Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  They both shook their heads.

  “Did you see anything unusual? Did you see Officer Thompson talk to anyone after he stopped handing out blankets?”

  “In the truck, yes,” Henry said.

  “Who was it?”

  They both shrugged.

  “We’re hungry.” Jacob touched his stomach. “Will you take us to the diner?”

  Sophie wanted to ask more questions, but she’d lost their attention, and they were chatting with each other again. She clicked off the recorder, wondering if Jackson knew someone had been in Thompson’s truck with him before he died.

  CHAPTER 9

  Saturday, November 22, 3:35 p.m.

  The Sorensons’ home looked much like the Devonshires’. Red-brick trim, beige paint, and a lush green yard, even in November. But at this house a small bicycle lay near the front step, and the trash bins had been left on the curb—the only signs of disarray in the whole upscale neighborhood.

  Schak stopped on the street, noting that the driveway held three vehicles, parked at an angle to fit them all in. Pleased to find occupants home on a late weekend afternoon, he knocked on the door. Music from inside the house pulsed through the walls. Rap crap. Why were the parents putting up with it?

  No one answered, so he pounded on the door. After a long wait, he turned the knob, leaned in, and shouted, “Eugene Police!”

  A moment later, someone yelled, “Turn that off! Someone is here!”

  A middle-aged woman came to the door and gave him a nervous smile. Her baggy black clothes and makeup-free face made him wonder if she was in mourning.

  When the music cut out, Schak introduced himself. “Detective Schakowski, EPD. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “Sorry about the music. I was wearing headphones and didn’t realize Daren had it that loud.” She didn’t move to let him in.

  “This isn’t about the noise. I need to talk to Anna Sorenson. Is she your daughter?”

  The woman’s eyes widened for a quick second, then she stepped back and let him in. “What’s this about?”

  “Ashley Devonshire. And a party they both attended.”

  “Were they drinking?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the issue.” Schak realized there were several teenagers in the house. “How old is Daren?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “I’ll need to talk to him as well. But Anna first.”

  “Have a seat in the living room. I’ll get her.” Mrs. Sorenson started up the stairs, moving slowly, as if in pain.

  It seemed everyone over forty had something wrong. He’d had a heart attack a few years back and lived with the constant worry that it would happen again. He remained standing and looked around. The home was nicely appointed but had suffered some abuse. A dark stain on the area rug, a tear in the arm of the leather couch, and a layer of dust everywhere.

  A teenage girl came down the stairs a minute later. She had her mother’s cheerful but forgettable face and the body of a gymnast. Her mother followed her into the living room.

  “I’d like to speak to Anna alone for a moment.” Teenagers never confessed anything in front of their parents—even knowing they would find out later.

  Mrs. Sorenson hesitated, staring at her daughter.

  Anna said, “It’s okay, Mom.”

  The mother retreated into a bedroom on the first floor. Schak thought she might do that a lot, especially if she was raising the kids alone. He gestured for the girl to sit, and she curled herself into one end of the couch. Schak perched on the opposite arm. “Where did you and Ashley Devonshire go last Wednesday?”

  “What do you mean? We worked on our science project.” She looked at him with innocent eyes, then chewed on a hangnail.

  “You went to a party. I want to know where.” Schak softened his voice. “I’m not here to cite you for underage drinking. But I have to know the location and who Ashley talked to that evening.”

  “Brian Carter’s. He’s a friend of my brother.”

  “Did Daren drive you there?”

  “No, I have my own car.”

  She looked fourteen. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be seventeen in January.”

  “But your brother was at the party too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did Ashley leave with?”

  The girl squirmed and tucked her feet under herself. “I don’t know. I left after an hour, but she wanted to stay.”

  How many kids would he have to talk to? “Who was she with when you left?”

  “No one, really. She was doing shots and dancing.”

  “Were any boys hitting on her?”

  “The usual.” Anna suddenly sat upright. “What is this about? Did something happen to Ashley?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” A high-pitched panic.

  He really didn’t want to have the next part of the conversation. “Ashley was sexually assaulted and dropped off in her yard. Any idea who could have done that to her?”

  “Oh god. I shouldn’t have left her.” Anna pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around them. “No wonder she didn’t come to school Friday.”

  “Answer my question. Do you know who could have assaulted her?”

  “No.” The girl was near tears. “I don’t think she’s the first one.”

  A shock wave kicked through his chest. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard a rumor that Mara Andrade was raped last year. She’s a senior at Riverside, but I don’t really know her.”

  Schak wrote down the name, worried that he’d spelled it wrong. “Do you have her phone number? Or know her parents’ names?”

  “No, but I can ask around and see.”

  The family might even be in the phonebook. “Does your brother, Daren, know Mara?”

  The girl’s eyes shifted from puzzled to nervous. “Yeah, so? We all go to the same school.”

  “I need you to make a list of everyone you knew at the party.”

  “Is Ashley all right?”

  He wasn’t going to break the news of another death. Not today. It wasn’t his responsibility. “No, she’s not. But I’m not answering questions. Go make that list.”

  She scampered toward a drawer in the kitchen, chewing the hangnail again.

  Schak went to the stairs and yelled for Daren to come down. When the teenager didn’t respond or show his face, Schak trotted upstairs to search. He opened the doors on both sides and found two empty bedrooms. Daren wasn’t in the bathroom either. Well shit. The kid had bolted. Schak went to find the mother to get permission to search her son’s room. The idiot should have stayed and answered questions. Just one piece of incriminating evidence, and he would put out an attempt-to-locate. Daren Sorenson wouldn’t get far.

  CHAPTER 10

  Saturday, November 22, 5:05 p.m.

  Without a last name for Ella, Jackson decided to drive to the corner of Third and Monroe and look for a house with an accessible shed. Daylight was fading fast, and he wished he’d gotten out earlier. The homes in the Whiteaker neighborhood had been built in the fifties, so they were smaller than those in the new subdivisions. They had mature landscaping and overgrown trees with red and gold leaves still clinging to the branches.

  After a minute of walking around, he spotted a cottage with a green metal shed in the side yard. The name on the mailbox: Ella Fitzroy. No one answered his knock, so he entered the side gate and jogged up the path to the shed. A shopping cart handle stuck out behind the metal structure, and beyond it, a tall hedge separated the side yard from the backyard. A padlock held the sliding doors closed, so Jackson scooted back to look at the shopping cart. He found two. Various soda cans and empty beer bottles filled the bottom of both carts. Piled on top were items of clothing, a backpack for each, and an odd collection o
f that day’s findings: a ratty stuffed elephant, a dying houseplant, and a pink yo-yo.

  Jackson rummaged through the clothes, but none seemed to have blood spatter. Then he noticed the label on the brown bottles. Colt 45. The same brand as the jagged weapon at the crime scene. He took pictures of the bottles, hoping the flash on his camera would produce a decent picture in the dim light. A sliding metal sound made him pause.

  “What are you doing back there?” The woman’s voice startled him, and he spun around.

  Shaped like a funnel, with linebacker shoulders and skinny ankles, the older woman stood in a doorway on the side of the house.

  “Police work.” Jackson smiled and introduced himself. “I knocked on your door and nobody answered.”

  “So you thought you’d just enter my property?” Her mouth pulled into a grim line, and she looked as if she’d just woken up.

  “I’m sorry. But a police officer has been killed, and the homeless men who sleep in your shed are prime suspects.”

  “Oh no!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe the twins would hurt someone.”

  “Can I come in? I’d like to ask some questions.”

  “I don’t know anything that would help you. The twins come and go independently.”

  Jackson stepped toward her and pulled out his notepad. “What time did they show up here last night?”

  “I don’t know. But I heard them arguing around ten.”

  “Did you see them or talk to them?”

  “No. That’s part of our deal. We don’t interact much.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “They attend my church. I didn’t know they were homeless until I saw them at a service event at the fairgrounds. I offered them a safe place to sleep.”

  Jackson didn’t think it was smart or safe to offer shelter to mentally ill street people, but he kept that to himself. “When you heard them argue, were they just arriving?”

  “I don’t know.” She pulled her sweater tight, bracing against the cold. “I’d like you to leave, please.”

  He didn’t understand her attitude. “I need permission to search the shed. As I said, a police officer has been murdered.”

  “You’ll have to ask the twins. I won’t invade their privacy.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Somewhere. But you’re wrong about them. Please leave.” She started to close the door.

  “I’ll be back with a search warrant.”

  She ignored him, and he heard the door lock. Jackson went back to his car, wondering if she would go so far as to hide evidence after he’d left. Was she more connected to the twins than she was willing to admit?

  Jackson drove to the department and updated his case notes. His stomach growled, and he checked his watch. He’d missed lunch, and it was time to pick up Benjie and go home for dinner. But he wanted to contact Trisha Weber before she left the clinic. Was it too late? He called Crescent and asked to speak to her, but was informed she’d left for the day.

  “When is she scheduled again?”

  “I can’t give you that information. But if you’re the guy that keeps harassing her, I’m calling the cops.”

  A bad vibe flashed through his head. “I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Who is the guy who keeps harassing Trisha?”

  “Her ex. I don’t know his name.”

  “Will you give me Trisha’s phone number? I need to talk to her.”

  “I can’t do that. But she’ll be here tomorrow morning at ten. Our urgent care clinic is open until three tomorrow.” The receptionist hung up before he could ask another question.

  Jackson googled Trisha Weber but didn’t find anything but an old newspaper article in which she was mentioned as someone who’d been helped by Womenspace, a local shelter for battered women. How violent was her ex? A sense of urgency tugged at Jackson to find the man. But Trisha didn’t have a Facebook page or a criminal record. He finally found her in a case file from two years earlier. She’d been assaulted by Gene Burns, who’d gone to prison and was now out on parole. Jackson would check with the Parole and Probation office in the morning to see if they had an address for Burns, then he would visit the clinic to talk to Trisha. What if her ex had been jealous of Trisha’s new boyfriend, Dan Thompson, and come after him?

  CHAPTER 11

  Saturday, November 22, 4:40 p.m.

  Schak questioned Mrs. Sorenson about Daren, but she became uncooperative, insisting her son couldn’t possibly be a sexual predator. No one wanted to believe the worst of their children. He would have said the same if someone had suggested Brad was a rapist. The mother reluctantly gave him a photo of Daren, but refused to let Schak search his room or turn on his computer.

  He went to his car, turned on the heat, and compared the names on Anna’s list with the contacts in Ashley’s phone. Two overlaps came up. Taylor Crenshaw, who was already in his notes as a best friend, and Daren Sorenson, the brother whose friend held the party. As much as he wanted to go home, put up his feet, and toss back a shot of bourbon with a Miller chaser, he decided to check out the party house first. If he kept working, he wouldn’t be sad about Danny, or think about all the violent assholes who lived in Eugene, or worry about his son getting shot in the head during a traffic stop—all of which made him want to get numb-drunk. If he wanted to stay married, he had to stay sober.

  He called Tracy—relieved when she didn’t pick up—and left her a message that he had to work late. Feeling hungry, he picked up a small cheeseburger, because he really needed a moment of pleasure in this bleak day. In the dark parking lot, he ate in his car, sipping coffee and wishing it were beer. Danny kept floating into his brain. All the camping trips they’d taken together, with their mothers when they were young, then on their own as teenagers. Drinking beer around a campfire and speculating about their futures. Danny had no future now. The realization overwhelmed him, and rather than let himself be paralyzed by it, Schak started the car and moved on.

  The address where the party had taken place was in a neighborhood near campus, so he crossed the downtown area, noticing that the teenagers who hung out near the bus station and library had gone home—or wherever they went at night. Many were sofa-surfers, who lived out of a backpack and slept in a different house every night so they wouldn’t wear out their welcome anywhere. Technically, they were part of the Eugene homeless population, but he didn’t think they got counted.

  The party house on Lawrence, just outside the university area, was a ranch-style home built in the sixties that had become a rental as people bought newer homes farther out. The lawn hadn’t been mowed before winter set in, and the paint on the house didn’t match in places. Cool fingers of worry tickled down his neck. Gang members had likely tagged the home, and the residents had painted over the graffiti. Schak called dispatch to let them know where he was. “It’s just routine questioning,” he added. “But send a patrol unit around if they’re not busy.”

  He climbed out and strode up the edge of the driveway, noting that both cars were silver Toyotas—the most frequently stolen vehicle in the state. Before he reached the cement landing, a young man stepped out and closed the door behind him, cheerfully calling out, “Hey, what can I do for you?”

  The kid obviously had something to hide and didn’t want a guy in a dark suit and crew cut poking around. “Detective Rob Schakowski, EPD. You had a party here last Wednesday.”

  “What about it?”

  Schak took mental notes. Early twenties, stocky build, and shaggy hair. Hazel eyes and freckles. “First, what’s your name?”

  The young man hesitated.

  “Lying to a police officer is punishable by up to six months in jail and a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine.”

  He swallowed hard. “Brian Carter.”

  Schak jotted it down. “I want a list of all the men who attended the party.”
>
  “Whoa. That could be tough. I have roommates, and they invited people. And those people have friends.” He nodded his head in an exaggerated gesture of uncertainty. “So a lot of people came and went. And I only know a few.”

  Schak wanted to go inside, but he suspected he would need a warrant. This kid was cagey. “Do you know Ashley Devonshire?”

  “I think I met her at the party. A friend of a friend. Why?”

  “Did you get her drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Who gave her alcohol?”

  Carter shrugged. “Maybe she brought her own.”

  “Who did you see her with?”

  “She spent time with Daren Sorenson.”

  The best friend’s brother. “Did she leave with him?”

  “I don’t know. Someone called the cops, and after the officer showed up, all the minors ran.”

  That threw him off. Had the assault happened here in the house? Or had someone grabbed Ashley as she left? “What time did the party break up?”

  “Around ten thirty. It was a bummer.”

  “I’d like to come in and look around while you make that list. And talk to your roommates.”

  Silence while he shifted his feet and worked up his courage. “I can’t let you do that without a warrant.”

  Schak was tempted to pretend he smelled someone smoking pot in the house as an excuse to go in. But he changed his mind. It wasn’t even a crime anymore, and if he found the assault room, he needed his search to hold up in court. “I need to talk to your roommates.”

  “They’re not here.”

  Bullshit. Two cars were in the driveway. “I want that list of guys who attended. And their phone numbers.” Schak handed him a piece of notepaper and a pen.

  Carter scribbled for fifteen seconds and handed it back. Four names and two phone numbers. It was something, but Schak also needed a search warrant and subpoenas to compel testimony. He handed Carter a business card. “A young girl was sexually assaulted during or after your party. Be a good citizen and help me with this investigation.”