Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “What did he look like?”

  She shrugged. “He was cute.”

  “Please be as specific as you can.”

  “That’s all I remember.” Her eyes went wide, thick lashes blinking rapidly. Then she quickly whispered, “Was it the cop?”

  Oh hell. He didn’t want to start that rumor. “No. I’m just trying to find the officer so I can get information from him.”

  Taylor fidgeted, unzipping her orange leather jacket. “He seemed a little taller than me, so about six-foot. Short brownish hair and good cheekbones.”

  “Age?”

  She shrugged. “In his thirties, I think.”

  “Would you be able to recognize him again from a photo or a lineup?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Schak recalled the task force meeting that morning. The witness had just described Michael Quince. A heavy rock landed in his empty stomach. No. It had to be coincidence. “Was the cop in uniform?”

  “Yes, dark blue.”

  Quince had once been a patrol cop and could still have his uniform. He’d also worked Vice for a few years, so he was an expert on sex crimes. If anyone in the department could pull it off . . . No. He had to search the school’s employee database and find another match. “Did you see the police officer talking to Ashley?”

  Taylor shook her head. “But I was pretty drunk. A lot of that night is a blur.”

  “Yet you remember the police officer in detail?”

  “Of course. Even when you’re drunk, the thought of getting arrested makes your head clear for a moment. Besides, he was hot.” She shifted again. “I hope you find the creep who assaulted Ashley. I’m afraid to go to parties now.”

  Schak wanted to shake his head. Or maybe shake her. “You should be afraid to get drunk at parties. It’s stupid and dangerous, and he’s not the only predator out there.”

  The girl pressed her lips together as if she were about to cry, then abruptly zipped up her jacket. “Can I go?”

  Schak didn’t regret his comment. “Not yet. Did you attend a party at a house on Eighteenth and Patterson last May?”

  “I’m sure I did. That’s where my brother lives.”

  Right. He knew that. “Do you remember anything about the party?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can you think of anything else that might help me? Anyone suspicious Ashley may have come into contact with recently?”

  “Sorry. We hadn’t been hanging out that much lately. She was kind of depressed.”

  Schak gave her his card, watched her hustle out, then headed for his car. He had to grab some lunch, then search the EPD files for someone who looked just like Quince. And, to be professional, he had to find a way to ask Quince what he’d done last Wednesday night.

  CHAPTER 24

  Monday, November 24, 12:25 p.m.

  Jackson sat at his desk, eating a BLT sandwich he’d bought from a vendor truck that came to their parking lot every Monday around noon. He missed being downtown, close to restaurants and, most important, Full City coffee. He scowled at the cup of crappy stuff he’d picked up in the break room. Evans had come into the task force meeting with a cup from Dutch Bros., but for the first time, she hadn’t brought him one. That was good, he decided. They both needed to take a step back and keep their relationship more professional.

  He had already called the three names on the list Schak had given him, but no one had answered. He would try again later, then make the rounds to their houses around dinnertime, when they were more likely to be home. Relieved to have the afternoon somewhat free, Jackson leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and mulled over Thompson’s case—his own version of meditation, which often led to a breakthrough. Despite Lammers’ orders to close the case, he wasn’t finished. So much left undone, too many questions unanswered.

  But his mind refused to relax. He kept coming up with investigative steps he hadn’t yet taken, such as perusing the phone and bank records that hadn’t come through yet. This case had been intense and unusual from the beginning. They’d rounded up suspects almost immediately and gone into interrogation mode before they’d had a chance to dig into the victim’s life. Then the first suspect had died just as a second suspect came to light. Now they had a third—and in theory, final—suspect with physical connections to the murder. But since the man was dead, there was no real need to build a case against him.

  Yet the motive remained elusive. Lammers seemed to think that homeless men didn’t need a motive for murder, that all they needed was to feel threatened. And that might be true for some. But Pete Scully’s suicide bothered him. Why the prone position and a thousand in cash in his rucksack? But the drifter had Thompson’s gun and cell phone. Could they have been planted by someone trying to frame the drifter for the murder? It seemed unlikely. The twins weren’t capable of that kind of planning, and it didn’t explain the cash.

  A headache built up in his forehead, and Jackson sat up and rubbed his eyes. Oh dear. He’d forgotten to check on Katie. Guilt and worry made his pulse race as he called his daughter’s cell phone. She didn’t answer, so he called Kera, who picked up. “Hey, Jackson.”

  “Did you check in with Katie? I haven’t heard from her since this morning.”

  “She’s with her obstetrician now, and I’m in the waiting room with the boys. So I don’t know anything yet.”

  “Thanks for taking her. Thanks for being so good to Benjie.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He heard the toddlers chatting with each other in the background.

  “Speaking of the boy,” Kera said. “Don’t you have a custody hearing this week?”

  “I do. But did I tell you about the letter from the court?”

  “No.” She gave a soft laugh. “You’ve been preoccupied since this case started, as always. But that’s why you’re good at what you do.”

  And why he was such a crappy dad at times. “One of Benjie’s supposed relatives has filed for custody, and both cases will be heard this Wednesday.”

  “Do you want me to call and remind you, if you’re still obsessed?”

  That stung. He might miss a dentist appointment during a homicide investigation but not a court date. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. And so will Mariah Martin. She’s going to support me.” The social worker had seen Benjie bond to him, and hopefully she would convince the judge that separating them would be devastating to the boy. “Update me when you know what Katie’s doctor says. Even if it’s just a text.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you get back to it.” She hung up.

  Jackson shifted gears and tried to remember what came next in the investigation. He needed to back up, do the basics, and look more closely at Dan Thompson’s life, starting with his work as a police officer. Lammers had supposedly checked his case log, but only for the last two days of his life. Jackson opened the database of recent arrests and searched for Thompson’s name. It came up twice. In his last week on the job, Thompson had arrested a young woman for driving under the influence and a middle-aged man for public nudity at Alton Baker Park. Jackson expanded the search to include the previous month, but the arrests were more of the same—all benign, except one case of domestic dispute.

  Jackson opened the domestic file and skimmed through the details. Two weeks earlier, Thompson had gone to a home in the Cal Young area after a neighbor called about a noisy altercation. He’d arrested Eric Marston for slapping his daughter and shoving his wife. The man had gone with him cooperatively, and the family had said little about their dispute. Sadie Marston had later bailed her husband out of jail, called Thompson, and told him she wouldn’t testify against her husband. The charges were still pending, but the district attorney wasn’t pursuing the case. A typical response. Charges could be filed and left on the books for a year without taking the person to court, and the DA’s office used the tactic to keep people in lin
e without the expense of prosecuting them.

  Was it worth checking out? Probably not. How could a mild domestic dispute in a nice neighborhood be connected to Thompson’s murder near a homeless camp? Jackson moved on. Now that he had Thompson’s cell phone, he could check out who the victim had talked to prior to his death. Jackson pulled gloves out of his carryall, noting it was his last pair. He would have to restock before he left the building again.

  The phone was a personal item, smaller and older than those the department issued to detectives. He tapped open the call history. Thompson’s last call had been to his girlfriend, Trisha Weber. He’d contacted her at noon, and they’d talked for a couple of minutes. His only call that day. Jackson clicked over to the text list. No messages on Friday either. His last text had come from someone labeled only as Josh. Reading the exchange made Jackson’s heart ache for Thompson. Josh was obviously his son, and Thompson had pleaded with the boy to spend time with him that weekend. Jackson felt sorry for the teenager too. He would have to live with the knowledge that his last words to his father had been I want to see my friends instead.

  Jackson tapped back into the call history, checking out Thursday. That evening, the victim had called Donna Thompson, his mother, and talked for eight minutes, like the good man that he was. Scrolling back to Wednesday, Jackson saw that Thompson had received a call from Sadie Marston. Interesting. If Thompson had called Marston, that would seem like a standard follow-up to a case. But she had called him. Jackson checked to see if she was returning a call from Thompson. No outgoing calls to Marston showed up.

  Lammers stepped into his cube, blocking the sunlight that beamed over the partial wall. “Is that Thompson’s phone?” An unhappy tone.

  “Yes.” Jackson offered no explanation or apology.

  “It should be at the lab, getting dusted for prints.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take it over. His weapon too.”

  He started to protest, then remembered he could get complete phone records from the provider. Slipping the cell back into its evidence bag, he said, “Joe’s pretty swamped, so it could take a few days.” He turned over the weapon too.

  “The chief wants this case closed, Jackson. We don’t have the time or resources to satisfy personal curiosity.” The edge dropped out of her voice. “I’m not asking you to stop thinking about Thompson. None of us ever will. But the department needs closure. The homeless community needs closure. Stop picking at the wound.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He said it so softly, she cocked her head and stared at him.

  Finally, she said, “The reason I came in here was to ask about the other twin. Do you know where he is?”

  “No. Why?”

  “With his brother dead and Willow in the hospital, I’m a little worried about him.”

  It took a moment to process what she was really saying. “You mean you’re worried he’ll go nuts and cause a scene or end up frozen under a bridge or something. And the department will look bad.”

  The sergeant’s shoulders tensed. “We’re trying to get him connected with resources that can help him, but no one has seen him since he left White Bird clinic yesterday morning.”

  Irritated and confused, Jackson said, “Jacob isn’t my responsibility. And you can’t ask me to drop Thompson’s case, then expect me to follow up on it at the same time.”

  “I just wondered what you knew. I’m not asking you to find Jacob Walsh.” She shook her head, as if he were being unreasonable. “If you hear anything about him, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  She left his space, and Jackson popped an aspirin, along with a mix of other anti-inflammatories—a pain-relief cocktail. He grabbed his carryall and coat and headed downstairs. He would call Sadie Marston on his way to see Tristan Channing, a potential witness in Schak’s case. It couldn’t hurt to see if Sadie or her husband held any animosity toward Thompson.

  Outside, the frigid gray sky threatened more snow. Unusual for Eugene. They’d had more snow in the last two winters than in the decade before. He hoped it was a fluke and not the new normal. Jackson put in his earpiece and called the number he’d written down. A woman answered, sounding rattled. “If you’re calling to ask for money, take me off your list.”

  “This is Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I’m calling about your encounter with Officer Dan Thompson.”

  “Hang on a second.” The sound of footsteps and voices could be heard in the background. She came back on. “Sorry, I’m on a break at work and had to get some privacy.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “At Southern Valley Title. Why? What is this about?”

  “Officer Thompson was killed Friday night, and I’m looking at his recent case files. I’d like to discuss this in person.” Jackson drove out of the parking lot. The title company was only a few minutes away.

  “There’s nothing to discuss. My husband and I argued. That’s it. But our busybody neighbor called the police when she heard shouting, and an officer came out.”

  “The report says your husband slapped your daughter and pushed you.”

  A harsh breathing sound. “Yes, Eric slapped our daughter on the shoulder. She was being verbally abusive. I stepped in between them, and Eric moved me out of the way. Nobody got hurt. It was just a bad moment for our family. The charges are ridiculous, and our attorney says the DA isn’t going to pursue them. Please let this go.” Weary and begging now.

  “This isn’t really about the incident at your house. It’s about Officer Thompson.” He turned toward Coburg Road.

  “I was stunned to see on the news that he was dead. But didn’t a homeless person kill him?”

  “It looks that way.” He needed to gauge her feelings about Thompson, but it needed to be done in person. “I’ll be at your workplace in a minute. Meet me outside if you’d like to keep this private.” He hung up before she could argue.

  The title company was inside a building at the edge of the Oakway mall. Jackson had signed closing documents there when he and his ex had sold their house. He climbed from his car and went inside to wait in the lobby. It seemed unlikely that she would try to give him the slip, but he’d learned to be cautious.

  A woman in a long beige coat stepped off the elevator. She noticed him immediately and came his way. Mid-forties, well dressed, and anxious. A pixie face that looked as if it had been compressed from forehead to chin. “Detective Jackson, I assume?” She kept her hands on her purse strap.

  “Yes. Where would you like to talk?”

  “It’s too cold to stand outside. We’ll sit in my car.” She hurried out the glass doors and across the lot to a Pathfinder parked near the street. She climbed into the driver’s side and unlocked the doors. Jackson took the passenger’s seat. It wasn’t the strangest questioning setup he’d ever experienced, but it came close.

  She started the car, cranked up the heat, and turned to face him. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why did you call Thompson last Thursday?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, and I don’t want to talk about it.” Marston clamped her mouth shut and crossed her arms, signaling she was closed off to that line of questioning.

  Jackson decided to circle back to it later. “Do you blame Officer Thompson for your husband’s arrest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were you angry with Thompson for taking Eric in?”

  “At first, yes. But he said he had to. He said the department would rather make unnecessary arrests than to walk away and let a woman be killed.”

  “What about your husband? Did he harbor a grudge against Thompson?”

  “A grudge?” She blinked a few times, as if trying to process the real question. “What are you implying? That Eric might have killed a cop out of revenge for a stupid arrest?”

  “Police officers have been killed for less.” Such as a blanket, he though
t.

  “That’s insane.” She made another harsh sound. “My husband is a lawyer. He’s probably going to sue the department for false arrest, but he’s never hurt anyone, including me.”

  Had his instincts on this one been completely wrong? He still had to ask about the phone call. “You contacted Officer Thompson on his personal cell the day before he was murdered. I want to know why.”

  She started to speak, then stopped and rubbed her arms, as if suddenly cold. A moment later, she burst into tears. “I called Officer Thompson to tell him the whole truth. Our daughter had been sexually assaulted, and we were being blackmailed. That’s what Eric and I were fighting about.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Monday, November 24, 3:05 p.m.

  Schak spotted Sophie Speranza in a corner booth, and a wave of apprehension rolled over him. He’d never met with a reporter before. It went against his grain, like inviting the IRS to look at his finances. But she’d called him and said a victim had come forward already and was eager to talk. He didn’t see anyone with her and thought she might have manipulated him. Oh well, at least he could have a decent burger for lunch. He’d missed the burger-and-brew specials at the Sixth Street Grill since the department had moved out to Country Club Road. He hated the sound of their address. A police department should seem more accessible than that.

  Schak slid into the booth across from her. “Hello, Ms. Speranza.”

  “Call me Sophie.” She smiled and reached out a hand.

  He shook it, thinking she was pretty and tiny and had the reddest hair he’d ever seen. Her photo on the paper’s website didn’t do her justice. “You said the victim was meeting us.”

  “She said she would be here.” Sophie’s expression held a hint of worry.

  “Give me her name and contact information in case I need to follow up.”

  “Eden Soboda. Here’s her phone number.” Sophie jotted it down and slipped him a sticky note.

  A waitress came by and they ordered. He wanted a beer, but wouldn’t drink in front of the reporter. If the new victim didn’t show up, Schak wondered what he and Sophie would talk about for the next thirty minutes. He didn’t plan to answer questions, and he’d never been good at small talk. “Did Soboda tell you what happened to her?”