Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “It’s a new one,” Ward said. “I know of one predator who videotaped other people having sex, then blackmailed them, threatening to send the file to all their friends. He was Asian, forty-two, single, and an engineer. And lived in Chicago.”

  “Do you think this perp is a similar age? All the people at the parties the victims attended were young.”

  “Your predator is likely between thirty and fifty, and if he’s smart enough to use a proxy server to upload the files online, then he’s tech savvy too. He probably works in the STEM group—science, technology, engineering, or math.”

  Schak scribbled notes and wondered what else to ask. Blackmail and tech-based crimes were out of his comfort zone. He kept coming back to the unthinkable. “Both parties were broken up by the police, and one victim has a vague recollection of an officer talking to her. Do you think a cop could be the perp?” Schak knew the answer—he just didn’t want to be the only one saying it.

  “Interesting. Most law enforcement officers who abuse their power are more direct. They use intimidation rather than intoxicants to subdue their victims. But sure, it’s unfortunately possible.”

  “Anything else?”

  “How far apart were the crimes?”

  “Six months.”

  “I’ll bet there’s more victims. He probably started out drugging and raping the victims just for jollies, then graduated to videotaping, then blackmail.”

  “If there are more victims, their cases aren’t in our files. Why wouldn’t the young women come forward?”

  “Shame. And if they’re drunk or drugged, some might not even know it happened.”

  How would he find them? “Anything else?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but I’ll take a look through our databases and see if anything pops up.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  The thought of more young girls being drugged and abused revolted him. Why had he agreed to take this case? He ached to be with Aunt Donna and Kurt, drinking and reminiscing about Danny. Kindhearted Danny. His cousin had always stood up for the weak ones, protecting kids who were bullied in school and doing chores for the old disabled lady down the street. Danny’s accidental shooting of Kurt had been devastating at the time, but it had forged him into the kind of person who put others first. A true hero. For a moment, Schak was paralyzed with grief and despair at the evil that lurked in so many people. The violent murders happening every month in his town, the mass shootings of innocents. The world seemed to have gone mad, and he felt powerless to stop it. His job as the cleanup crew seemed almost pointless.

  Get your shit together, he chided himself. And get help on this investigation. On impulse, he called Sophie Speranza at the newspaper, hoping she checked her voice mails on weekends, and left her a message: “It’s Detective Schakowski. I need public help with a case I’m working. Intoxicated young girls are being sexually assaulted. Possibly after attending a party. And sometimes, they’re blackmailed with a video of the event. I need more victims to come forward. Please get back to me.”

  His next call—to Ben Stricklyn, a detective in Internal Affairs—would be more difficult. Stricklyn wasn’t in the building right now, but Schak wanted to talk to him first thing in the morning. He needed another investigator, and if the perp turned out to be an officer with the department, IA would take over the case anyway. He kind of hoped they would. He was in over his head.

  Before he could dial, he heard shouting down the hall where the top brass had their offices. Training brought him to his feet, and he bolted out of his cubicle. What the hell was going on?

  CHAPTER 17

  Sunday, November 23, 1:47 p.m.

  Sophie pulled off her jacket, made a cup of hot mint tea, and sat down at her computer. The view of the river caught her eye, as always, and she dreaded the thought of leaving this apartment. She’d never find an affordable place this nice in a bigger city. But she had to be a journalist, and if she lost her position in Eugene, she would move wherever she could to find work. Job hunting online was tedious and depressing, and she’d gone out for a walk to get away from it for a moment. She hoped like hell that she would find something in a warmer climate. Winters in Eugene had been wet and gray when she first moved here to attend college, but now they were drier and colder with occasional snowstorms. She couldn’t handle the snow. Not after growing up in Tucson.

  Her search produced a news-writing job at a TV station in Sacramento, so she emailed a cover letter and resume. She started to open her Facebook page, and her phone rang. Sidney Willow again. Sophie popped in her Bluetooth. “Hello.”

  “It’s Willow. A cop killed Henry Walsh, and I need your help in exposing the police brutality of homeless people.” The activist’s voice had a catch at the end.

  “What happened?” Sophie reached for a yellow paper tablet and pen.

  “A police officer tried to arrest Henry last night in the bathroom at Albertsons. Jacob says Henry insisted on washing his hands first—because they’re compulsive about certain things—and the cop tasered him. Henry fell and hit his head on the sink and died.”

  “Oh no. How is Jacob taking it?” The other twin had to be traumatized. Their bond had been intense and obvious in the time she’d spent with them.

  “He’s doing better than I expected. A detective came to the scene at the store and called CAHOOTS, so Jacob was given medication and counseling. But I’m still outraged, and we’re staging a protest right now at the free speech plaza. Can you cover it?”

  “Of course.” Sophie couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “I think you should call a TV station too.”

  “I already did. But I want you to write the full story. You know what I mean? A lot of homeless people have been beaten for no reason by cops, and it has to be exposed. I can connect you with people to talk to.”

  The logistics of interviewing street people would be challenging, which was probably why the incidents were not reported or covered. Assuming they were true. “Have the police made a statement about Henry’s death?”

  “They won’t return my calls.”

  “Which detective was at the scene?” She hoped it was Jackson. He was handling the police officer’s murder, so it seemed likely. She had called him and asked for a statement, but calling once was never enough.

  “I’m not sure. Jacob couldn’t remember his name.”

  “I’ll get down there now.”

  “I need you to do me another favor if you can.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find the mayor’s personal cell phone number and get her to the protest. The city council needs to know what’s going on.”

  “Have you called the police auditor or the civilian review board?”

  “I called my contact on the board, but it’s Sunday and she didn’t answer.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  They hung up, and Sophie searched her contact list. She didn’t have the mayor’s personal cell phone number, but she knew someone who did. Her real motivation in trying to reach the mayor was to get a quote for the story.

  If the paper let her write it. Who else would? She was going out to cover it, and she doubted any other reporters knew the protest was happening. Sophie called her friend on the city council and left a message, then called Jackson. He didn’t answer, and she left him a message too: “It’s Sophie. I need to know about Officer Thompson and Henry Walsh. Maybe we can help each other again. Please call me.”

  After a vigorous internal debate, she called Jasmine Parker, the crime scene technician she’d dated for a year. Jasmine had broken up with her a few months ago, claiming she was tired of Sophie pushing her to come out about their relationship. Sophie thought it was more about Jasmine’s fear of her parents’ disapproval. To her surprise, her ex-lover answered. “Hey, Sophie.”

  “Hey. Ho
w are you?”

  “Busy as hell. We had two bodies yesterday, so I’m working straight through the weekend. And Joe just got called in to process more fingerprints, so something else is going down.”

  “For Officer Thompson’s case?”

  “Is that why you called? You’re looking for information?”

  The truth of it embarrassed her, but only for a second. She’d already left Jaz a message asking for her help. “As you mentioned, we have two dead bodies this weekend, and I’m trying to save my job. They’re getting ready to replace me with an intern.”

  “I thought they were just doing that to the old-timers.”

  “Around here, five years makes me the old guard. It’s mostly about benefits. The new hires don’t get health insurance, and it saves the paper a fortune.”

  “Bastards.”

  Sophie had tried not to think of her bosses that way. “I know the family is just trying to save the newspaper. But they’re making it too personal and too painful for employees they can’t afford.”

  “What do you want to know? I have to get back to work.”

  “Can you share anything about Thompson’s murder? I know the suspect, Henry Walsh, is dead too. Did he do it?”

  A long pause. “We have physical evidence that connects him to the crime scene, but it’s not conclusive.” Jasmine lowered her voice. “You can’t use this, but the new fingerprints Joe is working on belong to a different suspect. So the investigation is still open.”

  “Any idea how the suspect is connected to Thompson?”

  “He’s in the criminal system. That’s all I can tell you. We’ll talk later.” Jasmine hung up.

  A second suspect was enough to lend credibility to Willow’s claim that Henry was innocent.

  Sophie grabbed her camera and her coat and headed out. The morning’s snow had stopped, but everything except the middle of the street was still covered with a white powder. River Road, in the distance, was oddly quiet. She wondered how many people would actually come out for a protest in bad weather, then laughed at herself. The homeless were already out, and moving around when it was cold was in their best interest.

  The plaza in front of the county courthouse was packed, and everyone was bundled in coats, scarves, gloves, and boots. You didn’t see that attire often in Eugene, where most longtime residents didn’t even use umbrellas. She stood back on the sidewalk and took photos, estimating the number of protestors at about a hundred. Yet more were coming, trudging up Eighth Avenue carrying backpacks, pushing carts, or riding bikes and pulling little trailers.

  A dozen or so people in the plaza held signs, and they didn’t have bundles of worldly possessions with them. Within the homeless community was a population of people who didn’t sleep on the streets or at the Mission. They slept on couches and in friends’ garages. Many had part-time jobs; some had a vehicle. They were the ones Sidney Willow had formed into a coalition, and the core group must have spread the word about the protest.

  Sophie noticed families in the crowd as well. Many lived in their cars or in small mobile campers that they parked on side streets. She pulled out her recorder and made a verbal note for her story. “The homeless population in Eugene is as diverse as the rest of its citizens. They all have unique circumstances and stories.”

  When she’d interviewed the twins the day before, she’d learned of their parents’ death and their determination to live their lives on their own terms. She’d been surprised to hear how ritualistic they were about collecting empty bottles and cans to turn in for cash. They had established routes they treated like jobs and paid their own way as much as they could. They also had attention deficit disorder, among other issues, so the interview had been challenging.

  She walked the perimeter of the crowd and noticed four police officers, each at different spots along the sidewalk. Their faces were grim as they watched the gathering, but they didn’t interact. Sophie made her way through the protesters, noticing two women passing out sandwiches. That was probably how they motivated so many to gather—by offering them free food. She took photos and asked for names. One young woman with a “Sleep Is a Right” sign looked like a college student. Sophie introduced herself, asked why she was there, and held out her recorder.

  The young woman’s response was passionate. “I’m tired of being arrested for trying to live. I’m tired of seeing my friends hit with a baton because they don’t gather up their stuff fast enough. And I’m heartbroken that one of the twins was killed by a cop with a stun gun. This has to stop.”

  “How did you end up homeless?” Sophie asked.

  “I lost my job, then my boyfriend kicked me out. But I’ve got a Pell Grant now, and I’m going to school at Lane. And I’m on a waiting list for an apartment with St. Vinnie’s, so it’s temporary.”

  Sophie couldn’t imagine trying to attend college without a steady place to live. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sidney Willow had climbed on a makeshift podium. She thanked the woman, excused herself, and moved toward the front. Willow held a megaphone to her mouth and called out, “Thank you for coming! I know it’s cold, but we have to get justice for Henry! We can’t let the police get away with this!”

  The crowd began to chant: “Justice for Henry! Justice for Henry!” Sophie took more photos, then eased her way to the back to get out of the noise. Group chanting drove her crazy.

  “How long do we have to stay?” someone shouted.

  “Many of us will stay until Officer Bremmer is held accountable,” Willow responded. “We’ll camp right here.”

  “It’s going to be freezing tonight,” a woman shouted. “We can’t be outside.”

  “The Egan Warming Centers will be open,” Willow announced.

  A roar of approval from the crowd. Named after a homeless veteran who’d frozen to death, the centers were a group of churches that opened their doors for the homeless to sleep when the temperature dropped below freezing. It had never happened this early in the season before, and the organization had been caught off guard trying to find volunteers for staffing.

  A white van with bright red lettering rolled up nearby, and Trina Waterman climbed out. A spunky blonde reporter from KRSL. Sophie both loved her and hated her. As a cameraman joined the newscaster on the sidewalk, the crowd started chanting again.

  “Fire Officer Bremmer! Fire Officer Bremmer! Fire Officer Bremmer!”

  Sophie glanced over at the nearest man in uniform. His stoic face now had a twitch around the eyes.

  Spotting the TV people, Sidney Willow made her way through the protesters, chanting and encouraging others to chant. As Willow neared him, the officer’s face flushed with anger. She stopped in front of him. “We want justice for Henry Walsh and Officer Thompson.”

  “You’re not fit to say his name,” the man in uniform shouted.

  “Justice for Officer Thompson!” Willow shouted, followed by “Justice for Henry! Fire Officer Bremmer!”

  The crowd chanted louder. A scruffy man with a full beard staggered up to the officer and spat.

  “No!” Willow grabbed the man to pull him away.

  Panic shot through Sophie like an electric jolt. She rushed forward, yelling, “Trina! Camera!” Her hope was that having a TV crew in his face would keep the officer in check. She feared for his life if he got violent and the crowd went out of control.

  But it happened anyway. She watched helplessly as the officer drew his baton, clubbed the spitter on the shoulder, then swung it at Willow. The activist ducked, but the baton caught her on the side of her head. She went down in a heap, blood dripping from her ear.

  Onlookers screamed in rage and rushed the officer. Sophie grabbed her phone and hit 911 as another man in uniform charged into the melee, swinging his baton.

  “What is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

  “There’s a riot at the free speech plaza
, and people are hurt. Send ambulances.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Sunday, November 23, 2:50 p.m.

  Jackson climbed the stairs to his office space, weariness creeping in. He’d been in the interrogation room hammering at Gene Burns for the last hour, but the man had stuck to his stupid and unverifiable account of his Friday whereabouts. The suspect was still in the hole, so Jackson called the patrol sergeant on duty for assistance. Surprised that he didn’t answer, Jackson left a message asking for a patrol officer to book Burns into jail on arson charges. He would call the sheriff later to ensure that Burns wasn’t released. He texted Evans and Quince and relayed that the task force would meet at ten Monday morning. Right after Thompson’s autopsy. It was time to go home and enjoy what was left of the weekend.

  Jackson called Kera. “Hey, what do you have planned for dinner?”

  “Nothing yet. Now that it’s just me and Micah, I wing it more often.”

  “Let’s go out. All of us. A big family dinner.”

  “Now you’re talking. Where do you want to eat?”

  That was tough, pleasing Katie and Kera and the kids. “What about Jung’s?”

  “Lovely idea. Are you feeling sentimental?”

  They’d had their first meal together at the Mongolian grill. “Maybe so. Let’s meet at five before it gets busy.”

  Lammers burst into his cubicle. “Don’t make plans. We have another body.”

  Jackson bit his tongue to keep from cursing. To Kera he said, “Did you hear that?”

  “I did.” She sounded weary. “I’m sorry you have to work. Do you want me to take all the kids out to eat anyway? Benjie’s with Katie, right? She probably needs a break.”