picked up the valuables.” Jackson remembered the shed they’d mentioned. “They sleep in a shed that belongs to a woman named Ella. Near the corner of Third and Monroe. I’ll track it down and do a search.”

  “What have you got for me?” Lammers asked.

  He hesitated, not wanting to annoy her with a crappy assignment. The payback could be rough. “Will you look into Thompson’s financial records?”

  “Sure. But it’s Saturday, so it could be slow getting access.” She made a note on her yellow pad, then looked up abruptly. “That reminds me. Schak said Thompson was dating a woman named Trisha Weber, who works at the Crescent Medical Clinic.”

  “Thanks. I’ll track her down. Maybe she can help us trace his last days.”

  Lammers added, “Thompson worked a shift yesterday and left around four. I’ll access his log and see who he interacted with.”

  Jackson’s phone rang, and he glanced at the ID: Schak. He had to take it. He signaled to the others, then stepped away from the conference table. They would still hear his side of the conversation, but it wouldn’t be in their faces. “Hey, Schak. Are you doing okay?”

  “Sort of. I know the task force is meeting. What have you got?”

  “The street twins, Henry and Jacob Walsh, are in custody. They interacted with Thompson right before he died, but we don’t have anything solid yet.”

  “That’s better than I expected to hear.” A pause. “Do they have a history of violence?”

  “Nothing recent. But they were incarcerated briefly as teenagers for assaulting a caregiver.”

  “Lammers gave me a case to work, so I’m keeping busy, but leave me a message if anything develops.”

  “I will. Take care.”

  Jackson turned back to the task force. “You heard what I said about the twins’ record?”

  Evans was already writing the information on the case board.

  From below, a loud wailing came from the interrogation rooms. The pain in their cries made Jackson’s nerves ping.

  Lammers said, “If we can hear them, Willow can too. And she’s probably calling the media. Let’s go talk to the chief about how he wants to handle this.”

  Jackson stood. “We’ll meet back here in the morning—unless something breaks.”

  Chief Warner looked like a man having a bad day. His shirt had a stain, his face shimmered with sweat, and his jaw was clenched. “I just got off the phone with the head of the citizens’ review board,” Warner said, not inviting them to sit. “He wants to meet right now to talk about how we’re treating the homeless during this investigation. Apparently, that damn activist is already complaining to everyone who will listen.”

  “You mean Sidney Willow?” Lammers asked. “She’s here in the building.”

  “What?” Warner’s eyes twitched in panic. “Please tell me you have a suspect in custody.”

  “We have two suspects,” Jackson said. “The street twins. Can’t you hear them?”

  The chief’s forehead crinkled and he cocked his head. “I thought that was the heating system. It’s noisy in this corner, and my hearing is shot.”

  “The activist is demanding their release, unless we charge them and process them,” Lammers added. “And if we don’t do something, she’ll stage a protest right in our parking lot, with media cameras and all.”

  “Oh fuck.” The chief rubbed his face. “Do we have anything on them?”

  “Just proximity so far,” Jackson said. “But we think we have the weapon, and we’re waiting for the crime lab to process the twins’ prints.”

  “Then let them go. But put an officer on them until we know more.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lammers turned and headed out.

  Relieved, Jackson followed. At least now if things went south, the chief would take the heat for it. On the walk back to their corner of the building, he said, “I’ll call the crime lab and see what they have on the prints.” The second floor of the building was spacious and quiet, and Jackson was reminded of how nice it was compared to the old headquarters.

  Yet below them, the twins were still making a ruckus.

  “Let’s get them out of here, one way or another,” Lammers grumbled, then ducked into her enclosed office.

  Jackson stepped into his cubicle and called Joe Berloni, who picked up after a long series of rings. “Hey, Jackson.”

  “Anything on the prints from the broken bottle yet?”

  “Come on, you just dropped it off. And I’m on my way to another death scene.”

  “I know. Any idea when you’ll get to it?”

  “Maybe tomorrow, if I can get the overtime approved.”

  “Thanks. Keep me updated.” Jackson started to hang up.

  “Wait,” Joe called out. “I did look at it, and there aren’t any prints on the neck of the bottle, where you would grip it to use as a weapon.”

  Had it been wiped? “What about the rest of the bottle?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson hung up and headed for the conference room, his mind on the bottle neck. Would a street person know to wipe his prints off the weapon? And if he was that careful, why leave it near the scene?

  Then it hit him. Gloves. It was cold out there, and Thompson had been handing out gloves and socks, along with blankets. They weren’t going to get prints off the weapon because the killer had been wearing gloves. Crap.

  Jackson found Evans in the conference room, watching the twins on the monitor. They were talking to each other through the wall—shouting, actually, to be heard.

  “The chief wants to release them,” Jackson said.

  “I knew it.” She turned to face him. “Should I tail them?”

  “We’ll put a patrol officer on them. I need you with the investigation.”

  Released from the interrogation rooms, the brothers clasped hands for a moment in a silent gesture of reassurance, then started talking in rapid fire, some of it directed to each other and some at Jackson.

  “When do we get our other coats back?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Can we still get to the diner?”

  “Is Willow here?”

  They seemed almost childlike. Was either really capable of a violent murder?

  Jackson led them into the lobby, where Willow waited with two other women. One was Sophie Speranza, a reporter from the Willamette News. What a pain in the butt she could be. But at least the TV people and their cameras weren’t present. Jackson spun around and disappeared down the hall. He had no intention of speaking to any of them.

  After the group left the building, he went back to the desk officer. “Which sergeant is on patrol command?”

  “Bruckner. But Sergeant Lammers already notified him. Officer Bremmer is following your suspects now.”

  Bremmer? Wasn’t he the one who’d used a baton on suspects at the camp that morning? “Does Bremmer know to contact me first if anything happens?”

  “I’ll radio and remind him.”

  “Tell him I said to keep his hands off the twins.”

 
; CHAPTER 8

  Saturday, November 22, 2:07 p.m.

  Sophie’s desk phone rang, startling her. Almost all her calls came on her cell phone, and it was Saturday. Not many people called the newspaper on the weekend. This was a new shift for her. She picked up. “Sophie Speranza.”

  “Hi. It’s Willow. We met at a city council meeting once.”

  “I remember. You founded the Sleep Is a Right Association.” Known as SIRA, the group advocated for homeless people.

  “I’ve got a story for you.”

  A shot of adrenaline made Sophie sit up. “What is it?”

  “A police officer was killed last night, and they’re holding the street twins. They won’t let me see them or give them counsel.”

  What the hell? “What officer? When did this happen?”

  “Dan Thompson, the one who collected blankets and jackets every year and passed them out.”

  “That’s tragic.” Why hadn’t the police department told her when she called for the morning update? “When did he die, and how did you find out?”

  “I don’t know exactly when, but today a SIRA member called and told me the police had picked up the twins.”

  “What twins?”

  “The homeless brothers who’ve been on the streets of Eugene forever. You’ve never seen them?”

  “No. Sorry.” Sophie had moved to Eugene to attend college, so she’d only been in the area about eight years. It had never been her intention to stay, but newspapers and magazines across the nation had started laying off thousands right after she got the job at the Willamette News, so she’d been more or less stuck.

  “Henry and Jacob Walsh, age thirty-three, with mild mental handicaps and personality disorders. Their parents died in a freak accident when they were thirteen. They lived with an uncle for a while then ran away and have been on their own since.”

  A profile story by themselves. “Who’s handling the investigation?”

  “Detective Jackson. Do you know him?”

  “We have a working relationship.” Meaning, Jackson tolerated her because he found her useful sometimes. “He’s also a decent man. He won’t abuse the twins to get information.”

  “But he will take advantage of their naïveté. Any cop would. I need to get in there and make them understand their right not to incriminate themselves.”

  “Could they have committed the murder? Jackson must think so.”

  “No.” Willow raised her voice. “They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Come to the department and start asking questions. The fear of bad press might pressure them into doing the right thing.”

  “I’ll do that.” She would call Jackson first and see what he had to say. “Let’s stay in touch.” Sophie started to hang up, then remembered she was on a landline. “What’s your number so I can contact you?”

  They exchanged information, including emails. Sophie closed out the article she was working on—an update on a murder trial in which a young man was accused of killing his ex-girlfriend with a baseball bat. It was the third murder trial in Eugene in as many months. This time, meth hadn’t been to blame. The guy was just a control-freak asshole who’d killed the woman he loved rather than let her date someone else.

  Sophie headed for the break room to make a cup of tea. The office was quiet on Saturday, with only a few sportswriters, her, and a copy editor in house. An intern from the University of Oregon was supposed to show up today and start shadowing her. The interns made everyone nervous, Sophie included. Management had been shifting experienced reporters into crappy positions, such as obituaries or covering Springfield, their sister city. Or, in one case, writing entertainment reviews they weren’t qualified to do. Eventually, the stress or the bad performance reports forced the old-timers to quit or be fired, then the paper hired an intern at half the wages and benefits.

  She’d felt protected, having only been employed for five years and earning well under the top of the pay scale. But recently, management had shifted her to working weekends and hired an intern for the crime-and-court beat. Sophie knew she was next to go, and it broke her heart. No, Jasmine had broken her heart by dumping her. This was just a job, she reminded herself. A job she loved! And was damn good at.

  Back at her desk, she sipped her tea and decided to call Jasmine. Maybe her ex-lover would give her another scoop—out of guilt. It couldn’t hurt to ask. Jasmine’s phone went unanswered. The crime scene technician was probably working the new homicide. Sophie left a message: “Hey, gorgeous. I heard that an officer was murdered. Can you tell me anything? I’m hanging on to my job by a thread here, and insider details are all that make me look better than the intern they brought in to replace me. Thanks. Call me.”

  She tried Jackson next and left him a message too, but with less personal pleading. Her next call was to Brian, the crime-beat photographer, and she asked him to meet her at the police department if he could. Sophie shut down her computer and grabbed her big red shoulder bag, which contained her own camera. She needed to get down to the department and cover the story about the twins and the officer’s murder. The intern would get by without her for half a day.

  But on her way out, she ran into the young woman, as she clumped up the stairs to the second level, where the whole staff was now crammed in.

  “Hi, Sophie.” A big friendly smile. With a volleyball player’s body, Zee towered over her. She was pretty too. Men still ran newsrooms.

  “Hey, I was headed out,” Sophie said. “Sorry we didn’t connect today.”

  The intern’s happy face fell. “Is it a new story? Can I go with you? I want to learn.”

  Shit on a stick. How could she say no to another upcoming journalist? How could she not help another woman who was trying to launch a career? Sophie hated management even more for putting her in this position—training the person who would push her out. How fucked up was that?

  “Sure,” she finally said. “I’m headed to the police department.” Sophie passed Zee on the steps and kept moving. “It’s a breaking story about a murdered officer and the suspects they’re holding.”

  Zee pounded down after her. “Suspects? More than one person killed the cop? That’s horrible.”

  Sophie made another decision she knew she would regret. “Why don’t you ride over with me, and I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  It snowed for a few minutes on the drive over, and Sophie cursed the weather. She also complained about the location of the EPD’s new building on Country Club Road. It seemed wrong for the community that neither the newspaper nor the police department were downtown anymore.

  Willow stood in the lobby with the sign that she seemed to carry everywhere. The activist was about Sophie’s age and claimed to be a U. of O. law student. But Willow showed up everywhere, and Sophie didn’t understand how she had time to attend classes and study.

  An officer entered the space, so Sophie stopped ten feet back and took a photo of Willow with the uniformed man in the background. It would make a nice shot—if she didn’t get one with the twin suspects.

  “Any update?” she asked as Willow approached her. Sophie took out her recorder and clicked it on. Zee quickly did the same.

  “Detective Jackson won’t let me see them unless they ask for me. They know they can call me if they have issues about where they’re going to sleep, but we never talked about what to do if they were arrested.”

  “Do they have a diminished capacity?”

  “Somewhat. But they also have mental health issues. I’m very worried for them.”

  “Should you try for a court order?”

  “One of my associates is working on that now.”

  “You mean someone from SIRA?” Beside her, Zee used her cell phone to take photos of Willow talking.

  “A lawyer who does pro bono
work for us.”

  Sophie wanted case details. “What do you know about the murder? Or the police officer?”

  “His name’s Dan Thompson, and he was a great guy. He advocated for the homeless community within the police department and conducted the annual drive to gather and distribute warm items to those in need.” Willow finally put down her sign. “His death is very disturbing to me. Especially if a street person killed him. And I just heard that he was murdered near the new camp out on West Fifth. Apparently, the twins were the last people in line to get blankets.”

  “Is that why Jackson picked them up? Is that all the police have to go on?”

  Willow’s brave face collapsed. “I don’t know. I don’t believe the twins killed him, but if they were in the vicinity, the evidence might look bad for them.”

  A barrage of footsteps caught their attention. Detective Jackson was in front of the group. A well-built, attractive man with dark hair and even darker irises. Sophie loved the little scar above his left eye. He was too old to be her type, but now that she was dating a man again, she found herself more attracted to all of them.

  Behind Jackson were two men in their early thirties—tall, skinny guys with matching faces, both wearing new jackets. They looked at each other as they talked—rapid-fire dialogue about where they would go next. Sophie started toward Jackson, hoping to ask him a question, but he turned and strode away.

  Chicken.

  The twins rushed to Willow. They expressed thanks but didn’t hug her. Sophie took photos as the three talked, getting close-ups as well as distance shots that showed the police department counter behind them. Willow introduced Sophie and Zee as “observers” and “truth tellers,” then suggested they all go outside. The five of them moved toward the doors.

  While Willow made a call to the pro bono lawyer, Sophie interrupted the twins to ask a question. “Do you know what happened to Officer Thompson last night?” Recorder still in hand, she clicked it on.

  “They say he was killed,” Henry, in the lighter-blue jacket, responded.

  “Do you know who did it?”