Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Thanks.” It pleased her to have a digital record of that statement, even if she wouldn’t use it to keep her job. It might prove important in landing a new position, in case no one at the paper would give her a decent reference. “Don’t expect me to train Zee. I just can’t.”

  “Go through the motions, please.” He shrugged. “Or not. I’m technically not your supervisor anymore.”

  “Thanks again for giving me a chance to work this beat. I’ve loved it.”

  “You’re welcome.” He moved toward the door. “If you don’t burn too many bridges on your way out, I’ll give you a great reference.”

  She gave him a grim smile and held her tongue. She wasn’t promising anything.

  CHAPTER 21

  Monday, November 24, 7:05 a.m.

  Schak woke to an empty bed and the sound of someone slamming things in the kitchen, both of which were unusual. During the week, he was always the first one up, then Tracy would hear him peddling the exercise bike and get up shortly after. Head pounding, he headed for the bathroom. First, a long pee, then three aspirin and a long drink of water. Why did he feel so crappy? He hadn’t had that much to drink. Or maybe he had. He had paced himself while he was with his family, declining a round of shots so he could drive home, but then he’d dipped into his bourbon again. What time was it? He stepped back into the bedroom and checked the clock. Whoops. He had to skip his twenty minutes of cardio and get to work. He showered, dressed, and rinsed with mouthwash, worried that he was still sweating alcohol. Some sharp-nosed busybody at the department could get him into serious trouble.

  In the kitchen, Tracy grabbed stainless-steel bowls out of a cupboard.

  “Good morning. What are you baking so early?” He walked over and poured a cup of coffee.

  His wife ignored him.

  “I know you’re mad about the drinking, but you have to give me time. I’m dealing with a lot of shit right now.” He noticed a cardboard container on the floor with a bunch of her kitchen stuff in it. “What’s with the box?”

  “I’m packing to stay with a friend for a while.”

  Oh shit. “Don’t leave. We’ll get through this.” Why was she taking her baking stuff?

  “I’m not coming back until you’ve been sober for at least a month.” She glanced at him. “Aren’t you late for work?”

  He had to assume she wasn’t making breakfast as usual. “This isn’t fair. Danny was murdered. You can’t leave me right now.”

  Tracy flinched. “I’m sorry, but it will always be something. You’d better go.”

  No time clock was waiting for him at the department, but he had a case to investigate. And he sensed that Tracy needed some space. She would change her mind. “I love you. Please don’t leave.” Schak left the house with his head, his gut, and his heart all aching.

  He bought a cinnamon roll and a second cup of coffee at the Safeway on the way to work. The cold dark sky pushed him deeper into a foul mood. Why did everything have to turn to shit just as he felt like he was hitting his stride again? But he wouldn’t wallow. He had a case to solve, a funeral to attend, and a supposed drinking problem to deal with. He would handle all of it as best he could. And if it wasn’t good enough, too fucking bad.

  Inside the department, he stopped in the tech unit, but no one was in yet. He left Ashley’s laptop on Detective Dragoo’s desk with a note to call him. Back at his own desk, he sent Dragoo an email explaining what he needed. Schak read though his notes and made a list of follow-up tasks. The first was to call Riverside High School and ask to talk to the principal. The receptionist transferred him through.

  “This is Leslie Miller.”

  “Detective Schakowski. I’m investigating two sexual assaults, both female students at your school, and I’d like a list of all your male employees.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “You think it’s a staff member?”

  “I have to check out everyone. And since both girls are Riverside students, the staff seems like a good place to start.”

  “I understand, and I want to help in any way I can. Give me your contact info, and I’ll send a list this afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” Schak read off his ridiculously long EPD email address, then repeated it for good measure. “Can you suggest anyone I should talk to first?”

  “No. I don’t believe it’s a staff member. A student seems more likely. Or maybe someone older, an ex-student perhaps.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  Another hesitation. “We had a problem two years ago with a student named Daren Sorenson, and we expelled him.”

  A pulse of gratification. He’d been right about the older brother who’d disappeared out of the house before he could question him. “What was the problem?”

  “Several girls accused Daren of groping them. We advocated for getting him counseling, but his mother didn’t follow through, so we had no choice but to remove him from the school.”

  “Can you give me the girls’ names?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. There’s no reason to invade their privacy.”

  Schak could tell by her tone that she was done. “I plan to stop by the school this afternoon to question some of Ashley Devonshire’s friends. I’ll pick up the staff list when I’m there.”

  “I’ll have it ready.”

  He found Daren Sorenson on Facebook, downloaded his photo, then called the desk officer and put out an attempt-to-locate for the young man. He had to find the kid and bring him in. It seemed plausible that his groping tendencies had escalated to sexual assault once he was free of the constraints of high school. Once the perp had recorded the sessions, the blackmail scheme for cash could have naturally followed.

  Schak called Mrs. Sorenson again, but she didn’t pick up. Remembering that he had other Monday morning calls to make, he checked his notes: Mobile Source and the passenger used as a money drop.

  A subdivision of the local bus service, the company provided low-cost transportation to people with disabilities. The manager came on the line and asked how he could help.

  “I need to know who you picked up on May nineteenth on the corner of Lincoln and Twenty-Third.”

  “Our records only go back four months.”

  Schak went for the long shot that the customer was a regular. “Have you picked up anyone at that location recently?”

  “Just a moment.” A short wait. “We transported Gracie McCormick from that location to a physical therapist appointment at the downtown hospital.”

  “Was that a recurring service for her?”

  “Yes, for the last three months we have on record.”

  And the blackmailer knew her routine and had picked up the cash from her pouch when she got off the van there.

  “Do you have Gracie’s contact information?”

  He made a funny sound. “She died recently, but I have an emergency contact number.”

  Schak took it down, but he doubted it would do him any good. He had the information he needed. The perp lived or worked near Gracie’s pick-up or drop-off location. Did Daren Sorenson have a job downtown? Or go to the university? He made a note to ask when Daren’s mother called back.

  He glanced at the clock. Danny’s task force was meeting now, and he wanted to know what was going on. Jackson wouldn’t care if he stopped in.

  CHAPTER 22

  Monday, November 24, 7:35 a.m.

  The small, brightly lit room in the basement of the old hospital was more crowded than usual. Surgery 10, as it was called, was designed as a one-person space, not counting the giant stainless-steel drawers that held bodies. But the county had hired a pathologist, so now Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner, attended crime scenes and prepped the bodies that came in, while Rudolph Konrad, the pathologist, conducted the autopsy, with the ME assisting. Today, the district attorney was in attendance, impatiently bouncing
on his feet in a charcoal pinstripe suit.

  They all turned to Jackson when he came in. “You’re late.” Konrad, a baby-faced blond man in his early forties, had said that to him a few times over the years. The pathologist was on the right side of the table, gloved and ready to go. Gunderson was on the left, his eyes drooping. The ME had been through a crazy, busy weekend with multiple bodies to process.

  “I’m sorry.” Jackson started to explain that he’d had a hectic morning with the kids, then changed his mind. This was not that kind of crowd. Konrad had never cracked a smile or a joke in his presence. Jackson pulled on a mask and gown—which was as much for his own protection as to guard against cross-contamination—and stepped up next to the DA at the foot of the table.

  “Victor Slonecker, it’s good to see you.” He was never sure what to call the man. In the department, they used last names, but the DA’s office was more formal.

  Slonecker nodded. “I can’t believe we’re dealing with one of our own this time.”

  “We’re all stunned.”

  “When is your next task force meeting?” the DA asked.

  “Right after this, at ten.”

  The pathologist cut in. “I’d like to get started.”

  Jackson tuned out for the lengthy inch-by-inch inspection of Thompson’s skin. Seeing another officer naked on the gurney table was disturbing enough without focusing on his moles, scars, and body hair. All he needed for this one were the basics: weapon, angle of entry, size of perp. The DA vibrated beside him, and Jackson guessed he was working on something else in his head.

  Konrad began to explore the wound in Thompson’s abdomen. He grabbed a tool and measured its length, width, and depth in several places, announcing the centimeters out loud for his recording. “An incised wound, made with a left-to-right slashing motion.”

  The wound was also on the left side of Thompson’s body. “What is the killer’s dominant hand?” Jackson asked.

  “Right,” Gunderson responded, as the pathologist continued his examination. “You pull with a knife.”

  “This wasn’t made by a knife,” Konrad corrected.

  “I knew that.”

  The pathologist turned and measured the broken bottle lying on the counter behind him, even though the ME had likely already done it. Konrad held it next to the gaping wound. “See that tip?” He gestured to a sharp point at the base of the break. “This bottle made those lacerations along the bottom edge of the opening.”

  Jackson wanted to feel relieved. They had the right weapon. But the wrong fingerprints were still a problem. Unless both Henry Walsh and the John Doe had been involved in the murder. A nagging thought hit him. Was Henry left- or right-handed? He had failed to find out. After the twins had become distressed during questioning, Willow had shown up and demanded their release. His oversight bothered him, but he could still get the information. Henry’s body was over there in one of the drawers. Typically, a person had slightly larger muscles on their dominant side. He would ask Gunderson to check. There was no reason to attend Henry’s autopsy. Jackson had been there when he died, and Konrad would send him a full report. He might skip John Doe’s post too, depending on how much the team could get done between now and then.

  “What about the second wound?” Jackson asked. “Was it also made by a right-handed person?”

  Konrad glanced over at him with stern eyes but didn’t respond.

  The DA spoke up. “I’d like to know too. After that, I need to go.”

  Relieved not to be the only one, Jackson said, “We have a task force meeting soon and a lot of evidence to review.”

  The pathologist nodded and shifted his focus to the wound on Thompson’s neck. He took a series of measurements, said something Jackson didn’t hear, then turned to the end of the table. “The neck wound is also incised, and the broken bottle was used for both thrusts. A powerful, right-handed person of approximately the same height as the victim. It’s likely the abdominal thrust came first, because the angle of the neck wound indicates the victim may have been leaning slightly forward.”

  All of it served to confirm that John Doe had committed the crime. Henry Walsh was a couple inches taller than Dan Thompson and gaunt with scrawny arms. Not someone who would be described as powerful.

  “Can you narrow down the time of death?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” the ME interjected. “The freezing temperature slowed the blood flow and decomposition, so the three-hour window is as close as we can get.”

  Jackson glanced at the body, not seeing any livor mortis on the front side. “Did he die right where he was? We saw signs of dragging at the scene.”

  Konrad stepped back from the table, as if to emphasize the interruption to his process. “If he was dragged, it happened either immediately before or after his death. His body wasn’t moved after he had been dead for any length of time. But the lack of blood flow could also indicate that the victim was intoxicated or losing consciousness when he was stabbed. I’ll know more after I examine the organs and complete the autopsy.”

  Had Thompson consumed the contents of his flask, then confronted a drifter in a drunken stupor? They would all have to wait for the toxicology report. Jackson decided not to stay for the internal examination. He looked at Gunderson. “Call me immediately if anything unusual turns up.” He hurried out, eager to get away from Thompson’s pale lifeless body. The DA followed him.

  On the ride up in the elevator, Slonecker tried to pin him down. “I heard this morning about the homeless guy’s suicide with Thompson’s gun. Is he the killer? Making Henry Walsh innocent?”

  “Most likely.”

  “His death was unfortunate. We have to find a way to placate the homeless community.”

  It wasn’t Jackson’s responsibility. “I don’t have time. But it’s best if they don’t find out about John Doe’s guilt until things cool down.”

  “Our office certainly won’t comment publicly.” They exited the elevator, and the DA excused himself. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

  Jackson called Katie on the drive to the department. She hadn’t been feeling well that morning, and he was worried. She was so young to be pregnant and hadn’t yet accepted the limitations that came with her responsibility. He didn’t allow any alcohol in the house, and she was too young to buy it, but still, she managed to drink a beer every once in a while when he worked late—and wouldn’t tell him where she’d gotten it.

  His daughter finally answered after six rings. “I can’t talk right now.” Her voice was strained.

  A flutter of worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have cramps.”

  Full-blown panic. “Call your doctor. Right now.”

  “It’s not a big deal. I just have to make a trip to the bathroom and I’ll be fine.” She hung up.

  Should he be worried? Jackson pulled into the parking lot at the department and called Kera, leaving her a message: “Will you check on Katie in a while? She’s having cramps, but I have a task force meeting. Call me if it’s serious.” Maybe it was nothing, but Kera was a nurse and would know the right thing to do.

  Jackson was the first to arrive in the conference room, so he read through his notes while he waited. Evans and Quince came in together. Both so attractive—and single. The two of them had never hooked up. But he knew why. Jackson had been Evans’ mentor when she first came into the unit, and she’d bonded to him. Only he hadn’t known how deeply until recently, when they’d had a tender moment that exposed their feelings for each other. But they were both committed to other relationships, so they’d pushed those feelings aside and moved on.

  “Did you see the protestors at the county building?” Evans asked, dropping her shoulder bag on the floor. “They’re gathering again, and they have even more regular citizens with them today.”

  Lammers strode in. “The department, or the city, needs to m
ake a conciliatory gesture and get this under control. An officer was bitten yesterday, and another one had to have stitches in his cheek.”

  Jackson was torn. “But an innocent man is dead, and Sidney Willow is in the hospital. I understand their anger.”

  Lammers shot him a look. “Henry Walsh isn’t innocent. His prints are on the murder weapon. He was at the scene.” She plopped down in a chair. “Let’s wrap this up. Orders from the chief.”

  Jackson’s hands clenched, and he had to exhale before he could speak. “We have a new death. New evidence. New scenarios to explore.”

  Lammers took a seat. “Let’s put it all out there and see if it adds up to anything other than a homeless altercation that ended up in an officer’s murder.”

  The boss had made up her mind. Or the chief had, and she was the messenger.

  As Evans went to the whiteboard, the DA walked in. “Have I missed anything?”

  “We’re just getting started.” Jackson intended to run this like any other investigation. Every possibility was on the table. He turned to Evans. “Did you find the drifter’s ID in his belongings?”

  “Pete Scully. He had military discharge papers from twenty years ago.” She wrote the name on the board. “I also found a prescription bottle of penicillin, but the label is faded and old, and I couldn’t read the patient’s name.”

  An antibiotic, probably irrelevant. “No mental health drugs?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anything else of interest in his rucksack?”

  “Just clothes and some personal items.” Evans paused for effect. “And a thousand in cash.”

  What? “That seems odd.”

  “Unless he’d just cashed a VA retirement or disability check,” Lammers countered. “Let’s move this along. If it doesn’t connect Scully to Thompson, it’s not important.”

  Jackson struggled to control his anger. “We have a lot of unanswered questions about what happened that night. Such as, how did this drifter get close enough to Thompson to stab him?” But he probably knew that now. Thompson was intoxicated. He hesitated to share the information in front of Lammers.