CHAPTER 32
Tuesday, November 25, 3:45 p.m.
Gene Burns’ second interrogation was over quickly. He denied everything, including owning a computer, then asked for a lawyer. They let him make the call, then put him back in the hole. “What do you think?” Jackson asked, as he and Schak climbed the stairs.
“He may not be smart enough to pull off the blackmail and money drop. But I still want to search his apartment and see if he has a computer. Or a blue uniform.”
Jackson stopped before they entered the Violent Crimes workspace and kept his voice low. “We need to monitor the Kelsey Walker profile even when Quince is supposed to be watching. If his report matches what we see, it could be the best way to clear him.”
“Unless we’re wrong about the profile.” Schak rubbed his head. “I still need to find Daren Sorenson. He’s the nineteen-year-old who used to attend Riverside and was expelled for groping girls.”
The age seemed wrong. “Nineteen is young for blackmail, and it doesn’t match the age the witnesses gave for the officer who broke up the parties.”
“Maybe the cop isn’t involved. You know the department has been cracking down on campus drinking.”
“I hope you’re right. How can I help?” Jackson offered.
“I’ve got an ATL out on Sorenson, but we may have to check all his friends’ homes.”
Jackson realized he hadn’t followed up on his list of witnesses. The homeless protest and his search for Jacob had eaten up most of the day. He looked at his notes from that morning. “I’ll drive over to the house shared by Tristan Channing and Alex Crenshaw. They hosted the first party, the one Mara attended.”
“Call Sorenson’s mother again. She probably knows exactly where he is.” Schak started for his office.
“What about Burns?”
“We can leave him for a while.” His partner gave a sheepish grin. “Unless you want to take him to jail.”
Jackson didn’t see the point. “I’ll pass. I’ve got plenty to do.” He went to his desk to check his notes. There were still a few things he’d planned to follow up on from Pete Scully’s death scene. But the distractions and merging cases had sidelined it. The prescription. He wanted to know who’d written it. The faded and worn label would make tracking the information challenging, but he had to try. He pulled the small plastic container out of his carryall, used his cell phone to take a close-up of the label, and sent the photo to Jasmine Parker at the lab. The prescription had a retail number that was still visible and a blue-and-white background that might be associated with a particular pharmacy. Jasmine might even recognize it. If not, he would call pharmacies in the evening, on his own time.
The other unfinished item was Thompson’s recorder. He hadn’t had time to listen to all the personal files yet. But they would have to wait. A sexual predator was out there, potentially preparing to victimize another young girl and her family. That investigation had to come first. Jackson pulled up the ATL on Daren Sorenson to check his photo. An attractive young man with dirty-blond hair, wide-spaced hazel eyes, and perfect teeth. He printed the image, tucked the paper into his notebook, and headed out.
The house shared by the two young men was in the university area near the corner of Eighteenth and Patterson. A small ugly bungalow with a sagging front porch. It was only a matter of time before the owner sold the property to the development company that was tearing down all the rental houses in the area to build student apartment complexes. Two cars were in the driveway, and there was nowhere to park on the street. Jackson went around the corner and left his sedan in a nearby apartment complex, ignoring the tow-away sign. He walked back to the gray house and noticed a one-foot-tall snowman in the front yard. The occupants had spent a lot of time gathering up yesterday’s light dusting of snow to create it. Young people with lots of free time. He’d forgotten what that felt like.
Music vibrated through the walls and annoyed him before he reached the door. Would they even hear his knock? He pounded hard and called out, “Answer the door!” No need to alert them to his law enforcement status.
A minute later, the door flew open, and a tall young man looked him over. “What do you want?”
Jackson showed his badge and gave his name, shouting over the music. “Are you Tristan or Alex?”
“Alex. Why?”
Jackson barely heard him. “Turn the music down, please.”
Alex Crenshaw signaled to someone inside the house, and the volume went down a notch.
“May I come in? I want to talk about a party you held May seventeenth.”
The young man laughed. “We’ve had a lot of parties, and May was an eternity ago.”
“This one was significant. I’d like to question your roommate too.” Jackson stepped forward. Crenshaw seemed to weigh his options, then finally let Jackson in. With all the blinds closed, the house was dark, and it reeked of dirty socks and stale beer. Two young men sat on the couch playing video games. One matched the picture he’d just printed and stuck in his notepad.
He stepped toward him. “Daren Sorenson?”
He looked up, then cursed, his face twisted in anger and fear. “Yeah, so?”
“We need to talk about Ashley Devonshire.” Jackson pulled out his phone, speed-dialed Schak, and hit the speaker button, keeping his eyes on the suspect.
“I heard what happened,” Sorenson said. “But it wasn’t about me.”
Schak answered. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got three witnesses, including Daren Sorenson. I could use some help.”
“Will do.”
They both hung up. Jackson focused on Sorenson. “Did you attend a party here on May seventeenth?”
Sorenson scoffed. “I don’t know—that was months ago.”
Jackson shifted his gaze to the other young man on the couch. “Tristan Channing?”
“Yes, sir.” Half-respectful, half-mocking.
“Do you remember the party on that day?”
“Of course. It was my birthday. Thus, the party.” He grinned, but his eyes were nervous.
“Was your friend Daren in attendance?” He nodded at the suspect.
“Sure. So was Alex and about fifty other people.”
“Who did Daren leave with?”
Channing rolled his eyes. “Now you’re asking too much. It was my twenty-first birthday, and I was blasted. I don’t remember anyone leaving.”
“What about Mara Andrade? Did you see her?”
The name drew a lascivious smile. “She is unforgettable.”
“Who did she leave with?”
His face went blank. “Uh, I really don’t know. She was here until the cop came, but I didn’t see her after that.”
“Didn’t the party break up after the officer intervened?”
Another incredulous look. “Hell no. We sent the minors home, turned down the music, and kept right on partying.”
Crenshaw, still standing next to him, asked, “What’s going on? Why do you care about that party?”
Jackson focused on him. “Did you see Mara leave?”
“Yeah. She went out with another high school girl when the cop made them step outside.”
Finally. A witness who saw a victim with an officer right before the assault. “What did he look like?”
Crenshaw shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just saw the uniform and the badge and got a little panicked. But he seemed average, you know. Not real tall. Not short and fat. Nothing I would remember.”
“What color was the uniform?” Jackson still hoped he wasn’t one of their own.
“Dark blue.”
Loud pounding on the door. “It’s my partner. Let him in.”
Crenshaw complied, and Schak bustled in. “There you are, you little shit.” He strode straight for Sorenson. “Get up. We’re going to the department
.”
Jackson felt a little sorry for the young man. Schak’s grief seemed to have moved to the anger stage already. “We just want to ask some questions. Cooperation will work in your favor.”
“About what?”
“Ashley Devonshire,” Schak said. “You heard me talking to your sister about her the other day. You know she was sexually assaulted.”
Sorenson put up his hands. “Hey, I didn’t do that. I’m good with girls, you know?”
Schak took Sorenson’s elbow. “You were kicked out of Riverside for groping them. This is your chance to explain.”
“That was high school,” Sorenson whined. “I grabbed a couple girls’ butts. I didn’t know it was a big deal.” He grudgingly walked out with Schak.
Jackson decided he’d learned all he could from the roommates. He would follow Schak to the department and sit in on Sorenson’s interrogation. His partner had almost punched Gene Burns during his questioning—something he’d never seen from Schak before—and Jackson didn’t want anything to happen to their young suspect. Now that Thompson’s death seemed linked to the assaults, Schak was emotionally engaged with the investigation, and it was worrisome. Approaching his partner about the subject wouldn’t be easy.
On the drive back, his daughter’s ring tone buzzed in his pocket. Jackson touched his earpiece to answer. “Hey, Katie. What’s up?”
“I’m bleeding. I think I need to go to the hospital.”
CHAPTER 33
Tuesday, November 25, 5:30 p.m.
Schak wanted to leave Daren Sorenson in the hole while he grabbed a quick meal, but he decided this one had to be handled delicately. He didn’t want the kid to feel like he was in custody, and he didn’t want to stir up any parental indignation. At the last moment, he changed direction and took Sorenson to the soft interrogation room they usually reserved for minors and witnesses.
“Have a seat.” He gestured at the overstuffed brown couch. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?”
“Bottled water would be good.”
Right. As if they kept a stocked refrigerator of it. Schak hurried to the break room and rounded up a cup of burned coffee for himself and a plastic cup of tap water for his suspect. When he returned, Sorenson was stretched out on the couch. What the hell? Didn’t this kid realize what kind of trouble he could be in? Was he a sociopath who didn’t experience the same fears and social concerns as everyone else, or was he innocent? Schak remembered another kid, a fifteen-year-old boy who’d fallen asleep during questioning about vehicular manslaughter. Later he’d mentioned it to his wife, who worked as a counselor, and she’d claimed some people sleep to avoid stress.
He walked over to the couch. “Sit up and let’s get started. I’m going to record.” Schak clicked on his device.
The boy sprang up, looking wide-awake. Schak handed him the plastic cup. “It’s all we have.”
Sorenson set it on the floor. “How long am I gonna be here?”
“That depends on how much you cooperate. Where were you last Wednesday, November nineteenth, between eight p.m. and midnight?”
“Tristan Channing’s party. But you knew that.”
“Did you talk to Ashley Devonshire?”
“I don’t know. It was crowded. I talked to a lot of people.”
The kid was lying. So Schak would lie too. “Strike one. Witnesses say you hung out with Ashley. Why did you lie about it?”
“Because I didn’t assault her, and I don’t want to go to jail.” Annoyed and defensive.
All at once, Schak realized why the kid might lie. Why he’d snuck out of his house before Schak could question him. “How well did you know Ashley?”
“We were good friends.”
“People tell me you were friends with benefits. Did you have a sexual relationship with Ashley?”
For a long moment, Sorenson’s eyes jumped around while he tried to make up his mind. Finally, the kid cried out, “Please don’t charge me with rape. I know she’s sixteen. But so what? I’m only nineteen. The sex was consensual.”
Barely. Yet because the teenagers were only two and a half years apart, the DA wouldn’t prosecute him. Oregon law had more compassion and common sense than other states. But Sorenson didn’t know that. “It’s called statutory rape. Tell me what happened that night.” Schak still wanted to nail him for the blackmail. The greedy little shit.
“Nothing happened. We weren’t a couple, and we hadn’t hooked up in weeks. She was with some other guy at the party.”
Schak wasn’t sure if he believed him. “Which guy?”
“I don’t know him, but his name might be Chris. Ask Tristan.”
“What does this guy look like?”
“Shorter than me. Maybe five-eight. Dark straight hair. You know, like an Asian, but maybe mixed race.”
Schak jotted it all down. “What time did you get home from the party?”
“I stayed over. I was too drunk to drive.”
“Will your friends swear in court at risk of perjury that you never left the party house that evening?”
He swallowed hard. “I think so.”
Schak’s phone rang. He hated to be interrupted during an interrogation, but with the Kelsey profile and party sting pending, he felt he had to check. He pulled out his cell: Evans. He stood and stepped out. “What have you got?”
“The Kelsey profile is suddenly active again and chatting with people about the party. I know you’re interrogating someone, and I thought you should know.”
So they were either wrong about the profile or wrong about Burns and Sorenson. There was a third possibility. “Have you heard from Quince?”
“No, but I left him a message about our meeting so he wouldn’t be worried.”
“Do you have the subpoena ready?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take it to Judge Cranston at his home? Tell him a teenager’s life is at stake.”
“I can’t. The SWAT unit was just called to an armed standoff. I missed the last rollout for the downtown protest because Lammers called me out to the second crime scene. I can’t give Bruckner an excuse to cut me from the team.”
She was the only female SWAT member, and he admired her ambition, courage, and energy. But Evans needed to make up her mind. Detectives couldn’t be called off their duties the same way patrol officers could. But it wasn’t his responsibility to tell her that. “I’ll pick it up and run out there myself. The party won’t get going until eight or so.”
“I’m sorry, Schak.”
“It’s no problem.” He hung up. But it was a problem. With Quince as their last viable suspect, someone else had to monitor the Kelsey profile. He couldn’t do it. The subpoenas were critical to locating the predator, and he had to sit watch in the party house neighborhood. That left Jackson. He called, but his partner didn’t answer, which was unusual. Schak left a message, updating him and asking for help. Quince didn’t answer either. The uneasy feeling in his gut deepened.
Schak stopped for a burger at a fast food place on the way. The first bite triggered an intense longing for a beer to wash it down with. He told himself the beer craving was about the flavor and the need to settle his stomach, but the tension in his arms gripping the wheel told a different story. He carried a lot of stress, and his body liked the after-work wind down. During the first few days of a homicide investigation, when he worked long hours, the time usually flew by, and he didn’t think about alcohol until he got home. Knowing he had to quit was making him crave it all the time now. Life was a bitch, and then you died.
He ate in the car and dripped ketchup on his white shirt. Hell! Right before seeing the judge too. Not that it should matter. He’d called before he left the building, and Cranston was expecting him. The judge hadn’t promised he would sign, just that he would read the subpoenas. Schak felt optimistic. Cranston had daughters
and little sympathy for men with histories of violence toward women.
The climb up Chambers—with traffic crawling slowly in the dark on a slick road—was excruciating. Tempted to use his siren, he made calls instead. First Tracy, then Jackson again. Neither answered. Once he crested the hill and made his way to Blanton Road, he was able to pick up speed but couldn’t relax. He parked in Cranston’s driveway and climbed out, trying to shake off his tension. But a sense of urgency gripped him, and tremors ran through his hands as he walked up the stone steps.
Cranston, an older man with a year-round tan, opened the door, shook his hand, and led him to a study.
“I’m not sure why this couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” the judge said, taking a seat at his desk. “Social media companies are notoriously slow to respond to user-information requests.”
“I’ve already talked to the person who handles these things. She said she would release the information as soon as I sent her a subpoena.”
“Let me read it then.” Cranston reached for the stack of papers. “Sit down, please. You’re making me tense.”
Schak didn’t want to sit. Or wait. But he had to settle himself. Staking out the party meant sitting in his car for hours. He regretted his last cup of coffee.
“Have a snifter of cognac.” The judge gestured to a service table with a variety of liquor bottles.
Why not? It would calm him down for the long stakeout. “Thanks. Do you have bourbon?” He didn’t care for liqueurs. Too sweet.
“In the big decanter.” Cranston didn’t look up.
Schak scooted to the bar, picked up a shot glass, and poured from the decanter in front. He downed the bourbon, feeling the heat almost instantly. The allover softening came moments later. God, that hit the spot. He took a seat on the leather couch, leaned back, and tried to relax. His phone rang a moment later: Jackson.
Schak took the call, getting to his feet. “Hey, partner, where are you?” He hurried out of Cranston’s office and stood in the hall.
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 22
