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

by L. J. Sellers

  “I’d never seen him before, so I have no idea.”

  Jackson tensed with frustration. “Would you be willing to work with a sketch artist to create an image?”

  She looked worried. “I don’t think it would help. It’s dark in here, and he was twenty feet away.”

  Jackson took down Nikki’s phone number and gave her his card, not letting go of the idea that she could be more helpful. He made his way through the crowd and found Schak and Evans to give them the details of the new lead.

  They spent another hour in the tavern, asking everyone if they’d seen the guy with the shaved head, but came up with nothing.

  Frustrated, Jackson rounded up his team and they headed outside. They stood in the dark, wet parking lot trying to decide what to do next.

  “We have to find this guy,” Jackson said. “What if he followed Mazari out and killed him in a meth rage just for bumping into him? We know it could happen.”

  “We have to get our witness to work with the sketch artist, then run his picture on the news and put posters up around the bar.” Evans’ voice still held energy, and it made Jackson feel old and tired.

  “Okay, let’s call it a night. I’ll be in touch about a meet-up tomorrow.”

  Back at his desk, Jackson transferred all his notes into a Word document. He’d recently learned to use the notebook layout, and it made grouping the information much easier. Once he had the file updated, he printed four copies and set one on the desks of each of his task force members, holding one back for Sergeant Lammers, in case she wanted an update. He grabbed a new case folder, labeled it, and transferred all his paperwork to the binder.

  It was midnight and time to go home, but he was stalling. The new house would feel empty without Katie and would still be stacked with boxes. He didn’t know if he could even find his toothbrush. At least the kitchen was set up because his brother had been living in the house all along. Only now, Derrick was on the road, driving a truck three weeks out of four and would be a very part-time roommate.

  Jackson really wanted to head for Kera’s and crawl in bed with her, but it was too late to call and too late to just show up. He stared at his phone. Kera hadn’t called him back. What was going on with her?

  CHAPTER 12

  Saturday, November 12, 5:30 a.m.

  Jackson woke to the high-pitched sound of his cell-phone alarm, and his pulse accelerated to match the beeping. What the hell?

  It took him a moment to realize he was in his childhood home, in the bedroom that long ago was occupied by his parents. He stumbled into the bathroom and stood in the shower until he was fully awake. As he dried off, he spotted his prednisone on the back of the sink. Katie had unpacked it and left the medicine where he could find it even half asleep. Damn, he loved that girl.

  He swallowed a pill, searched for the box holding his underwear and socks, and tried to think of something special he could do for Katie in return. She’d probably get all their stuff unpacked before he was home long enough to help. Unless he got lucky, and Mazari’s killer came in and confessed that afternoon.

  Maybe one of the new tablet computers on the market, Jackson thought. Katie had wanted one for months, and now that the prices had dropped, he could afford it. Hell, maybe he’d get one for himself too.

  In the kitchen, he made toast and brewed coffee, discovering that his brother drank the same fresh-ground blend he did. What else did they have in common, despite going nearly ten years without talking to each other?

  Jackson stepped out on the porch and found the local newspaper in the box. He didn’t have time to read it this morning, but he liked to at least glance at all the headlines before he walked into the department.

  Mazari’s murder had made the bottom half of the front page, but the story was short on details. The Willamette News had shown a photo of the victim in his military uniform, along with information about his service in Afghanistan. Jackson was glad he’d missed last night’s TV news coverage. Broadcasters always played up the emotional or sentimental angle as much as they could, then the public called the department and pressured them for a solution. He gulped his coffee while scanning the other headlines, then bolted from the house. The autopsy wasn’t until eight, but he wanted to be in the department early to make some calls and look over some of the evidence they’d picked up yesterday.

  At his desk, Jackson clicked on his computer but resisted checking his e-mail. He pulled on gloves and removed the victim’s wallet from its plastic evidence bag. Plain, worn brown leather, the wallet itself told him nothing about the victim. But the thinness of it made Jackson think Mazari might have been a paranoid type who processed or discarded anything extraneous. There were no receipts, no scraps of paper, and only two business cards, one of which was Kera’s and the other for Jake Pittman’s tree-cutting business. No cash. That was odd, unless the killer had taken the money. But putting the wallet back into the dead man’s pocket after pilfering it would have been challenging for anybody and unusual for a street thug.

  Mazari also had carried a driver’s license, a credit card, an ATM card, and his military ID. For a man who kept a year’s worth of food in his house, his wallet was a skinny comparison. It made him think of the computer in the victim’s house and Schak saying it had been scrubbed. If he’d gotten involved in something illegal recently, Mazari may have been afraid to keep information that could be used against him.

  He put the wallet away, planning to have it dusted for prints, and grabbed a pile of mail he’d picked up from the victim’s counter. Nearly every piece was from someone wanting money, including a stack of medical bills, some of which were Sierra’s. Jackson assumed Mazari’s service-related medical expenses had been paid for by the military, but maybe not all. A letter from a medical lab caught his eye. Included with the hefty bill were the lab results from a DNA paternity test. As best as Jackson could tell from the stilted medical language, the two samples—Adam Mazari and Rafel Mazari—had not matched. Adam was not Mazari’s son.

  Jackson leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of that news for Mazari. He must have been devastated to learn the boy he loved was not his own. Jackson recalled seeing Adam outside the house the day before and thinking he didn’t look anything like his father. Maybe Mazari had suspected for a long time. But did the paternity issue have anything to do with his murder?

  It seemed unlikely. But the shaved-head guy from the bar was still a priority. Jackson called the department’s sketch artist and left messages for her at work and at home. She probably had the weekend off, but knowing Officer Rice, she would come in and do the sketch if she was available. Jackson was less optimistic about getting the witness to cooperate. He called her anyway and left Nikki a message to be on standby for the sketch artist.

  He glanced up at his computer clock and realized it was time to go.

  The parking lot at North McKenzie was less crowded than he’d ever seen it. The main hospital operations had moved out of the university-area building to the massive new facility, River Bend, at the edge of Springfield. One of Eugene’s biggest financial losses. Jackson hadn’t been inside the new hospital yet, and he considered that a good thing. For now, autopsies were still conducted in the basement of the old medical building in a room called Surgery Ten.

  He took the elevator to the lower level and found his way to the small white room with the big stainless-steel drawers. The medical examiner and pathologist stood near the counter talking, and Rafel Mazari’s body lay on the narrow table, covered by a white sheet.

  “You’re on time.” Rudolph Konrad’s voice held no sarcasm. The pathologist was a no-nonsense type who simply liked to run a well-ordered lab. His blond hair and padded cheeks made him look younger than his forty-something years, but Jackson imagined he’d been born with an old soul.

  “I do my best.” Jackson grabbed a gown, mask, and booties from a shelf near the door.

  As he suited up, Rich Gunderson, the medical examiner who’d been out at the crime scene,
stepped over and whispered. “Wait’ll you see this guy.”

  “Ready?” Konrad glanced at the clock. It was time to start.

  The three stepped up to the table, with the medical people on either side and Jackson at the foot, a familiar routine. Jackson would move in closer if he wanted to see something in detail, but he preferred to listen more than look.

  The pathologist removed the sheet, folded it carefully, and set it on the stainless-steel counter.

  Jackson’s eyes were drawn to the victim’s prosthetic leg, a mix of high-tech plastic and shiny metal. At the top of the prosthesis was an area of gnarled pink scar tissue that used to be the man’s groin and lower abdomen. Rafel Mazari had not only lost his leg in the IED explosion, he’d also lost his penis and testicles. Jackson winced, his body contracting to protect his own privates. Jesus christ. No wonder the man had been angry and jealous.

  “I knew you’d flinch,” Gunderson said. “I did too. Poor guy.”

  Disgust and rage battled for Jackson’s emotions. “Who would murder a wounded, dickless veteran?” Except maybe his wife.

  “Let’s see what we find.” The pathologist interrupted their conversation and began an inch-by-inch search of the body, starting at Mazari’s feet.

  “What are you looking for under his toes?” Jackson asked.

  “Needle marks. Some addicts hide their addiction by shooting up in their feet.”

  “What makes you think he might be an addict?”

  “Doesn’t he look like a man who had a lot of pain?” Konrad’s voice was deep and monotone. He made no judgments about the dead.

  The search was slow and tedious, so Jackson made a mental list of things to do next. Check alibis, get Sierra’s fingerprint subpoena signed, and go see Kera. Because she knew the victim, he could justify the trip over. It had been too long since he’d seen her.

  The two medical men gently rolled the body over. After probing with a gloved finger, Konrad said, “Fixed lividity in the area of his glutes indicates he died right there, sitting up in his vehicle.”

  Jackson knew he was referring to the reddish-purple pooling of blood in the corpse’s butt and the back of his one leg.

  The pathologist continued his careful search of the victim’s skin. “This is unusual.” Konrad grabbed a magnifier with a built-in light and examined an area on Mazari’s back. “He has faint, old scarring, probably from childhood.”

  “What kind of scars?”

  “I think he was beaten. Maybe struck with a lash. He has similar scars on his legs too.”

  Another wave of disgust. What the hell kind of life had this man had? Jackson started to understand Mazari’s survivalist mentality, the hoarding of food and weapons. But he didn’t understand how the soldier could have kept explosives in his home after a land mine had taken a chunk of his body.

  After another five minutes of searching the victim’s hands and arms, they rolled the body back over, and Konrad began to examine the neck wound. Yesterday, the medical examiner had cleaned up the excess blood before putting the corpse in the drawer.

  Konrad measured the length and depth of the wound, then used the magnifier again to examine the tissue. He looked up at Jackson. “This incision was made with a long, sharp instrument, possibly even a scalpel. The wound is deeper on the right, so I believe the perpetrator started there and cut deeply enough to sever the carotid artery.”

  “So the attacker was likely left-handed?”

  “Most likely.”

  Gunderson cut in. “But considering the victim’s position in the vehicle, a left-handed strike may have been essential. So the assailant could have used his left hand even though it’s not his dominant one.”

  “This was a clean, strong, confident assault,” Konrad countered. “Not likely made by someone using their nondominant hand.”

  For Jackson, that conflict meant that in court the assailant’s primary hand would be a moot point.

  Konrad continued his examination of the neck, then paused and said something Jackson didn’t hear.

  “What did you find?”

  “A tiny puncture mark, on the left side.” He put down his magnifier and reached for a photo on the counter. “That might explain the small volume of blood.”

  “He was drugged first,” Gunderson said. “I thought so.”

  “We won’t know for sure until we get the blood toxicology report in a few days.” Konrad set down the photo. “But this victim had something injected into his neck before he was cut open.”

  Jackson’s thoughts went immediately to the syringe they’d found at the crime scene. He was eager to call Parker and see if she’d found prints on it.

  “We’ll begin the internal examination now.” Konrad picked up the Stryker saw and clicked it on. The humming sound as it cut through the breastbone often made first-time cops pass out.

  “I need to take off now,” Jackson said, over the noise. “We found a syringe at the crime scene, and I need to get some prints ASAP. Call me if you find anything significant.” He pulled off his gear and hurried out, glad to be leaving the windowless death room.

  Jackson called Parker at the lab as soon as he was on the main hospital floor and had cell service. “Did you print the syringe?”

  “Yes, and good morning to you too.”

  “Sorry, but I just discovered our victim had a puncture mark.”

  “Interesting.” He heard a drawer open, then Parker continued. “The syringe has an intact thumb print and a partial index finger. I’m just getting ready to run them through the local database.”

  “Call me if you get a hit.”

  “I planned to.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jackson called the assistant district attorney as he walked to his car. The dark sky was breaking up, revealing patches of blue. A surge of optimism about this otherwise bleak case quickened his step.

  After the short drive from the hospital to department headquarters, Jackson pounded up the stairs, feeling physically better than he had in months. His surgery site was now just a long white scar from pelvis to sternum, and as long as he took his prednisone, he had little pain. He was due for a CAT scan soon, and he hoped to discover that the white fibrous tissue cloud had stopped growing. It was probably wishful thinking.

  At his desk, he pulled out the case file and started making calls. First, he left a message with Hailey Pittman, Jake’s wife, asking for a return call. Evans had already determined Sawyer’s alibi was iffy, so that left Sierra’s to check. He called Game Day Sports, looking for the bartender Sierra had claimed she’d visited Thursday night. Madison Riley wasn’t there, so he asked for her cell number. They wouldn’t give it to him but said they’d pass along his message.

  Evans stopped by his desk. She looked sharp in a mint-green blazer and black slacks. Knowing her, she’d already run five miles that morning.

  “Anything interesting from the autopsy?” she asked.

  Jackson wanted to tell her about the abuse Rafel’s body had suffered, but it felt too personal. He would wait and tell everyone at the same time at the task force session that afternoon. “Yes, but it probably doesn’t have any bearing on the case. I’ll update you at the meeting today.”

  “Okay.” Her face fell a little. “I’ve got some stuff to report too, but nothing critical yet. I’m headed out to talk to people who know the three friends. Anyone you want me to question in particular?”

  “Pittman’s wife, if you can find her. We still need to verify his alibi.”

  “She’s first on my list. When’s the task force meeting?”

  “We’ll say four and see how it goes.”

  Evans squeezed his shoulder and walked away. She moved like a trained athlete, completely in tune with her body. He envied her self-discipline. Kera was like that too. Jackson vowed to start running more than twice a week.

  He looked at his notes, then called Rafel Mazari’s sister, where Sierra had taken his son. Adam was not biologically related to either of the people who�
��d been raising him, Jackson realized. He felt sorry for the boy and wondered if Sierra would continue to make a home for him.

  A soft voice answered. Jackson introduced himself, then said, “Is this Sasha Altman?”

  “Yes. Are you investigating my brother’s murder?”

  “I am, and I need to ask some questions.”

  “I understand.”

  “Where were you Thursday night?” As long as she was being understanding, he might as well get the ugly question out of the way.

  “I was home with my family.”

  “Was Adam with you?” It was a guess. The boy was too young to stay home alone while his parents drank in a bar.

  “For a while. Why does it matter?”

  “I’m trying to establish a time line. Who brought him over, and what time was he picked up?”

  “Sierra dropped Adam off around eight fifteen and said she’d be back in an hour. But she didn’t pick him up until around eleven. That’s too late for him to be up on a school night.”

  But plenty of time to have killed her husband in the parking lot before going home. “Do you know where Sierra is now?”

  “Probably at the Saturday Market. She has a booth there and likely couldn’t find someone to handle it for her at the last minute.”

  “Is Adam with you?”

  “Yes. Sierra asked if he could stay with us for a few days while she works through the details in dealing with Rafel’s death.”

  “Did Rafel ever talk to you about the boy’s paternity?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he ever mention that Adam might not be his son?”

  The sister drew in a sharp breath. “No. That can’t be true.”

  “I may need to talk with Adam eventually, but I’ll call you first.”

  “You wouldn’t dare mention that ugly gossip!” Her tone rose half an octave. “Adam is grief stricken about his father.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. I hope not to have to question him at all.” But if Sierra went to trial, Adam might be called to the stand. “Sasha, can you think of any reason someone would kill your brother?”