“Right. I will.” The young man’s body relaxed with obvious relief.
Schak took his picture and several more of the house just to make the guy nervous again. He also sat in his car out front for a few minutes, just for good measure.
Still hungry on the drive back, he stopped for another burger at the Sixth Street Grill—an old habit from when the department was located downtown. When the waitress asked him if he wanted to start with something to drink, he hesitated, then thought, Fuck that. His cousin had died, and he was grieving. Tracy couldn’t expect him to stop drinking today, of all days. So he ordered a pint and a bacon cheeseburger, which would also piss her off. But he needed something to make him feel better.
While he ate, he planned his next moves. First, run the names of the men at the party through the database and see if any had criminal records, particularly sexual crimes. Then, if it wasn’t too late, visit Mara Andrade and see if she had been victimized by the same person. He hoped she would provide more detail. Schak changed his mind and decided to visit Mara first. The more he knew about the predator’s MO, the better chance he had of finding him in the files.
The Andrade house was dark, and no one answered the door, so he drove back to the department. Typical. So much of his time was wasted driving around trying to find people who were constantly on the move and often didn’t want to be found. He sometimes called in advance to set up appointments, but in sensitive situations like this—in which a young girl had been sexually assaulted and no one had reported the crime—it was better to show up for a face-to-face and catch them off guard. People who didn’t report crimes either feared the police or had something to hide. In this case, they were likely trying to keep their daughter’s degradation private. He didn’t understand why anyone would protect such a predator, but he didn’t have a daughter. Thank god. Drama drove him crazy.
At his desk, he keyed in the names from both witnesses’ lists. The only person with a criminal record was Brian Carter himself. He had a drug conviction for possession of cocaine, plus a harassment complaint. The charge had been dropped when his accuser failed to show up in court. What kind of harassment? If it was sexual, Schak might be able to get a search warrant for Carter’s computer and cell phone.
The case file revealed that Sasha Kapoor’s complaint was that Brian Carter had called and texted her with insults and minor threats, once even showing up at her apartment to berate her in person. Nothing sexual, but still worth asking about. If the guy liked degrading women, then his deviancy could have worsened in the two years since he went after Kapoor.
Schak dialed her number, but it was no longer in service. The file contained her last known address, and he added it to his notebook. A search of the phone directory produced only one listing for Kapoor, and he tried it. A woman answered in a soft Indian accent. He introduced himself and asked to speak to Sasha.
“She doesn’t live here. Can I help you with something?”
“I’d like her phone number.”
“What is this about?” Her soft voice tightened a little.
“I’m investigating a series of assaults, and I think she might have been the first victim.”
A pause. “You mean Brian Carter. That was long ago.”
“Did he sexually assault Sasha?”
A little gasp. “I don’t know. Sasha didn’t tell us about the harassment until it was over.”
“Please give me her number.”
“She’s going to school in Portland now, and it would be best for her not to talk about the incident.”
That wasn’t his concern, but he did his best to care. “I’m trying to keep other young girls from being victimized.”
“Let me look in my phone for it.” After a pause, she gave him the number.
Schak added it to his file of contacts, thanked her, and hung up. Sasha didn’t answer, so he left a message, emphasizing the need to protect other students from assault or harassment. He pulled up an e-form and worked on a search warrant for Carter’s personal electronics. He had diddly-squat so far, and a judge wouldn’t sign the paper as is, but he had to be ready. So much had changed in the decades he’d been in law enforcement—everything was on a computer now, and he was the world’s worst typist. Sometimes it overwhelmed him, and he thought about quitting. But he didn’t want to be one of those guys who retired too early and died at sixty out of boredom and regret.
Tracy hugged him when he walked in the door, something she rarely did anymore. He squeezed back, liking the unexpected closeness. But he pulled away before she could kiss him, not wanting her to smell the beer on his breath.
“Are you doing all right?” she asked, searching his eyes.
“I’m fine.” He pulled off his jacket and weapon, dropping them on the couch. “As long as I keep busy,” he added. “If I think about Danny, I get mad. Stabbed by some goddamned lowlife who probably took a blanket from him twenty minutes earlier. The homeless problem here is out of control.” He went straight to the fridge and yanked it open. But his beer was gone. Hell’s bells. He turned to Tracy. “What did you do with my last two brews?”
“I dumped them out.” A quiet tone laced with confidence. “You said you were going to quit.”
“Goddammit! You had no right to do that. It’s my decision.” He spun toward the pantry and searched for the half bottle of Wild Turkey left over from his last camping trip with Danny. Gone. White-hot, need-fueled anger gripped him, and he wanted to punch the nearest wall. But it was covered with shelves and canned goods, and he wasn’t that kind of guy.
“I’m going out to pick up a six-pack,” he said, walking past Tracy. He pulled his weapon and coat back on. “My cousin and best friend just died. I’m not quitting drinking until I get through this.”
Tracy pressed her lips together, staring at him the way she did when she wanted him to read her mind. As he walked out, she called after him, “Grief is forever. This is just another way of stalling.”
Schak kept going. He just needed a little more time.
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, November 22, 6:07 p.m.
Jackson drove up McLean Street to Kera’s lovely home with the stunning view. As he walked along the path, he couldn’t believe he’d asked her to sell it and move in with him. Two separate issues, but both significant. She would be making the greater sacrifice, as always. He knocked on the door, waited a minute, then opened it. “Hey, I’m here.”
A cacophony of laughter from the family room gave him a jolt of joy. What better sound to soothe his nerves after a day of grief and stress. So far, patrol units hadn’t found Gene Burns, and the lab had yet to compare fingerprints. He stepped inside, called out again, then headed to the back of the house.
Kera and the two little boys sat on the floor, building a crazy fort-like structure with colorful blocks. Only Kera looked up when he came in.
“That looks like fun,” Jackson said.
Benjie jumped up and ran to him. Jackson scooped the boy up in a tight hug. “I missed you.”
“I’m here.” Benjie’s standard response to affection. His mother must have said it to him.
Micah, a little younger, hugged his legs. Kera’s grandson was warming up to him now that his mother was gone too.
“How was your day?” he asked.
Kera kissed his cheek. “Hectic and fun. With occasional moments of sadness.”
He hugged her around the shoulders but didn’t comment. She would always grieve for her son, and there was nothing he could do or say to make it better. But he worried that taking care of the boys was too much to ask of her. Or maybe it was exactly what she needed. “Thanks for watching Benjie.” Pangs of guilt as he braced for her reaction to his next comment. “Why don’t you take a break while I’m here?”
Kera gave him a look. “You’re not staying for dinner?”
“I can’t. I need to spend time
with Katie, drop off Benjie, then get back to work. This is the most important case I’ve ever handled.”
“Any leads you can tell me about?”
“A couple of viable suspects, but we’re waiting on forensics.”
“I’ll take you up on that break.” She gestured at the blocks on the floor. “We were building forts. But they think the best part is tearing them down. You have to do it quickly, with lots of gusto, for maximum effect.”
“I can do that.” Jackson sat down cross-legged, pushed everything from his mind, and focused on the toddlers, letting himself remember the joy of play.
He ended up staying longer than he’d planned to, but Kera had made him a cup of coffee and persuaded him to hang out with her for a few minutes while the boys watched a cartoon. Now he felt anxious, late for his standing dinner date with his daughter and behind on the investigation. As he drove across town, a dark, free-floating dread crept in, pushing out the good vibe from Kera and the boys.
What if the Walsh twins hopped on a train and disappeared? Then tomorrow, the lab called with one of their fingerprints matching the weapon? The department’s scorn would be palpable. He’d forever be the idiot/asshole who let a cop killer go. Gene Burns was still out there too, and he might have already left town. His jealousy motive seemed more viable than one of the twins snapping because he didn’t get a blanket.
Worry wormed its way into his gut, where he’d had surgery the year before. The scar tissue and the fibrosis worked together to cause him pain, but there was little he could do. He cycled on and off prednisone to keep the retroperitoneal fibrosis at bay, and he was currently off. Narcotic pain meds weren’t an option; he needed to function at 100 percent. Jackson reached for his naproxen sodium and swallowed two with the dredges of that morning’s thermos of cold coffee.
He pulled up to the home he shared with his brother and fifteen-year-old daughter. He’d grown up here, moved out as a young man, then moved back in after his divorce forced him to sell the home Katie had grown up in. His parents had been murdered in the interim, and living here was an odd mix of nostalgia and grief. He’d be glad to move on and find a place without any painful memories of lost loved ones. Derrick’s vehicle was gone, and he was glad for a dinner alone with just himself, Benjie, and Katie. Or so he thought until he went inside.
His daughter was rummaging through the refrigerator in the kitchen and turned to yell at him. “Where have you been? There’s nothing to eat in this house. And I thought having dinner together every night was a big deal to you.” In that moment, she reminded him of his ex-wife. Dark curly hair and delicate features, plus a tendency to blame him for everything.
Because she was nearly five months pregnant, he let it go, took a deep breath, and said, “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been working all day.”
“I played with Micah,” Benjie said. The boy copied nearly everything Jackson did and said. Another huge responsibility. Sometimes, the commitment terrified him, especially when he thought about helping to raise his grandchild too. And Kera’s grandchild.
Katie turned to him. “You could let me have the keys to the GTO, so I’m not trapped here.”
Not a chance in hell. And they’d had this conversation before. “It’s too valuable. We’ll find you an inexpensive car that I won’t worry about.” He’d spent years restoring the midnight-blue ’69 GTO and might never let her drive it. He also owned a three-wheeled motorcycle that he and Katie had built together, but she had no interest in driving that. Thank goodness.
“Why are you working on Saturday?”
“I was called out to a homicide scene this morning.”
“I know what you do is important, but it’s also creepy. Who’s dead, by the way?”
“A police officer named Dan Thompson.”
Shame washed over her face. “I’m sorry. Was he a friend?”
Jackson hadn’t really known him well. “He’s Schak’s cousin, the guy who does the donation drive for the homeless every year.”
“Now I’m going to cry.” And she did.
Teenage hormones and pregnancy had turned his daughter into an unpredictable bundle of emotions. Jackson hugged her, uncomfortable with the small bulge of her belly. Benjie rested his head against Katie’s legs in support. The two had bonded quickly, and for that, Jackson was grateful.
Katie stepped back and said, “I still hate the gun hugs.”
Since he planned to work at home, he would take the weapon off. “Give me ten minutes, then we’ll cook. There’s leftover spaghetti sauce in the freezer.”
After dinner and a game of Uno with the kids, Jackson left them while they continued playing and went to his desk. He pulled Thompson’s recorder from his shoulder bag and clicked it on. He wished he had the man’s cell phone to search, but at least he had something to get him started. Tomorrow, he would search Thompson’s house, but he wasn’t optimistic that it would produce any useful leads. After Benjie went to bed, Jackson would make a quick trip to the department to check in with the search team. Now that Katie was pregnant, she’d quit drinking and running around, and was good about watching her little brother. He was starting to think the baby might be a good thing.
His cell phone rang, and he looked at the ID. Joe Berloni, the crime scene technician. “What have you got for me?”
“I pieced together the broken part of the bottle and got a print. It matches Henry Walsh.”
The news should have elated him, but it didn’t. A sense of relief, yes, but prosecuting the mentally ill was not rewarding. “Thanks, Joe. I appreciate you working late on a Saturday night.”
“Dan Thompson was a great guy. It’s the least I could do.”
Jackson called the front desk at the department. “We need to bring the Walsh twins back in. Will you check with Bremmer, get their location, and call me right back?”
“Sure.” A hint of excitement from the desk officer. “Do we have new evidence?”
“A fingerprint match on the broken bottle found near the body.”
“Good news. I’ll get right back to you.”
Jackson texted Evans with the update. She might want to be there for the arrest.
In the kitchen, he gave Katie the news that he had to go back to work and asked her to watch Benjie.
“What if I had plans?” she said, a playful smile on her face.
“You mean like a yoga class for preggos?” He grinned back.
“Hey, I still have a social life.” But her expression turned sad. “If you count Facebook.”
Her boyfriend had dumped her, and Katie was talking about giving up the baby for adoption. Jackson tried not to influence her. Either choice would last a lifetime.
“I have to go. I’ll text you later.” He kissed Benjie good night, pleased that the boy didn’t seem bothered by his leaving again.
Jackson strapped on his weapon, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out. As he started the car, he pushed away the guilt. He’d been home with the kids every night for months. He only worked crazy hours like this when he’d been assigned a homicide. The Violent Crimes Unit handled other types of assaults, but Lammers always gave him the tough murder cases. He put in his earpiece and drove out.
A moment later, the desk clerk called to say that Bremmer and the twins were at the Albertsons on Eighteenth and Chambers. About twelve minutes away. Most everything in Eugene was less than a twenty-minute drive. He called Evans and relayed the location.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” she said. “We haven’t found a single witness, and I just sent Quince home. He said he had something to take care of.”
They hung up, and Jackson stepped on the gas. The dark streets were empty, and he felt pressed to get there before Bremmer arrested Henry.
A few minutes later, he turned into the Albertsons parking lot and drove back to the area where the bottle-return machines were located. A man with a s
hopping cart full of recyclables and another cart with all his worldly possessions cursed at a machine that had quit working. But he wasn’t one of the twins. Jackson spotted a patrol car near the front entrance of the grocery store, but Bremmer wasn’t in it. He drove up, parked behind it, and jumped out. Not seeing Bremmer or the twins in the parking lot, he rushed into the store. Loud voices to his right made him turn. Jacob Walsh, still wearing the dark-blue coat, burst out of the bathroom door.
“Henry’s hurt! I need help! Call Willow.”
Jacob didn’t even notice him. The twin charged around the corner and toward the customer service station, still yelling. A knot of dread gathered in his guts. Jackson pushed open the bathroom door.
Henry lay on the floor near the sink, bleeding from his head. Officer Bremmer kneeled next to him, talking into the radio he wore on his shoulder and asking for an ambulance.
“What the hell happened?”
Bremmer looked up, his eyes jumpy and his voice defiant. “He came at me, so I tasered him. He hit his head on the sink when he went down.”
“Goddammit! I asked you to wait for me.” Jackson pulled off his sport coat. “Get out of my way.”
Bremmer stood and stepped back against the wall. For a store restroom, it was bigger than most, but it was still a confined space for three men. Jackson kneeled next to Henry and wrapped his jacket around the bleeding man’s head, keeping pressure on the wound. Turning back to Bremmer, he asked, “What the hell were you doing in this bathroom?”
“Checking on them, like I was supposed to.” Bremmer shook his head, his expression a sneer. “You’re wasting your time and jacket. He’s dying and good riddance. The bastard murdered Dan Thompson. Why the fuck are you trying to save him?”
Rage burned in Jackson’s throat. “This investigation isn’t over. I have another suspect!”
The door opened and a store clerk peeked in. Before Jackson could tell her to leave, she backed out.
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 8
