Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  He knew why, but the socially appropriate response was to inquire. “What’s going on? I thought you liked working Violent Crimes.”

  “You know I do.” She gave him a sad smile. “But I have to move on. It’s best for both of us.”

  He knew she was right. “I’ll miss working with you. But you’ll be great in SI.”

  “If they’ll take me. I’ve also applied for a patrol supervisory position.”

  The only way to be promoted to sergeant. “You’ll hate that.”

  “I know. But it will be temporary. I need to make sergeant if I want to advance in the SWAT unit.”

  “Best wishes in whatever you do.” Should he brief her on the concern that Quince was a potential suspect? He heard footsteps outside the door. “Stay after the meeting, so we can talk again.” He turned to the door, greeted Schak, and took a seat. His partner seemed more disheveled than usual—a stain on his white shirt that looked like he’d spilled mustard and wiped it up, dark circles under his eyes, and a pinched expression that indicated pain.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking his friend in the eye.

  “Yep.” Schak gave a half grin, then glanced away. He took a seat next to Jackson then elbowed him. “So who’s running this meeting?”

  Good question. Their cases seemed to have merged. “You are. According to Lammers, the Thompson and Scully deaths are resolved. So this is now the sexual predator task force.”

  Schak turned to face him. “You don’t think the drifter killed Danny? What don’t I know?”

  Jackson got up and closed the door. Lammers’ office was ten feet away. “It’s a bunch of little stuff. Like drag marks near Thompson, and Scully shooting himself while lying down. Plus the fact that the twins saw someone in Thompson’s truck.” He knew they weren’t reliable, so he added, “But it would help to have another witness.”

  “If it’s true, it changes things.” Evans stood and went to the murder board. “We questioned everyone at the camp and everyone we could find in the area. Should we ask the public for help?”

  “I can’t. This case is closed, remember?” But Schak deserved to know all his concerns. “Pete Scully also had a thousand dollars in cash in his rucksack.”

  “What are you saying?” Schak looked troubled.

  “I’m not sure, but now that we know Thompson was aware of the sexual predator, we have to rethink the motive.”

  “What?” Evans spun toward him. “When and how did you learn that?”

  “Late yesterday,” Jackson said. “I dug into Thompson’s shift logs and noticed a domestic dispute from a few weeks earlier. Then I saw in his cell phone that the wife had called Thompson two days before his death. Men involved in domestic violence can be vindictive, so I checked it out.” He stood to add the names to the other case board. “Sadie Marston said she’d called Thompson and told him her daughter had been assaulted—the reason for their fight. Schak and I went out to interview the family, and they’re the third victims of our predator.”

  “That’s weird,” Evans said. “I see why you think Thompson’s murder might still be open.”

  “Did the perp blackmail them?” Evans asked.

  “He tried.” Jackson summed up the scenario. “We think he failed to record the assault, then, without a video, couldn’t collect an extortion payment.”

  “He failed again with the Devonshires,” Evans added. “And the assaults were close together. Maybe he’s desperate for money.”

  “That could work for us,” Schak said. “I’m still thinking about a sting.”

  “Where’s Quince, by the way?” Evans asked.

  “I forgot to tell him about the meeting.” Jackson started to mention their suspicion when his phone rang. The medical examiner’s office. “It’s Gunderson.” He put his phone on the table and set it to speaker. “Jackson here. We’re in a task force meeting, and you’re on speaker. What have you got?”

  “A couple of updates on Dan Thompson’s autopsy. Since you left early.” A little jab.

  “And?”

  “This may be irrelevant, but he had heart disease. A serious condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. He was probably taking medication for it.”

  Schak touched his own chest. “It must run in the family.” He had experienced a heart attack a few years back.

  A moment of silence. They all knew Gunderson had called about something else.

  The ME finally added, “I sent Thompson’s blood to the state lab Saturday morning and asked them to rush it. I just got preliminary toxicology results. Thompson had a point-one-eight blood alcohol level and lorazepam in his system. It’s a benzo, a mild tranquilizer.”

  That was also unexpected. “Just how intoxicating is that combination?” Jackson asked.

  “It’s hard to say. For some people, that pharmacology would have put them under. But if Thompson was a drinker, and his liver indicates he was, then he was buzzed but probably functional.”

  Jackson looked at Evans. “Did you find any prescriptions at Thompson’s?”

  “Just an antidepressant.”

  Where did he get the tranquilizer? Jackson got back to Gunderson. “Thanks for the update. Anything else?”

  A pause. “Konrad and I have some disagreement on the angle of the stab wounds, but he’s the pathologist, so his opinion is in the report, which I’ll send over soon.”

  “What do you think?” Jackson glanced at Schak, concerned about how he was taking the discussion of his cousin’s stabbing. Stoic, as usual.

  “I think the perp was taller than the victim—that the thrust had a slight downward projection.”

  Jackson thought about the alcohol/benzo stupor. “Or maybe Thompson was hunched over.”

  “Maybe. But Konrad disagrees, so forget I said it. Besides, you’ve got the guilty guy, correct? He’s in the drawer over there, chilling, waiting for us to unlock his secrets.”

  Jackson cringed. Another autopsy to attend. “When’s the post scheduled?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten. Konrad has an early meeting with the DA.”

  Schak cut in. “What about Ashley Devonshire? Have you completed her autopsy?”

  “Yes. But there’s nothing to report. No body trauma, no real signs of sexual abuse, nothing in her stomach. We’ll see what her blood analysis reveals when it comes in.”

  “No signs of sexual abuse?” He and Schak said it in unison.

  Gunderson cleared his throat. “I’m not saying she wasn’t assaulted. But there’s no tearing, swelling, or bruising.”

  Schak’s brow furrowed. “I’m confused.”

  Evans explained, “She was unconscious, remember? Rape isn’t always violent. It’s about non-consent.”

  “I’m hanging up now.” Gunderson clicked off.

  Jackson pocketed his phone. “These assaults may be more about the blackmail money than the sexual gratification.” He glanced at Evans. “Or domination, or whatever.”

  “You think he’ll try again soon?” Evans bounced on her toes. “We have to figure out how he targets his victims.”

  “We think he’s using a fake online profile named Kelsey Walker.” Jackson realized he’d taken the lead again, out of habit. “Maybe we need to monitor that profile round the clock.”

  “I called the Facebook office this morning and asked about the profile’s source, but they said I needed a subpoena.” Schak shrugged. “It was worth a try. And I’ll take the paperwork to a judge today.”

  “I’ll take the first Kelsey shift,” Evans said. “I don’t have dinner plans.”

  Jackson grabbed the next one, not wanting to be up late. “I’ll watch from eight until midnight.”

  “Can’t we set up our own fake profile and lure the perp out?” Evans said, pacing now.

  “He may be suspicious if a new person pops up and starts interacting with him
,” Jackson said. He thought about his teenage daughter and her online profile, but he would never risk drawing attention to her.

  “I’ll talk to Dragoo,” Schak said with a pinched brow. “Maybe he can hack into Kelsey’s account. He got into Ashley’s for me.”

  Jackson shook his head. “That was different. The victim was dead, and you had her parents’ permission. You and Dragoo will need a court order to violate Kelsey Walker’s privacy.” Sometimes he hated being the stickler.

  “I know that.” Schak rubbed his buzzed head. “I asked Sophie Speranza to help me find more victims. So far, only one has come forward, and I don’t think she fits the profile.”

  “What exactly is the profile?” Evans picked up the marker, ready to add to their case board.

  “Ashley, Mara, and Grace all are high school students with long brown hair and petite bodies,” Schak said. “The college student I talked to yesterday didn’t fit that physical type.”

  “Can you get pictures?” Evans asked.

  “Sure.” Schak nodded. “I should have done that already.” He glanced at Jackson. “Sophie is looking at the victims’ connections online to see if she can spot a pattern. Or a new party developing.” He cleared his throat. “I want to share the third victim with her.”

  “It’s your case.” Jackson was relieved it wasn’t his call. He never wanted to give information to Sophie, but he rarely regretted it.

  Evans paced impatiently. “Do we know anything about the perp? Have any of the victims given a description?”

  Time to tell her. “Quince matches the description of the cop who broke up the parties.”

  Evans’ mouth fell open. “You don’t really suspect him, do you?”

  “We have to be open to all possibilities.”

  “In theory, yes, but I don’t believe it’s him.” Evans crossed her arms.

  “I don’t want to believe it either.” Jackson realized how challenging it would be to have him on the team. “We don’t want Quince to know he’s a suspect, so I’ll call him later and update him with nonessential information.”

  “What exactly is the description?” Evans asked.

  Schak said, “Six-foot, late thirties, and attractive, but that’s all we know.”

  “That’s so broad, it’s almost meaningless,” she muttered.

  Another connection popped into Jackson’s head. “It also describes Gene Burns, the ex-con who threatened Thompson. Burns was charged with sexual assault years ago but not convicted.”

  “Is he still in custody?” Evans asked.

  “I hope so.” Jackson made a note to call the jail.

  “But if Burns is the perp, maybe we should have him released,” Schak argued. “So we can monitor him, maybe catch him in the act.”

  “The Burns idea helps explain Thompson’s involvement in the sexual assault cases,” Evans said. “The men knew each other through Trisha Weber. If Thompson connected Burns to the assaults and confronted him, the ex-con may have killed him, then framed a homeless person because it was convenient.”

  Relief settled into Jackson’s bones. He’d been thinking something similar, and the theory made sense all the way around. It also meant they weren’t looking for a cop. Thank god. He stood. “I’ll call the jail now and put a hold on Burns.”

  The door burst open and Lammers shouted, “We need you downstairs. Homeless people are protesting in the lobby, and this could get ugly.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Jackson pounded down the stairs as the chanting sounds grew stronger. He stepped into the crowded lobby and resisted the urge to touch his weapon. The other detectives fanned out around him. Jackie Matthews, the department spokesperson, stood on a chair near the front counter and tried to get everyone to quiet down. Two uniformed officers flanked her, and Ben Stricklyn, an Internal Affairs detective, had just come in the front door. A few feet from him, Sophie Speranza took pictures.

  About fifty people crammed into the narrow space. Some held signs, but the rest were simply shouting, “Justice for Henry! Justice for Willow!” Mostly men, layered in heavy winter clothes, but a few women as well, ranging from late teens to one who looked seventy. Jackson scanned the group, looking for Jacob Walsh, but didn’t see him. Damn. He really needed to question him again. Internal Affairs needed to talk with him as well. Jacob was a witness to the Taser incident that had led to his brother’s death. “Search the crowd for Jacob Walsh,” he said to Evans. “I’m going to grab Stricklyn and see if we can get control here.”

  Jackson pushed through the mob to reach the IA detective. Through the glass front doors, he saw dozens more people spilling down the wide stairs and into the front parking lot. Many didn’t look homeless. This was the same crowd that came to the citizens’ advisory board meetings. “I need your help,” Jackson said. “Come with me to the front.”

  “We need a SWAT unit,” Stricklyn countered.

  Bad idea. “No, we need to give these people some hope. Come on.”

  Jackson resisted the urge to grab his arm, then turned and headed for where Matthews was still trying to get the crowd’s attention. He motioned for her to get down from the chair. “You haven’t called for the SWAT unit, have you?”

  “Sergeant Lammers did.”

  “Tell them to stand down. No one else needs to get hurt!” She started to argue but then charged toward Lammers, who had seniority. His supervisor was near the stairs, probably waiting for the chief to come down. Stricklyn had followed him and was standing by. The two patrol officers had their batons at their sides but stayed back, watching the crowd. Jackson stepped up onto the chair. He held his arms in the air and waited. It took a couple minutes, but the tactic gained people’s attention, and the chanting slowly died out. When it was quiet, a young man yelled, “Who are you?”

  “Detective Jackson. I’m investigating Officer Thompson’s death. He was a friend to the homeless community, and he needs your help. I need your help.”

  The young man stepped forward. Dark shoulder-length hair, short beard, and a long leather coat. “Why should we help you? We want justice for Henry Walsh. And for Willow. Too many of us have been assaulted and treated like garbage.”

  “That has to change. I agree.” Jackson touched the IA officer’s shoulder and raised his voice. “This is Detective Stricklyn. He’s with Internal Affairs, and he’s investigating Henry’s death and Willow’s assault. The officers involved in those incidents are on leave and will be held accountable.” Jackson knew it wasn’t true, but he needed the crowd to feel placated. Officers were almost never disciplined for excessive force. The underlying belief was that it was bad for morale. That it would intimidate and hamstring patrol cops, putting them at risk in dangerous situations.

  “No officers are ever charged with wrongdoing!” the man yelled.

  “But they are reprimanded and taken out of fieldwork. And policies do change. In response to the recent incidents, the department is starting a new training program.” Also not true—at the moment—but he would push for it. “Instead of gathering here, where you’re at risk, take your concerns to the city council. Send representatives.”

  “You mean like Willow? Who’s now in the hospital?”

  Jackson had no comeback for that. “Things will change, I promise! Does anyone know where Jacob Walsh is?” A wild impulse jumped into his head and out of his mouth. “I want to help him. I want to buy him a home in Opportunity Village. If you see him, please let him know. Please send him to me.”

  About half the crowd cheered. The young man who’d spoken glared, skeptical. Jackson tried to calculate what one of the little mobile huts would cost him.

  Lammers cruised toward him, and people parted to get out of her way. She signaled for Jackson to get down. When he did, she hauled herself up onto the chair.

  Lammers called out, “I talked to her doctor this morning, and Willow is improving. She
’ll make a full recovery.”

  A loud cheer for that news. When they’d quieted down, Lammers added, “We support Willow’s efforts to get people off the streets and into regulated camps. So the police department will make a generous donation to SIRA.”

  Another cheer.

  “But you have to get out of here and let us do our jobs. You’re putting others at risk by taking our time. Please! A SWAT unit is on the way, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt!”

  She shouldn’t have said that. Some people jeered, but others headed for the door. The young spokesman stepped toward Jackson. “I know where Jacob might be.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He sleeps in a shed somewhere around Third and Monroe. But no one has seen him since Henry died. We’re all worried.”

  Nothing he didn’t already know. He just had to find time to get over there. “Thanks. I’ll make sure he gets help.” Jackson meant that. He would call Willow’s organization and arrange to pay for a camper and get Jacob set up at the village—where people would keep him company and help him with his grief.

  More of the crowd moved toward the door, and relief flooded his body. Now if they would just leave the parking lot before the SWAT unit arrived, primed with adrenaline and carrying surplus military gear. Sergeant Bruckner, who ran the unit, was a good man, but he loved using the door knocker and stun grenades. Jackson couldn’t bear for another person to get hurt, all because he’d brought the twins in for questioning. He was starting to think Henry’s fingerprint on the broken bottle didn’t mean anything except that he’d drunk it or picked it up at one point, then left it lying along the road.

  He turned to Lammers. “Did you okay the donation with the chief? Is it real?”

  “Not yet, but he’ll be on board. We need to repair public trust.”

  “We need Willow to come out of this all right.”

  Lammers flinched. “I made that up too. But I’ll call her doctor now.”

  “You did good. We had to get them out of here before anyone got hurt.” He heard Kera’s voice in his head calling bullshit. But she’d never worked in law enforcement. Their job was to protect people, not make their lives better. And to protect the public, they had to protect themselves first. “I have to get going.”