Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “She’s not really sure. She’d been drinking with friends at a bar one evening, and they were pulled over on the way home. That’s all she remembers. Except, when she woke up the next day, she knew she’d been assaulted.”

  “Pulled over by a police officer?”

  Sophie’s brow flinched. “Of course. Why the clarification?” She made a quick note on her yellow tablet.

  “Just getting the facts.”

  A young girl hurried up to their booth. “Sophie?”

  “Yes.” The reporter scooted over, and the girl sat down. Her hair was a mess of braids that looked like dreadlocks, but she wore typical college student clothes: jeans and a green Ducks sweatshirt.

  “Thanks for coming.” Sophie gestured at him. “This is Detective Schakowski.”

  The girl stuck out her hand. “Eden Soboda. I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stay after class to ask the professor a question, and it took longer than I thought it would.”

  “You’re a student at the UO?”

  “A sophomore.”

  “Do you live here in Eugene?”

  She giggled, a nervous little burst. “For the moment. But this isn’t my hometown. I’m from Boise, Idaho.”

  “So your parents don’t live here?”

  “No. Why?”

  She didn’t fit the pattern, except for the possible involvement of a police officer. Schak tried not to look disappointed. “Tell me the details of your assault.”

  “It was June fifteenth, and I got really drunk. My boyfriend had just dumped me, so I changed my plans and decided to go home for the summer. I went out with friends to say good-bye, and I pounded down a boatload of margaritas.” Soboda looked around, as if to find the waitress. “I don’t remember much after my third drink, but I know we got stopped on our way home because they told me we did.”

  “How did you get home after you were stopped?” A real patrol officer wouldn’t let them drive away drunk.

  “We were only a few blocks from the complex where we live, so we walked.”

  “Did the officer escort you?”

  A blank expression. “Nobody mentioned it.”

  “Did he issue a DUI ticket?”

  “No. He let us off easy.”

  That was unusual. “So you and your friends walked two blocks home. Then you passed out?”

  Another nervous giggle. “No. They said we ran into some guys who lived in the complex and partied with them for a while.”

  This one could go either way, Schak thought. The cop could have followed her home and sexually assaulted her. Or, more likely, she was raped by one of her friends. A guy who thought he was having consensual sex because she was too drunk to say no.

  “Why didn’t you report the assault?”

  “There was no point. The guys we partied with were athletes. No one would have believed me anyway.” She twisted one of her braids and didn’t meet Schak’s eyes. “I didn’t want to send anyone to jail. What if it was my fault?” Soboda glanced at Sophie. “I only came forward because the article online made it sound like a predator was out there and more women were vulnerable. I wanted to help stop him.”

  “You’re doing the right thing.” Schak did his best to sound reassuring, but he couldn’t fake a smile. “I’d like the names of the guys you partied with.”

  Soboda looked distressed. “I’d rather not tell you. Everyone turns against you if you accuse an athlete of anything.”

  Hells bells. How could he do his job if she wouldn’t name anyone? “I need to talk to everyone who was with you that night. Did you wake up in your own bed?”

  She nodded.

  “I need to know how you got there.”

  “I told you. I don’t remember anything.” Soboda suddenly shut down. “I have to go back to class.” She climbed out of the booth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “Wait!” Schak wanted to get up and stop her, but he couldn’t slide out of the booth fast enough.

  She turned back, clearly impatient.

  “Tell me the names of your girlfriends.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Neither of them returned to the university this year, and I’ve lost contact.” She spun and headed out.

  Schak sipped his coffee while Sophie wrote out a long note, and the waitress brought their food. He dug into his burger like a starving man. His wife hadn’t made him breakfast, so he’d grabbed a banana on his way out. What if Tracy left him? He would learn to get by, but it would be painful.

  “What do you think?” Sophie asked. “Is she one of the predator’s victims?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s no blackmail involved, so it’s probably just another college date rape.”

  “I hate that term.” She stared at him until he put down his burger.

  “What else do you call it? She doesn’t even know if she consented or not.”

  Sophie leaned forward, eyes blazing. “If a woman is too intoxicated to make a rational decision, it’s rape. Regardless of anyone’s age or social connections.” The reporter’s voice was intense, and the people in the booth behind them had likely heard her.

  He didn’t disagree, but he resented her all-or-nothing attitude on the subject. “Let’s keep this quiet, okay? This is sensitive investigative information.”

  “I’m sorry. I appreciate your trust, and I won’t share anything you don’t want me to.”

  Schak took another bite, focusing on his food. He just wanted to eat and get out of there.

  “The best way to catch him would be during the money exchange,” Sophie finally said.

  He’d thought about that. “If we get that opportunity. We can’t intercept him if the parents don’t involve us until it’s too late. Or not all.”

  “That opportunity—” she gave the word a special twist—“would mean that another girl would have to be assaulted. And filmed. And harassed.” Sophie shook her head, repulsed. “What about a sting to catch him in the act?”

  “We’re considering it, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Does he have a territory?” A little excitement in her voice now. “I mean, is there a pattern to where and how he picks his victims?”

  Schak had to be careful about what he shared with her. Yet, if the paper printed information about the parties, maybe young girls would be more careful. “Both of the victims had been drinking at a party. So we think he targets gatherings where young girls will be.”

  “The campus area?”

  “So far. But singling out the right party in the campus area is like trying to find the right hippie at the Oregon Country Fair.”

  Sophie laughed, snorting a little salad. “But it’s not impossible, right? What else do the victims have in common?”

  Should he tell her? Why not? “They both attended Riverside High School.” The information about the cop had to stay discreet. If she printed it, their perp would shut down and disappear, and the public trust would be shattered again. Whatever was left of it. The activist was in the hospital, and the local TV station had showed clips of Officer Garcia striking her. Citizens were already calling for new policies and training.

  “He must have some connection to the school,” Sophie said, taking more notes.

  “Don’t publish that. I’m still looking into school employees, and I don’t want to alert anyone.”

  “You said ‘attended,’ past tense. I know one committed suicide, but what about the other one?”

  “She graduated.”

  “Will you tell me their names?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Give me the names and addresses where the parties were held. I have a lot of connections, and I’m good with social media. I think I can help you.”

  Could she? His own Facebook effort that morning had produced nothing except a desperate need to drink. With this case, he needed
all the help he could get. His biggest concern was that the predator was a cop and the reporter would find him first. But the perp was probably using a fake online profile, so she wouldn’t find his real identity. With mixed feelings, he flipped back through his notes and gave her the information about the party houses.

  His phone rang: Jackson. “I have to take this.” He pushed his plate aside and scooted to the edge of the booth before he answered the call. “Hey, partner. What have you got?”

  “Another sexual assault victim. Guess who knew about it?”

  Schak was on his feet. Jackson had to be talking about a police officer. “Who?”

  “Dan Thompson.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Sophie wanted desperately to hear the other end of Schak’s conversation. It had to be Jackson. And he could be updating Schak on a lead involving Officer Thompson’s murder. But the detective had stepped into the lounge, where she couldn’t hear. She paid the check, rushed out the back door, and caught up to him as he climbed into his car. “Hey, we didn’t finish our conversation.”

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  “Was that Jackson? Is something breaking on Officer Thompson’s case?”

  “It’s another sexual assault victim.”

  “What’s her name? I want to interview her.”

  “You know I can’t tell you. What do I owe you for lunch?”

  “Don’t worry, I got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell the victim to call me if she wants her story to help other women.”

  He rolled up his window and started backing up. Sophie got out of his way. A blunt man with rough edges, but he’d made her laugh, so she liked him. More important, he’d met with her and discussed strategy for catching the sexual predator. It was more time than Jackson had ever given her. Except for the interview his boss had forced him to sit through with her years ago.

  What now? Officially, her job was to cover Springfield. But she could do that by phone in an hour this afternoon. She needed to know the assault victims’ names. With that info, she could get on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, then map their connections in half an hour. She might even be able to pinpoint a party circuit. They were probably on Snapchat too, but those messages automatically deleted too quickly to be helpful.

  On the drive back to the newspaper, she called Riverside High School and took a gamble. “Hello, this is Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. I’m writing a profile about the suicide victim. Will you spell her name for me, so I get it right?”

  “Ashley is just like it sounds, but with an e.” The receptionist also spelled out Devonshire.

  Yes! “Thanks. Does the school have anything planned?”

  “We’re holding a commemoration for her this afternoon in the gym at two.”

  “I’ll see if I can make that. Do you have a photo file you can send?”

  “The yearbook team probably does. I’ll ask.”

  “I appreciate that.” Sophie rattled off her email. “Who else should I interview to get a full picture of Ashley’s personality and what her final days were like?”

  “You should ask her parents that. I have to go.”

  It snowed for the last few minutes of her drive, and she cursed it but kept driving. The first time it had snowed in Eugene, it had been a novelty, a new experience to savor. Now she hated it like most rational adults.

  Back at her desk with a cup of hot tea, she noticed a new message in her personal Gmail account. It was from her union rep, who was sitting twenty feet away: Let’s have lunch and talk about your situation. The older woman clearly didn’t want the newspaper’s management to have access to the message. Sophie replied and suggested Wednesday. After she hit Send, she laughed and thought, If I’m still here.

  Keeping her voice low, she called Detective Jackson, and he surprised her by answering. “Sophie?”

  Was he sitting somewhere killing time, waiting for Schak to show up? “Hey, Jackson. Do you have an update on Officer Thompson’s murder?”

  “A lot has happened, but it’s too early to make any announcements.”

  “I think I know something you might not. Let’s trade. You first.” It was the only way to get him to share real information.

  A long pause. “We have a new person of interest with physical links to Thompson’s crime scene.”

  Huge news! “Does that mean Henry Walsh has been cleared?”

  “Not exactly. He may not have committed the actual murder, but it’s still likely he was at the scene.”

  “Who’s the new suspect?”

  “A drifter. I can’t give you his name until we confirm his identity.”

  That was odd. “Is he in custody?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Whoa! “How? What happened?”

  “I’m still investigating. Now tell me what you have.”

  “Jacob Walsh thinks he saw someone sitting in the truck with Officer Thompson.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t say. It was a brief mention. Then the twins started talking about something else, and Willow asked them how they’d been treated in custody, and we didn’t get back to it.” The time Sophie had spent with them had been bizarre. “It’s hard to keep them focused, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you have any sense of the time frame? Such as before or after Thompson gave away blankets?”

  “No. As I said, it was just a brief mention that was buried in an avalanche of words.”

  “I wish you had told me this earlier.”

  “I’m sorry. I meant to. But Henry was arrested and killed, making the case look solved. Then the riot happened, and I was there, so I had to write the story. It was a crazy weekend newswise.” All true, but it probably seemed lame to him. “I did call you, but I kind of thought you might already know. You questioned the twins for hours.”

  “I need to talk to Jacob. Do you know where he is?”

  “No, but I can call SIRA and ask Willow’s partner if anyone knows.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson’s tone shifted, and she knew he was done talking about the case. Yet there was so much more she wanted to report. “What’s happening with Officer Bremmer? And Officer Garcia?”

  “You’ll have to call our department spokesperson.”

  “Will the department offer Jacob Walsh any compensation for the loss of his brother?”

  “I’m not privy to such decisions. Text me if you find out where he is.”

  She almost laughed. Jackson didn’t want to talk in person again. And texting was a new skill for him. “Then you can text me the killer’s name when you’ve confirmed it.”

  “Bye, Sophie.”

  She hung up and realized Zee, the intern, was standing at the entry of her cube.

  “I need your help.”

  Oh boy. Nothing like training the person who took your job. “With what?”

  “Getting information from the police. I’ve been assigned to take on the Thompson murder, but no one at the department will talk to me, and I can’t locate the family.”

  Sophie couldn’t bring herself to share what she’d just learned. Not only was it the only leverage she had, but as a reporter, Zee needed to hear it directly from sources. “Detective Jackson is handling the case; have you tried him?”

  “Of course. He won’t return my calls.”

  “What about Detective Evans? She’s more helpful sometimes, and she tends to work his cases.”

  “Evans.” Zee wrote it down. “We need to talk about the sexual assault story too.”

  The big woman towered over her, but Sophie didn’t have a chair in her small cube to offer. “Let’s go to the conference room.” She hated the windowless space, but there was nowhere else to talk privately.

  She headed for the little room, and Zee followed. The intern took a seat near the door,
looking uncomfortable. Sophie reminded herself that Zee was fresh out of college and trying to jump-start her journalism career, the same position Sophie had been in five years ago. Only now, it was much harder, thanks first to the internet and Craigslist, then to the digital revolution that gave everyone a platform from which to publish their thoughts.

  Zee launched in. “Hoogstad says I have to follow up with the sexual assault story too. So I need you to update me on what you have.”

  Sophie had a wild thought. But she had to present it at the right time in the conversation.

  Zee took her hesitation to heart. “Hey, I’m sorry to take your beat. I didn’t expect this internship to displace anyone. It’s nothing personal.”

  “I understand. Just remember the newspaper could do the same thing to you. After your internship is over, they might say you just didn’t cut it and bring in another intern. That may be the only way the paper will survive—by keeping their employee costs to almost nothing.”

  The young woman slumped in her chair. “What am I supposed to do? I went thirty thousand into debt to get a journalism degree, and no one will hire you without an internship on your résumé.”

  “If I were you, I’d keep looking for a job. Which is exactly what I’m doing.” Sophie tapped her yellow pad. “Let’s get to work. The sexual assault story is intriguing, but the police are stumped.” She summarized the details as Zee took notes.

  “Have you called the school?” the intern asked.

  “Only to confirm the latest victim’s identity. But she’s a minor, so the paper isn’t likely to run it. But we can use it to find the connections between the victims.”

  Zee stared at her. “You said ‘we.’ I thought you were assigned to cover Springfield.”

  “I am. But without my help, you’ll never get anywhere with either of these stories. Do you want to write fluff pieces with no real information, or do you want to dig for the truth? I’m offering to show you how it’s done.”