Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Who called in the body?” he asked.

  “The bartender. He showed up for work at nine, saw the Jeep, and thought the guy was still sleeping it off.” Evans buttoned her pale-blue jacket against the wind. “He went over to roust him and found him dead.”

  “Where is the bartender now?”

  “Inside. After I questioned him, he said he had to prep for lunch. I didn’t see any reason to make him stand here.”

  “Have you ID’d the victim?”

  “I didn’t see a wallet, but if the perp didn’t steal it, then it’s probably in the vic’s back pocket and he’s sitting on it.” She held out a plastic bag. “The registration and title belong to Rafel Mazari.”

  Jackson pulled on latex gloves, then slipped the paperwork out of the bag. He jotted down the owner’s address, a street name he didn’t recognize, then slipped the evidence into his shoulder bag. The man’s name was a little unusual, and he was curious about its cultural ancestry. Jackson took several wide shots of the Jeep with his digital camera, then moved closer to the vehicle. It was time to see the body.

  The driver’s-side window was down, and rain from the night before had soaked the edge of the upholstery. He stepped forward and took a quick photo through the windshield to get a full frontal image, then took several more through the open side window. Even in his seated position, the victim looked taller than average. His shoulders were narrow, but he made up for it with thick arms that stretched the fabric of his denim jacket. He had dark, wavy slicked-back hair and facial skin that had absorbed a lot of sun but was now a shade of gray. Jackson opened the door and leaned in, careful not to touch anything. The gash across the victim’s throat was deep and violent, but not jagged. Blood had poured freely, congealing on his jacket collar and white T-shirt in a dark, sticky mess. Its rich, metallic scent permeated the vehicle’s cab. Under the rust smell of blood, a mix of cigarette smoke and alcohol oozed from the victim’s skin and car seats.

  As disturbing as the moment was, it didn’t fill him with dread the way some victims did. Examining the bodies of women and children never got any easier, but male victims generated less emotion for him.

  What had this guy done? Had he simply refused to hand over his wallet or keys to a thug? Or had he been involved in something shady?

  “It looks like revenge,” Evans said, vocalizing his thoughts. “He pissed off someone big-time.”

  “Could be. The stereo is intact, and the assailant didn’t steal the vehicle, but we need to see if his wallet is still here.”

  “Gunderson won’t want us to move the body.”

  “I know.” Jackson gently probed the pockets of the man’s jacket. He pulled out a red lighter and a sliding-style knife and handed them to Evans. “Bag these, please.” Squatting next to the vehicle, he searched along the edge of the Jeep’s floor, looking for something the killer might have dropped. The interior was surprisingly clean, as if it had recently been detailed.

  “All I found was an empty Coke can,” Evans said. “But I didn’t search under the seat on the driver’s side because his legs were in the way.”

  “There’s very little blood, except on the body. No spatter that I can see.”

  “You mean no struggle?”

  “Not just that. The way he’s leaned back makes it look like he was sleeping when he was attacked.” The thought made him inwardly shudder. Most murders were crimes of passion. This looked cold and calculated. “The lack of blood indicates a slow heart rate at the time of death.”

  “He could have come out here drunk and passed out. Maybe someone followed him and took advantage.” Evans shifted in her black sensible shoes and scowled. “But the window was down, and it was near freezing last night. Maybe the victim opened it when the attacker approached.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have a cell phone, unless it’s in a back pocket. That’s unusual.” Jackson knew the lack of it would make their job more difficult.

  “The perp could have taken it.”

  “But nothing else?” Jackson heard a car start behind him and turned. A patrol officer was moving his vehicle so the medical examiner could pull through. Rich Gunderson parked and climbed out of a white station wagon, a stark contrast to his black pullover and black jeans. Gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, he looked like an aging musician, minus the sunglasses. It was November in Oregon; they wouldn’t see much of the sun again until February.

  “What have we got?” Gunderson’s voice boomed in the morning quiet. “A bar fight gone bad?”

  “I don’t see any signs of a struggle inside the vehicle. I think it happened fast,” Jackson said.

  “Lammers told me his throat was slit. That’s rather unusual.”

  Jackson thought so too. “We haven’t seen that since the coke-war murder back in ’92.”

  “Give me twenty minutes before you ask any questions, okay?” Gunderson set down his tool kit and pulled on gloves. “At that point, we’ll move the body to a tarp and see what else we find.”

  “I’ll be back in ten.” Jackson gave a grim smile and headed for the patrol officers coming his way.

  They met in the center of the parking lot. “Let’s start a search around the area in case the perp tossed the weapon. We’re looking for a knife or other sharp instrument. Or anything else the perp might have dropped.”

  Rob Schakowski strode over from the adjacent lot. His military-cut hair, wide chin, and barrel-shaped torso made him look a bit like Buzz Lightyear, and Jackson had bought him the little toy once as a joke. “Hey, Schak. I’m glad you’re here. How’s the student-assault case?”

  “Slow and tedious. I needed a break from it.”

  “Are you up for searching the area, particularly over by the canal?”

  Schak bristled. “Hell, yes.” Schak had suffered a heart attack during the takedown of a murderer eight months before, and Jackson still worried about him. Schak hated that worry but didn’t hold it against him.

  Jackson turned to Evans. “Let’s go talk to the bartender and find out who was here last night.”

  The bartender had thin, graying hair, a dark mole on his forehead the size of a dime, and a beer belly that hung out under his T-shirt in an ugly display of flesh. Jackson saw Evans grimace as the man reached up for a hand towel and flashed even more of his stomach.

  “This is Clayton Grimes,” Evans announced as they came into the narrow kitchen. Pots and utensils hung from every available wall space, leaving no room for a window.

  Jackson’s body tensed from the proximity. He introduced himself, then suggested they go to a table in the bar, still a dark space but bigger. He chose a spot near the door, which he’d propped open on the way in. Without any windows, the room was gloomy, even with recessed lights over the long bar counter.

  “Tell me what happened this morning.”

  “As I told the gal”—the bartender gestured at Evans—“I saw the Jeep in the corner and realized it had been there overnight. So I went over to see if someone was sleeping in it. We discourage that.” He caught Jackson’s eye, as if he wanted approval. “Seeing him cut open like that about made me sick. And I was in Vietnam.”

  “You said you realized the vehicle was here overnight. Did you work last night?” Jackson had his notepad ready.

  “No, but I came in around nine this morning. And I’ve seen that Jeep parked there a lot.”

  “Who drives it?”

  “I don’t know his name. He’s quiet. But he drinks with a couple of buddies sometimes, and one of them is named Jake.”

  “Were his buddies here last night?”

  “When I saw him, he was alone, but it was early.”

  “Did you see the victim leave?”

  “No, I just came in to pick up my check and have a quick beer.” Grimes made a scoffing sound. “I don’t like to be here when I’m not working.”

  Evans cut in. “Do you know Jake’s last name?”

  “I don’t know the night crowd that well. You should talk to Mila. Sh
e works the evening shift and knows everyone.”

  “What’s Mila’s last name and phone number?”

  “Mila Kruz.” The bartender pulled a cell phone from his jeans pocket, looked up the number, then read it out loud. Jackson dialed it immediately. After five rings, Mila Kruz picked up, sounding groggy. “Call me back in an hour. I’m still sleeping.”

  “This is Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I’d like you to come down to Pete’s Pad immediately. There was a murder in the parking lot last night, and we need your help.”

  “Oh shit. Who’s dead?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. Please hurry. Time is critical to our investigation.”

  “Give me forty minutes to shower and grab something to eat.”

  “Skip the shower and eat something on the way. I need you here now.”

  “Okay. I’m moving. Tell Clay to put on some coffee.” She clicked off.

  “Kruz is on her way down. Do you have coffee brewed?”

  “Of course. Do you want some?”

  “No thanks. Anyone else I should talk to who might have seen something?”

  “There’s a homeless dude named Prez who camps right behind the parking lot.” Grimes looked skeptical.

  Jackson thought it unusual he knew a transient’s name. “Do you know him personally?”

  “I give him leftovers sometimes,” the bartender explained. “Don’t tell my boss. He’d fire me. He hates the vagabond traffic we get around here.”

  “Describe him, please.”

  “That’s hard.” Grimes rubbed his chin. “He looks about fifty-five, but he could be younger. You know how it is with homeless people. His hair is shoulder length, a mix of light brown and gray. I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

  “Height and weight?”

  “About my height, I think. Five-nine or so. And skinny, but it’s hard to tell because he wears a long brown coat with a fake-fur trim. It’s a little weird.”

  “Thanks for your help. I’m sure we’ll have more questions later.” Jackson handed the bartender a business card. “Call me if you think of anyone else I should talk to.”

  As they walked out of the dark bar, Jackson blinked at the sun streaming through a narrow gap in the clouds. He looked over at the Jeep, where the medical examiner was laying out a sheet of thick gray vinyl with the help of a crime-scene technician. Tall, thin, and ageless, Jasmine Parker wore black today too, and they both looked the part of death-scene attendants. They were getting ready to move the corpse out of the car.

  “Hey, Parker. I’ll take the other end of the body. He looks heavy.”

  “I’m sure I can handle it.” Her tone was neutral and her dark eyes expressionless. Parker would make a great poker player, he thought.

  “I’m right here if it gets awkward.”

  “Thanks.” A tiny smile. They’d worked together for years, and in their own quiet way were friends. He also trusted Parker with vital evidence more than anyone else at the lab.

  Gunderson, in a waterproof jumpsuit, stood next to the corpse, still seated behind the wheel. The ME tugged until the body fell stiffly toward him. He caught the victim under the shoulders and pulled. Parker stepped in and grabbed the body under the knees. They squatted in unison and plopped the corpse down on the vinyl, where it hit with a heavy thud.

  “Complete rigor mortis?” Jackson asked.

  “Yep,” Gunderson said, not looking up. “He’s probably been dead at least twelve hours.”

  “I’d like to empty his back pockets,” Jackson requested.

  “I’ll do it.” The ME rolled up Mazari’s jean-covered hip and pulled out a leather wallet. He handed it to Jackson, then checked the other pants pockets and found nothing.

  In the distance, a siren wailed. The sound jangled Jackson’s nerves. They all paused, listening for the direction. It was coming their way.

  Gunderson grabbed his thermal probe, opened the man’s jeans, and jabbed the device into the victim’s hip.

  Jackson flipped through the wallet while he waited for a temperature and approximate time of death. The driver’s license matched the registration: Rafel Mazari, age thirty-two, brown hair, brown eyes, motorcycle endorsement, and organ donor. The wallet was thin and held no cash. Jackson flipped through the cards and quickly spotted a National Guard ID. Rafel Mazari had been a sergeant.

  “He’s National Guard,” Jackson said, not sure if it would matter.

  Gunderson grunted. “It’s Veterans Day, but there’s not much honor in this death.”

  Jackson turned to Evans. “Can you get online and see what you can find on the victim? I need to contact the family.”

  “I’m on it.” Evans pulled her iPad from her shoulder bag. She liked being connected, no matter where she was, and Jackson was thinking of following her lead. The price tag on the device held him back, so he was grateful to have Evans and her enthusiasm on his team. After two years of training, she’d finally been made a permanent member of the unit. But he still kept an eye on her because she could be a little impulsive.

  Another card in the wallet caught Jackson’s eye: Kera Kollmorgan, volunteer nurse with the Veterans Recovery Clinic. At first, it startled him to see his girlfriend’s name in another man’s wallet, but if Mazari was a vet, it made sense. Kera had lost her son in Iraq and did volunteer work with wounded veterans. He would have to ask her what she knew about the victim.

  He looked over at Gunderson. “What’s his core temp?”

  “About 72.5 degrees.” The ME dropped from his squatting position to his knees. “It got down to thirty-five last night, and it’s only about forty-five right now. If he dropped two degrees an hour out here, my best guess for the moment is that he’s been cooling since ten or eleven last night.”

  “That’s well before the tavern closed.”

  Evans spoke up. “It’s hard to believe no one saw him as they came into the parking lot.”

  “He was in a dark corner.” Jackson felt like swearing. Starting the investigation the night before would have made a huge difference. They would have had a whole tavern full of people to question. Now they would have to track them down one by one. He looked at Gunderson. “What else can you tell me?”

  “The wound is clean and likely made with something very sharp. Maybe a utility knife or a scalpel. Also, there’s not much blood for a severed jugular. He had to be nearly comatose when the blade went in.”

  “No defensive wounds?”

  “None that I can see.”

  “Right- or left-handed perp?”

  “The cut runs from right to left, so I’d guess left-handed.” Gunderson stood next to the Jeep to demonstrate. “But leaning in the window, it would be difficult to use your right hand effectively. The killer may have been forced to use his left hand. It could be someone with equal dexterity.”

  Like a soldier. The thought popped into Jackson’s head, and it seemed significant enough to write down. “Anything else for now?”

  The siren was now screaming up the street, only a half mile away. He recognized the wail of a patrol car and fought the urge to rush to the sidewalk.

  “Dog hair on his jacket and tobacco stains on his fingers,” Gunderson reported. “I suspect he rolled his own cigarettes.”

  Jackson wished he’d taken a couple more minutes with the body, but its position in the confines of the vehicle had made it difficult to take in the details.

  “Nothing else is obvious,” Gunderson continued, “but we’ll send the blood work out this afternoon and do an autopsy first thing tomorrow.”

  Jackson barely heard him over the noise of the siren. He turned and saw a patrol unit swerve into the Northwest Federal Bank across the street.

  CHAPTER 3

  Involuntarily, Jackson moved toward the sidewalk for a better view, and so did Evans. They watched a patrol officer run into the white bank building, weapon drawn. A robbery? Adrenaline flowed in Jackson’s veins.

  “Let’s send an officer over to find out wh
at’s going on,” Evans said.

  Jackson thought the same thing, but he didn’t respond. He had his own case, and the victim had been dead for twelve hours already, losing a chunk of their window of opportunity. An ambulance screamed up the busy street, forcing traffic to the side, and swung wide into the bank’s parking area. Two paramedics trotted into the building with a gurney.

  Jackson stopped next to the officer guarding the tavern’s lot. “It looks like someone’s hurt over there.”

  “Shit.” Evans vibrated next to him, like a hyper dog on a leash. “Do you suppose the crazy guy who’s been robbing convenience stores is branching out?”

  “Could be.” Jackson turned to the uniformed officer. “Go over and see if they need help. Find out what’s going on.”

  “Good call.” The officer strode into the traffic, which had slowed to gawk at the cop cars on both sides of the street.

  “Let’s get back to work until we hear from her.” Jackson spun toward the parking lot, where the victim lay on the gray vinyl tarp. Was the incident at the bank connected to this homicide? The timing and proximity were certainly odd, but he figured it was likely a coincidence, like the time two Eugene banks were robbed on the same day, but by different people. A desperate day in the meth culture.

  Parker and Gunderson hunched over the corpse, picking trace evidence from Mazari’s clothes, while Schak hurried toward him carrying several plastic bags.

  “I found a syringe in the grass just beyond the asphalt and a fresh cigarette butt with what looks like a bloodstain.” Schak’s delivery sounded more wound up than usual. “And one of the patrol officers found signs of a recent homeless camp.”

  “Is the transient’s stuff still there?” Jackson looked at his notes for the name.

  “No, but there’s a fresh pile of puke. He was probably out here last night.”

  “His name’s Prez, and we need to find him.” Jackson reached for the bag with the syringe. Made of clear plastic with a light-blue stopper, the needle was different from the ones handed out by the HIV Alliance. A local junkie might not have dropped it.

  “We’ll need patrol help to find the dude,” Schak said. “But I have a snitch who might know something.”