“That would be wonderful. Thank you. I love you.” He didn’t care that Lammers was standing right there. Kera was a saint. They hung up and he turned to his boss. “What the hell have we got now?”
“For starters, there’s a riot downtown, and we’re arresting dozens of homeless people. So we’ve got no patrol units available for anything else.”
Oh crap. “They’re rioting about Henry Walsh?”
“That’s the word, but I don’t know much yet. I’m heading down there now.” Lammers spoke rapidly, more rattled than he’d ever seen her. “But Officer Drummond called. He had his dog out searching the wetlands near Thompson’s crime scene, and they found a body in a hidden campsite. They were supposed to search this morning but got delayed because of the snow.”
Dread washed over Jackson. This would be bad. “Who’s dead?”
“A homeless man.” Lammers handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the location. He was shot in the head, possibly self-inflicted. The weapon is a Sig Sauer, and Dan Thompson’s cell phone was in his pocket. So it could be Thompson’s gun too.”
The news left Jackson reeling. What the hell had happened out there Friday night?
Jackson met Officer Drummond at the end of Wallis Street and took possession of the gun and the phone, both in plastic evidence bags. Wearing gloves, he checked the weapon’s mag: only one cartridge had been fired. He locked the evidence in his car and changed into the boots he’d thrown into the backseat that morning when he saw the snow coming down. It had stopped after an hour, and only a little had stuck, leaving a light powder everywhere. The early cold weather had caught everyone off guard, but after two days, people were more prepared, and the warming centers had opened.
Jackson followed Drummond about a quarter mile through the wetlands, a gentle uphill climb. Near the peak, Drummond gestured to a clump of shrubs in a ring around a tree. “The body is in there.”
Great. Jackson dropped to his knees and crawled through an opening, soaking the bottom of his pants. No wonder the search team that had been looking for bloody clothing hadn’t found the body.
The dead man was on his back in a sleeping bag, in the middle of a tight clearing surrounded by wild rose bushes, swamp grass, and a small ash tree. Jackson stood at the perimeter, taking in the scene. A cold campfire, a folded tarp, and an oversize rucksack. The man either was new to the area or hadn’t planned on staying long. Local homeless campers tended to collect things, including discarded furniture, canned goods from the food bank, and shopping carts full of junk they found and used for bartering. Something bothered him, but it hadn’t fully registered yet.
He turned to Drummond, whose black lab had been commanded to wait just outside the camp. “How did you access the weapon and cell phone? Did you touch the body?”
“No. They were both on the ground near his head.” Drummond pointed to the left of the corpse. “I picked them up, but I wore gloves and I took pictures first.”
“They were on the right side of his body?” Jackson would need to see the photos.
“Yes.”
“Did you call in the serial number on the gun to the department?”
“Right after I called Sergeant Lammers.”
“Does the victim have ID?”
“I don’t know.”
Interesting that Drummond hadn’t searched for it. Usually, that was the first thing the responding officer did. Maybe because the victim was homeless, it hadn’t seemed important.
Jackson took a quick panorama of photos, then kneeled next to the body. Only his head and arms were visible outside the sleeping bag, and the gunshot had eviscerated much of his head. Consistent with the weapon being on the right, the bullet had entered on that side. A light frost clung to his dark beard, which covered half of his now-distorted face. Without ID, they might never identify this John Doe. Maybe he had some paperwork in the backpack that would give them a clue.
With gloved hands, Jackson unzipped the sleeping bag to search the man’s many pockets. A knife, a nearly empty packet of cigarettes, and a gold wedding band, but no wallet. Why the ring? Was it sentimental or had he stolen it? The victim’s hands were clothed in wool gloves, frayed and stained from outdoor use. If he had committed suicide—and it seemed likely that he had—the fabric of his right glove would hold gunpowder residue. Jackson stared at the victim’s clothing. He wore layers, like most homeless people, but he wasn’t particularly dirty, and his jeans didn’t look any more worn than Jackson’s weekend pants. He also had on decent boots. All of which could have been picked up free from a Catholic charity, but together they indicated he wasn’t a drunken derelict. Jackson leaned in for a closer look at the dark peacoat. Was that blood spatter? Against the black, it was hard to tell, but there was a dried spray of something near the top button.
What the hell had happened? Jackson wished Evans would show up so he would have someone to brainstorm with. It was unusual to be at a crime scene with only one other officer. But the patrol staff was downtown with the protesters, and his task force detectives had probably taken the morning off, thinking that the Walsh twins were guilty and would soon be charged. But he knew Lammers had called them, and Evans would show up.
“What do you think went down?” Drummond asked, breaking the eerie silence.
Jackson stood to give his knees a break. “The obvious scenario is that this transient stabbed Dan Thompson, took his phone and weapon, then came back to his camp and killed himself. The question is why.”
“Maybe he sobered up and felt guilty,” Drummond suggested. “He probably knew he would be caught and executed.”
Jackson held back a sigh. “Why kill Thompson in the first place?”
“Thompson probably tried to arrest him.”
The first crime scene hadn’t shown signs of a struggle, only those odd drag marks. But Thompson may not have been expecting a fight. Or maybe this John Doe had been angry and out-of-his-mind drunk. Or maybe he was a veteran who suffered from PTSD flashbacks and acted impulsively.
The chill seeped into Jackson’s bones, making him eager to wrap this up and get back inside his car. His phone rang, and he retrieved it from his pocket: Lara Evans.
“Where the hell are you? I parked at the end of Wallis like Lammers said and walked two hundred yards south.”
“Keep going. We’re inside a clump of wild rose bushes around a little ash tree. Drummond’s dog should be visible outside the camp.”
“Stay on the phone with me until I see the spot.”
“Thanks for coming out.”
“What else am I going to do on a Sunday morning? Brunch with the girls?”
Jackson laughed. Evans was a bit of a loner, and he couldn’t imagine her with a group of female friends. “This death looks like a suicide,” he said, getting her up to speed. “But no ID so far.” He heard footsteps making a squishing sound in the wet earth. “I hear you coming. Do you see the dog?”
“Yes.”
“You have to crawl through an opening there.”
“Lucky me.”
She came through a minute later, moving more quickly than he had. “Where’s Lammers?” Evans asked with a smile. “I thought she was working this case with us.”
Jackson let out an amused scoff. He couldn’t picture his oversize fifty-something boss crawling through the bushes. Schak would have done it, if he were on the task force, but he would have had choice things to say while coming through. The medical examiner would make the technicians clear an opening in the brush. Jackson didn’t know if he would still be at the scene then. He updated Evans on the placement of the gun and the phone, then showed her the contents of the man’s pocket.
“I’ll search his backpack and look for something with a name on it. We have to ID him.” She started toward the pack, then stopped. “It’s odd that he’s lying down. Most people who shoot themselves are sitting up.”
<
br /> That was it, the thing that had bothered him. “It seems unusual to me too. But we’ve never processed a homeless suicide.”
“Quince did. Remember that skeleton they found hanging from the tree when they cleared that area near Bertelsen and Roosevelt? That guy was homeless, but we eventually got a match on his dental records.”
“That was a weird one.” Jackson tried to imagine himself in this victim’s situation. “I would have leaned against the tree and put the gun in my mouth.”
Evans nodded. “Me too. But maybe he was too drunk. Or too cold.”
Drummond cut in. “He’s a bum who killed a police officer, who was a great guy with two kids. You shouldn’t waste time on this human garbage.”
Surprised by the outburst, Jackson turned to him. “Dan Thompson deserves a full investigation, and we’re going to give him one. Maybe you and the dog should search the area outside this campsite.”
“What are we looking for?”
Was that a real question or another objection? Jackson struggled to keep his voice calm. “Anything that might be connected to this dead body or Thompson’s crime scene. Dropped personal items, bloodstained clothing, a sharp tool.”
“I thought you guys found Thompson’s murder weapon.”
“The pathologist hasn’t confirmed it yet. And until he does, we’re still gathering evidence.” Annoyed by the patrol cop’s attitude, Jackson changed his mind. “Instead, why don’t you get a hedge trimmer and cut a path into this area, so the ME and technicians can bring their equipment in.” He didn’t pose it as a question.
Drummond nodded and crawled back out. Now it was just he and Evans. Where the hell was Quince?
Evans reached for the backpack again. “We’re going to get pressured to close this case out, aren’t we?”
“The chief has already started, so let’s do what we can before it gets dark.” Jackson dropped to the ground and began to search. Something about this whole scenario seemed off.
CHAPTER 19
Sunday, November 23, 6:35 p.m.
Schak walked in the front door and smelled pork roast. Damn, he loved Sundays. His wife always made a nice spread for dinner because their son often joined them. But Brad’s car wasn’t here, and it was probably just as well. Tracy was upset, and he had work to do on the sexual assault case.
His wife called to him from her craft room. “I’ll be right there. Dinner is basically ready.”
Schak pulled off his coat and weapon and dropped them on a chair. He had a feeling he’d be going back out. If for no other reason than to grab a beer somewhere. He was trying not to drink around Tracy, so he’d stopped for one on the way home. Which reminded him to head for the bathroom to brush his teeth.
They met in the kitchen a few minutes later, and Schak pulled his wife in for a hug, drawing strength from knowing she was here for him at the end of every day, no matter how bleak his work was. She squeezed back, but only for a second. They sat down to eat, and Tracy talked about her troubled nephew, her current quilt project, and Brad’s new girlfriend. Schak nodded and made brief, appropriate comments.
“How was your day?” she finally said.
She always asked. “Sad. Stressful. Cold as hell out there.” His body fat was supposed to keep him warm, but his ticker didn’t function at full capacity anymore.
“You’re not working Danny’s murder, are you?” Tracy’s brown eyes were still sympathetic. She hadn’t changed much in the decades they’d been together. Still pretty in a farm-girl way, with strong features and lovely freckles.
“No, I’ve got another case. I think Lammers gave it to me to distract me.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She patted his hand. “I wish I was a better listener for your job.”
“I’m glad you don’t want the details. There’s no reason for you to think about this ugliness.”
Schak thought he meant that. He wasn’t a big talker anyway. But sometimes Tracy’s squeamishness annoyed him. Closing your eyes to crime and other people’s pain didn’t make them go away.
“How’s Brad doing at the department?” she asked.
Schak updated her with what little he knew, then excused himself. “I have some files to look at. This case I’m working is critical, and there could be more victims.” Both past and future, he thought, walking away.
In his man cave, a small bedroom at the back of the house where he also kept his camping and fishing gear, he inserted a thumb drive into his computer. In the device, he found the video of Ashley Devonshire being sexually assaulted. The thought of watching it revolted him, and he’d put it off until now, but he had no choice. What if the perp revealed something of himself? A tattoo? A birthmark or piece of jewelry? There might even be something in the room that could identify him or convict him later. This was his job. He clicked open the file and a naked young girl on a bed filled his monitor. Shame washed over him, and he froze the image.
Schak pushed out of his chair, the weight of his own body a burden after a long day. He located a shoe box in the back of his closet and opened it. A half bottle of Jim Beam—a Christmas present to himself from last year—and he still had most of it. More proof that he didn’t have a drinking problem. He took a long pull and put it back. The bottle was meant for days like this, for tasks like this one. The bourbon warmed his belly and softened the tension in his chest. He sat back down and clicked on the video, notepad ready beside his keyboard. Just one important clue. Please.
The perp’s manual penetration seemed to go on forever, but Schak focused on the details. A leather glove covered his hand and part of his forearm. Where would he buy something like that? Schak made a note. And who would own such a glove? Someone who trained birds of prey? Occasionally, there were glimpses of a gray sleeve. The material looked like a long-sleeved T-shirt. One of a million.
The perp abruptly switched and started probing the girl with a dildo. Schak reached for his mouse to fast forward through it.
The door opened behind him. “Are you watching porn?” His wife’s tone was horrified.
He stopped the video, clicked off his monitor, then turned to face her. “I’m working a sexual assault case. I had to see if this video had any leads.”
Her eyes and mouth tightened with skepticism. The doubt passed and her mouth turned down with disgust. “Why did you bring it home to watch it here?”
Schak deeply regretted it. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come home for dinner. I’ll go back to the department and finish there.”
Tracy brought her hands to her hips. “Why are you working a sex crime? That’s not your unit’s responsibility.”
“Because the girl died. She committed suicide.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
“And there’s another victim.”
His wife was silent for a moment, her eyes undecided. “You’ve been drinking,” she finally said, with a harsher tone.
“I had one shot of bourbon. To help me get through this. I’m as disgusted by”—he gestured at the monitor—“this filth as you are.”
“I doubt that.” She hugged her own arms, as if she were cold. “Have you been to an AA meeting?”
“Not yet. I’m working this case. It’s critical.”
“What will your excuse be next week?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“I think you should pack a bag and go stay in a motel for a while.”
No! A sharp pain pinched his heart. “You don’t mean that.” He racked his brain for the right thing. “We can get counseling and work through this.”
“We don’t need counseling. You need AA.”
“I’ll start going to meetings.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. And until that happens, you need to live somewhere else.”
Anger seeped into h
is bones, giving him new energy. “This is my house too. In fact, I’ve got more invested in the equity than you do. I’m not moving out.” He took a breath to calm himself. “I will go to meetings. Because I love you. And I’m willing to compromise.”
Tracy shook her head and walked out.
Confused, Schak put the thumb drive in his pocket. Tracy was taking this too far. He wasn’t an alcoholic. And she’d been fine with his level of consumption for twenty-six years, so what was her problem now? Okay, so he’d been drinking a little more than usual lately. The workload at the department had been stressful ever since McCray retired and they hadn’t replaced him. But he’d already cut back. There was no need to quit entirely. He strode to the living room and pulled on his weapon and coat. Where was Tracy? He heard the TV in the family room but didn’t stop in to tell her he was leaving.
Out in his car, he wondered if he was legally okay to drive. He felt perfectly capable. The beer had been hours ago, so he only had one shot of bourbon on a full stomach. He started his sedan and drove to the department, hoping like hell it didn’t snow again.
The video left him feeling ill, but he was no closer to knowing who the sick perp was. The man had been careful not to reveal any of his skin, and the bed was shoved up against a wall with no discernible marks. The next step would be to take a single slice of the video and enhance the image for closer inspection. Frustrated that he didn’t know how, Schak emailed the file to Detective Dragoo in the tech department and asked for help. The tech guy wouldn’t see the message until morning, and the enhancement wasn’t a top priority. First, Schak had to drop off Ashley’s laptop so Dragoo could hack into her Facebook page. Schak wanted to see all her exchanges, in case the perp had connected with her directly. He wished he had the skills to do it himself, but whenever he tried to learn new stuff on the computer, his brain froze like an overworked engine.
He remembered Ashley’s phone in his carryall. He’d been so busy trying to track down witnesses, he’d forgotten to look at her recent calls. This wasn’t a typical homicide investigation, so he let himself slide on the oversight. Schak fiddled with the phone and finally got her messages open. He scrolled back to Wednesday, the day of the assault. Ashley had texted with only two people about the party: Anna and Daren Sorenson. Schak had talked with Anna but hadn’t located her brother yet. Nor had Daren contacted him, as requested. What did he have to hide?
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 12
