All In A Day's Work

by Gary Resnikoff

  Why choose their victims from the Consumer Champion? Easy to answer. The injured party probably tried to get satisfaction from Jackson and didn’t. So, by choosing victims from the show, the murderers not only kill their intended victim and hide it in a sea of other murders, but also punish Jackson for not helping them in their hour of need. Stein liked that theory.

  Now, like it or not, Stein was going to have to bring Jackson in for formal questioning, as well as search his home. Waste of time. True, Jackson didn’t have solid alibis for all the murders—in fact, for any of them—but Stein was sure he wasn’t the killer. He knew he shouldn’t let his instincts get in the way of the facts, but he did. Now, he just had to find evidence to prove it.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Life is divided up into the horrible and the miserable.”

  —Woody Allen

  Confident they would have the search warrant delivered to them in the next hour, Stein and Baird made their way to Jackson’s home. The chief had called them and told them it was coming. He would have someone meet them at the Jackson residence, along with a team to conduct the search.

  Stein approached the door, knocked firmly, and stepped back. Jackson appeared and looked at them through the screen door. He had bandages on his face and a black eye.

  “What?” he said suspiciously.

  “Mr. Jackson, we would like to have a word with you,” said Stein.

  “Why?”

  “Could we come in and talk?”

  Jackson hesitated. He’d seen enough crime shows on TV to know that letting them in wasn’t a good idea. “I’m guessing that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Please, I think it would be better if we spoke inside,” said Stein.

  “Do I need an attorney?”

  “That’s up to you, Mr. Jackson,” said Stein. Baird stood behind Stein and kept his mouth shut.

  Jackson held the door open and led them to his living room, then pointed to a couch. “Am I being arrested and charged with something?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Jackson frowned. “But I could be?”

  Stein knew that once the warrant arrived, Jackson would get an attorney and clam up. He wanted to have a few words with him before that happened.

  Detective Baird couldn’t hold back any longer. “What happened to your face?”

  “I’m sure you read in the paper that I got involved in a fight.”

  “We did,” said Stein.

  “What the papers didn’t say is that I was attacked. They made it sound like a crazy bar fight. They attacked my girlfriend, and we went at it.”

  “Mr. Jackson, we aren’t here to talk about that.”

  “Then don’t ask about it,” he said angrily.

  Detective Baird changed the subject. “Were you able to go over the list of dates we gave you? And can you verify your whereabouts for each murder?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Jackson, concern showing on his face. “All the murders seemed to take place at night, when any normal person is asleep.”

  “Were you with anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts?”

  Jackson considered lying and saying that Tina was with him, but the truth was that he had been alone for each of the murders. They had their own homes, and she was often away on business.

  “No, I was alone. My girlfriend was away on business. During one of the murders, I was up at Grand Lake. I have a cabin there.”

  “Were you alone on that trip?” asked Stein, trying to keep things calm.

  “Yes,” he said curtly.

  “I see,” said Baird.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s just not that helpful,” replied the young detective.

  “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone or run into anyone who could verify that you were up there?” asked Stein.

  Jackson considered the question and then nodded.

  “I did run into someone up there, as a matter of fact. I don’t know him, but we did talk for a bit.”

  “A neighbor? Do you have a name?” Stein asked with anticipation.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know the guy, and I don’t know if he has a cabin there or was just a tourist passing through. There are lots of short-term renters there this time of year.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Baird.

  “Listen. Just because I don’t have an alibi doesn’t mean I’m the murderer.” Jackson was getting agitated with the detective. “I bet most people can’t say where they were every night or verify their whereabouts.”

  “No, but most people aren’t suspects in a murder case.”

  Stein glared at Baird. He had hoped to keep this cordial—at least, until the warrant arrived and Jackson went off the deep end.

  “Why would I kill these people?”

  “No one is accusing you of anything, Bob,” Stein said, trying to calm Jackson down.

  “Well, it feels like it.”

  “Well, Mr. Jackson,” said Baird, “If you look at things from our perspective, you’ll see that these aren’t unreasonable questions. All the victims have had run-ins with you on your show. The murder scene notes all came from paper and printers similar to the type you have at your office. They even sound like the way you talk. And you have motive.”

  Jackson lost his temper and yelled, “What motive?”

  “Your show,” replied Baird, trying to sound calm. “You spend every day berating these people. Calling them names. Saying they have no place in society. Saying things like, ‘they should be dead’. It’s like a mission for you to rid the town of these people.”

  “That’s enough, Chris,” Stein said sternly.

  “That’s what I do for living. That’s the show. People expect me to take these people to task. But I had nothing to do with these murders.”

  “Mr. Jackson,” said Stein. “We’re just trying to eliminate you as a suspect. If you could locate this person up at your cabin, that would be great.”

  “I can try.”

  “That would be very helpful. Let me ask you another question.”

  Jackson eyed him suspiciously.

  “Have you ever had any threats from someone you were trying to help, but for one reason or another, weren’t able to?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s say someone who was harmed by one of these contractors called you, and you just couldn’t help. You couldn’t get the business to fix the problem or give the consumer any satisfaction. And maybe this person turned their anger toward you.”

  “I can’t help everyone.”

  “But do you remember anyone getting so angry as to threaten not only the contractor, but you, as well?”

  “Lots of people get very angry when they’ve been ripped off, and some say things like they are going to ‘get even with the business’ in some way, but I can’t remember anyone saying it was my fault or wanting me to suffer.”

  “Will you give that some thought, please?” asked Stein.

  “Sure.”

  “Where were you last night?” asked Baird, clearly impatient with this new line of thought from his boss.

  “Home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s unfortunate. There was another murder last night.”

  “I’m calling my attorney.”

  “I understand, Mr. Jackson. That’s your constitutional right. We can wait here or resume this talk downtown.”

  “I’ll see what he would prefer.” Jackson took his phone out of his pocket and started to dial.

  “Would you mind if I get a glass of water while you make the call?” asked Baird.

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Jackson pointed down the hall. “The kitchen is down there.”

  Detective Baird rose from the couch and went to the kitchen. While rooting around the kitchen cabinets for a glass, he opened a cupboard that had medicine and vitamins. In plain view was a prescription medicine bottle labeled “Trazadone”, in Bob Jackson’s name. Baird took
a napkin and lifted the bottle out of the cupboard, careful not to put any of his prints on it. Forgetting his glass of water, he took the bottle and returned to the living room.

  “My attorney is on the way over right now.”

  Jackson saw the bottle in Detective Baird’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “While I was looking for a glass, I found this bottle of Trazadone.”

  “So? You asked me that once before, and I told you I take it sometimes to help with sleep. It’s legal. My doctor prescribed it.”

  “You know that Trazadone was used in one of the murders, right?”

  “You told me that before.”

  “I guess we thought that was in the past.”

  “It’s an old prescription.”

  “Ah.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m sure lots of people have Trazadone.”

  “Lots of people aren’t suspects in a murder investigation,” replied Baird.

  “This is outrageous. You had no right to go through my house. That can’t be legal.”

  “Well, you told me I could get a glass of water. Besides, we do have a search warrant on its way, and we would have found it, anyway.”

  “What search warrant?”

  “Should be here any minute.”

  “I’m not saying anything else until my attorney gets here. You can wait outside.”

  Once again, Stein glared at Baird. He was getting tired of his combative style. Any chance of Jackson cooperating was over. He stood up and signaled Baird to follow, but not before Jackson grabbed the bottle out of Baird’s hand.

  Baird smiled and said, “Don’t lose that.”

  Stein wondered what the hell was wrong with Baird. With each passing day, he seemed to be more convinced and more antagonistic toward Jackson. He hadn’t done or said anything to jeopardize the case, but he was quickly becoming a detriment.

  Jackson held the door open for the two detectives to leave. Angry and concerned about the pending search warrant, he couldn’t help but wonder how his life had collapsed so quickly. One minute, he was a town hero, and the next, he was a pariah. He had never been a pessimist in the past; now, he wondered if things could get any worse.

  Two weeks ago, the show had been at its apex. Ratings were up, and advertisers were flocking to buy time. His popularity with listeners had made him a well-known celebrity. Even his relationship with Tina had been at a high point, so much so that he was considering asking her to marry him. Now, he wondered if she would. Life was certainly crashing down around him. Fans were turning on him left and right, even to the point of picking fights. With advertisers pulling out, the management team had suspended his show and even mentioned the possibility that the victims’ families might sue.

  Maybe Tina was right about getting out of town for a while. Why not? Sticking around Denver right now didn’t sound all that appealing, and besides, he hadn’t been on a real vacation in years. As he watched the two detectives standing by their car, he made the decision to leave town for a while. Tina was on another business trip—this time, to New York—but she’d assured him it would be short, and that she was ready to take some time off as soon as he was. All he had to do was book the trip. It didn’t matter to her where they went—Mexico, Europe, Canada. And if things didn’t calm down, maybe they wouldn’t return.

  Jackson sat down to wait for his attorney and the squad with the search warrant. He hoped his attorney would get there first; he wasn’t sure how to handle it if he didn’t. Why did they need a search warrant? There was nothing in the house that would tie him to the murders, and the Trazadone issue seemed like a dead end. But he could tell that Detective Baird didn’t like him and was trying to get under his skin. Seemed odd. But he had felt that way from their very first meeting.

  To kill time, he turned on the radio. The dial was set to his station, but instead of hearing the Consumer Champion background music, he heard some couple talking about the best way to grow petunias on the front range. Wonderful. Instead of a show helping people avoid rip-offs, they were airing a show telling people what fertilizer to use. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his regular listeners kept calling in to ask what had happened to Bob Jackson. The new hosts—who seemed nice enough—just kept saying they weren’t at liberty to say or just plain didn’t know.

  Jackson hear a car pull up to the curb outside his house and looked out the window to see his attorney talking with the detectives. They all seemed cordial enough, but he couldn’t hear what was being said.

  The radio show hosts had finally pivoted away from the questions about Jackson and were now talking about how to prune rose bushes to get the highest yield. Fascinating.

  Jackson turned off the radio and went to the front door. His attorney had finished talking to the detectives and was about to knock when Jackson opened and invited him in.

  Harold Steinhart was an old friend of Jackson’s. They had met when they were both still in college and played intramural sports together. They had stayed close friends, even though their busy careers had left them little time to hang out.

  “Harold, thanks for coming over. I think I’m in trouble.”

  “No problem, Bob. That’s what friends are for. Things do seem to be moving along quickly.”

  “What did they have to say?” asked Jackson as he nodded toward the front yard.

  “Not much, really. They said a warrant was on its way, but I didn’t want to hear anything else from them until I spoke with you. What happened?” He asked as he set his briefcase down on the coffee table.

  Steinhart was one of the top corporate attorneys in Denver, but he had worked in the public defender’s office right after graduating from law school. A few years as a public defender was enough for him when he discovered how much money he could make as a corporate attorney. The hours were long and hard—but then, they had been as a public defender, as well. At least now, he could afford to buy anything he wanted.

  Jackson brought him up to speed on the recent developments.

  “So, tell me more about the Trazadone.”

  “I used to use it to help me sleep sometimes. You remember when I was having trouble sleeping?”

  Steinhart nodded as he took notes.

  “Well, my doctor said it would help settle me down, kind of turn off my brain from all the stuff I was working on. ‘De-stress a little,’ he said. It worked, but I haven’t needed it in a year or so. I forgot it was even there until the detective brought it out. But lots of people use it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked why I had it, and I explained it to them. Again. They already knew from our first meeting, when they told me that the killers had used it to drug the first victim. Stevens, I think. Is this legal? Can they really go through my house like that?”

  “They said they have a warrant coming.”

  “But wouldn’t this be inadmissible, since they searched my house before they had a warrant?”

  “Tell me why he was in your kitchen.”

  “I didn’t like the questioning, so I told them I wanted to call you. The detective asked if he could get a glass of water while I was calling you. I said okay. He claims he was looking for a glass and came upon the Trazadone.”

  “But you said he already knew you took Trazadone?”

  “Yes. But he acted surprised to find it today.”

  “So, here’s the thing on that: When you gave him consent to look for a glass, you allowed him into the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, he can say that he discovered the Trazadone by accident and was not doing an illegal search. I think we could fight it, but we would probably lose, and it would be admissible evidence, anyway. But it doesn’t tie you to the murders. As you have said, lots of people use Trazadone. He doesn’t gain much from the discovery, since he would have found it once he had the warrant, anyway. What else do they have?”

  Jackson shared with him what the detectives had said about the paper and printers.

  “Circumstantial. Probably thousands of tho
se printers are in use in Denver, correct?”

  “I think so. The station buys all their supplies from Office Depot.”

  “Okay. They can question you, but unless there is something else in the house I should know about that might implicate you in some way, I think you are safe. They can harass you and make you miserable, but it doesn’t sound like they have anything to charge you with.”

  Jackson let out a sigh of relief.

  Steinhart asked, “There isn’t anything in the house I should know about, is there?”

  “I didn’t commit these murders, Harold.”

  “I didn’t think you did, but I just want to know what they might find that might make you look bad. I’ve only read a little about these murders, and the press doesn’t seem to have much to go on. Duct tape seems to be used at most or all of the murder scenes. You don’t have cases of it lying around, do you?” joked his attorney.

  “Everyone has duct tape.”

  “Not everyone buys it by the case.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Good. Well, it may not be the same brand, and even if it is, it is just more circumstantial evidence. We just don’t know what kind of evidence they have. Presumably, they don’t have fingerprints, or they would rule you out right away.”

  “They think because I fought with the victims as part of my show that I have some kind of vendetta or something. They think I’ve taken my role as consumer champion too seriously and turned myself into a vigilante.”

  “Makes for good press.”

  “Well, I didn’t murder anyone,” Jackson said with a nervous laugh. “Unless I’m doing it in my sleep or some drunken stupor.”

  “Unlikely,” agreed the attorney. “I’ve never known you to black out from drinking too much. And I can’t remember you ever getting so drunk, you didn’t know what you did the next day. Tell me about this person you said you met at the lake while one of the murders was taking place.”